Fic: Down We Go [BBC Sherlock; NC-17]
Title: Down We Go (sequel to Under Control)
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4,780
Warnings: Explicit sex involving D/s and hypnosis
Disclaimer: I don't own it.
Summary: Over the years, plenty of people had offered their bodies to Sherlock. He had never accepted, and never planned to. But John was the first person who had ever offered his mind as well.
A/N: This is a sequel to Under Control, which I recommend reading first. If not, the main thing to know is that John and Sherlock are in a sometimes-sexual relationship in which John is regularly hypnotized. I hadn't planned to write more in this verse, but then I found myself with one extra story to tell, and I wanted to get it out there before the new episodes hit and I disappear for a while. This is the last thing I'll be writing in this verse, but if anyone else wants to dabble in my sandbox and write me some fic, I wouldn't object. :)
On AO3
Down We Go
A text, from John: Leaving work now.
Sherlock grinned from his recumbent position on the couch.
Happy travels. SH
He replaced the phone in his pocket and laced his fingers together on his chest, then closed his eyes and let his imagination spiral outward, out to where John was pocketing his own phone, back left pocket, alongside his keys. He would be gathering his things about now, putting on his coat, saying goodbye to his coworkers and trying not to sound suspiciously breathless, which would be a waste of concern because people were idiots and no one would recognize the obvious signs that he was trying very hard to suppress the start of an erection until he had made it outside. He would hesitate at the front door, possibly with one foot hovering just over the threshold.
He knew what would happen the moment he placed it on the other side. He had been thinking of this, obsessing over it, all day. Obvious from his text. Obvious even without the text.
Yes, John would probably hesitate, take a deep breath, and then he would lower his foot. And his mind would immediately supply his starting number: one thousand. Accompanied by the first wave of relaxation in his bones. Right about...now.
Sherlock checked his watch-the pocket watch, which he wouldn't need tonight, but he enjoyed using as a timepiece when John wasn't around to be distracted by it-and did a few calculations. Factoring in traffic at this time of day, and estimating the speed of John's internal countdown, he expected him to reach three hundred and twenty five before arriving at their front door. Barring the chance that he might run into an emergency or an acquaintance, either of which would override the suggestions. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that.
John, while he still had most of his faculties intact, was probably hoping the same thing. The suggestions had been planted the night before, just as John had slipped into bed. When he opened his eyes, blinking away the lingering effects of trance, his first question had been, “What if someone notices?”
Sherlock had scoffed. “People don’t notice anything if it doesn’t directly concern them. And,” he pointed out, “I did include a fail-safe.”
“Yes,” said John, smiling, distracted by arousal, “very considerate of you.” Sherlock could see his hand moving toward his crotch, then stopping halfway there and coming to rest on his thigh. “So what…” he began to ask, then stopped the sentence as well, shaking his head. “No, never mind. I don’t think I want to know, do I?”
“More fun if you don’t,” Sherlock agreed.
Although it was a bit annoying that he could never properly surprise John when he insisted on remembering everything that happened under hypnosis, this could be enjoyable as well, that John knew exactly what was happening and could do nothing about it. And, of course, he knew nothing of what was to come once he arrived at 221B.
Sherlock couldn't help another look at the pocket watch. He calculated John's current position. Six hundred and fifty seven…six hundred and fifty six…six hundred and fifty five. John would be in a light trance by now, a little spaced out to the casual observer. No different from most adults on their commute home, their thoughts focused on the work they left behind and the dinner that awaited them.
No one would guess that John was counting himself down, deeper and deeper with every meter he traveled, and couldn't help himself. Nor did he want to.
Sherlock continued to follow John’s route with his thoughts, street by street, and when the door downstairs opened and closed, Sherlock checked his watch once more. Right on schedule. He stood and waited until John-footsteps slower, heavier than usual-had reached the top of the stairs before turning the door handle and opening it onto the landing. Sherlock took in the sight before him.
John stood with a dazed expression, which Sherlock had seen enough times to estimate the level of trance he was experiencing. On an imprecise scale of one to ten, probably an eight or a nine. John's eyes moved in and out of focus, and his heavy lids blinked more frequently. His mouth was hanging open; his arms hung loose at his sides. There was a subtle sway to his posture. His coat was just long enough to hide the bulge in his trousers, but Sherlock didn't need to see it to know it was there. When John was in trance, it was safe to assume he was also aroused. The correlation was permanently etched into his psyche. It was fascinating.
"Welcome home," Sherlock greeted him quietly.
John looked up at him, eyes still trying to focus properly, and said, "Four hundred and thirteen."
Hm. The pace of his counting must have slowed. Sherlock took John by the hand and led him inside the flat directly to his bedroom, letting the door close behind them. John followed behind like a devoted puppy, a metaphor that John detested, but at times like these Sherlock couldn't help coming back to it. He eased John down onto the edge of the bed and regarded him, arms crossed.
"I should have you come home like this more often."
John responded with a silly looking grin. His usually expressive face was often smooth and blank under hypnosis, but sometimes a hint of emotion pushed through.
The smile faded when Sherlock instructed him to close his eyes and drift deeper while they talked. John looked peaceful, as though he were asleep. Correction: more peaceful than if he were asleep, because Sherlock had seen him asleep, and had been witness to the memories that still tortured him at night, that made him thrash and scowl and wake in a panic. This was preferable.
"Very good John. I want to let you know what we're going to be doing this evening," Sherlock explained in the encouraging tones he reserved for precisely this. "I plan to fuck you, here on my bed. If that bothers you, you will find it easy to bring yourself immediately and naturally out of trance. If, however, you think you might be interested, you can feel free to drop ten times deeper into hypnosis for me."
John's response was almost immediate. His head tipped forward, and Sherlock could see the last bit of tension draining from his back as he folded his entire body toward his lap. His arms were useless appendages at his sides, his hands at awkward angles against the bedclothes. Like a puppet with severed strings. Level ten. Sherlock couldn't imagine a more beautiful sign of consent.
"That's right," Sherlock all but whispered. "Nice and deep. Completely relaxed." He reached forward and rubbed the top of John's head with affection, pressed against the back of his neck to coax him deeper.
He would have been disappointed if John had awoken. Not because of the fucking, as one might expect. That was mere curiosity, and Sherlock could probably take it or leave it. He'd soon find out one way or the other. This, on the other hand, this exact moment...this was where the buildup was headed. This was his favorite part. The moment when John granted him complete control to do what he pleased. John's remarkable gift of himself.
"I want you to stand up and open your eyes again without leaving this deep, relaxed state. In fact, everything that I say and do will only draw you down deeper. You can go ahead and stand up now; you'll find that you have just enough energy."
Sherlock had to support him by the elbow, because John's muscles had a difficult time finding the balance between loose relaxation and the tension required to lift a human weight. Finally, John was on his feet, and Sherlock issued his next command.
"Remove all of your clothing, John. And when you're finished, you can remove mine as well."
He thought John might like that touch, and it saved him the trouble of having to do it himself. John's movements were sluggish as he complied. First came his jacket, and then he removed his shoes and socks before coming back to his shirt, revealing the scars that Sherlock had imagined in detail before ever actually seeing them in person. The battle wounds, both physical and metaphysical-John bared them without shame. Sherlock's docile soldier. He always removed his clothes in the exact same order. Was that a human trait, or a quirk specific to John?
Once he was completely divested, he walked slowly to Sherlock, his erect cock leading. He expected John to remove his clothes in the same order, but instead John started at the top and worked his way down. Sherlock offered the minimal amount of help, shrugging a shoulder or lifting a foot. Before long, they were both completely nude, though John was the one exposed. The scent of his arousal was sharp in the air.
Careful not to let him stumble on the discarded clothes on the floor, Sherlock guided him back to the bed and had him lie down on his back, muttering a few encouragements to keep him in as deep a state as possible. He walked around to the side of the bed, taking his time, taking in the well-known details of John's physique, noting the even pace of his breath, the glaze of his eyes as they followed his movements. He lifted John's right arm by the wrist, and appreciated the dead weight of it. A physical manifestation of mental acquiescence. The human body was capable of amazing things. He then placed the arm firmly on the mattress by the headboard, stretched high above John's head, and didn't need to instruct him to leave it there. Walking around to the other side of the bed, he repeated the process, so that John's torso was pulled taught and his wrists were crossed above him. With one firm hand, he held the wrists down in place and spoke into John's ear while John stared at his mouth.
"I want you to imagine that your wrists are tied tightly together, and pinned to the bed. So that no matter how hard you try, you will not be able to move them from this position. Imagine those bonds now, become tighter and tighter-" he squeezed John's wrists for emphasis- "and tighter and tighter, though it will not be uncomfortable. It's so easy to imagine your wrists bound together, and affixed tightly to the mattress." He released his grip and took a step back. "You can go ahead and try to move your arms now, but the harder you try, the more firmly in place they will remain."
He allowed John to struggle for a few moments, watching as the muscles of his arms flexed and tensed to no avail. Energy converted into nothing, like a denial of physics. When he was satisfied, he allowed John to stop and ease into his position, while Sherlock climbed onto the bed.
At this point he hesitated. He understood the mechanics of what he was about to do, but theory and practice were always two different matters. He hoped his research would prove sufficient. He hoped he could at least make it enjoyable for John, who stared at him expectantly with heavy-lidded eyes. Right. First step: make himself hard.
He retrieved the lube and condom that he'd earlier stolen from the drawer by John's bed. (So predictable, John, really.) The lube was applied to his hand and his hand worked around his cock. Closing his eyes, he focused as he usually did on the purely physical sensations, pressure and slide of skin against skin in a steady rhythm, until he had achieved what he felt was a useable erection. He took a deep breath to steady himself, then picked up the condom before hesitating again.
Was the protection really needed, he wondered? He, himself, was clean, and he knew John's medical record inside and out. Neither of them were in danger of contracting anything. But as a doctor, John would probably appreciate the unnecessary precaution, correct? And his subconscious might object if Sherlock proceeded without one. As pointless as it seemed, Sherlock didn't want to risk anything that could shock John out of his obedient state. Although perhaps John would find it more enjoyable without the thin barrier. What to do? He stared at the small packet and frowned.
So much indecision over something so small was idiotic. And this was the part that Sherlock hated: this caring bit. Trying to figure out what would make someone else happy. It was hard work, he wasn't particularly good at it, and he disliked the things he wasn't good at. But he did care about John, there was no point in denying it. He could still remember the trembling of John's hand after his Moriarty experiment, the pain in his eyes, and he never wanted to be the cause of that again. He also remembered every laugh and moan he had ever elicited from him since the day they first met.
Yes to the condom, he decided. Just in case.
He rolled it over his cock, then set to work preparing John. The preparation was as much verbal as it was physical. Sherlock's probing fingers were coupled with the suggestion of loose muscles, and John opened up easily, making inarticulate, animal noises. This was another of John's interesting quirks: he seemed incapable of being quiet during sex, and usually appeared oblivious to the sounds he produced. Sherlock could, of course, command his silence, but he rather liked the whimpers and cries. They sounded like wordless flattery.
He looked for evidence of whether John had ever played with his arse before, but couldn't draw any definite conclusions. The muscle was simply too elastic to retain any evidence. Then he realized he could simply ask, although it wasn't nearly as much fun as deducing. "John, have you ever been penetrated before?"
"With my fingers," slurred John, barely pausing between moans, his first words since stating his countdown number at the start of the evening.
Sherlock nodded and maneuvered John into position, lining himself up. He really hoped he managed to do this right. What was so simple on paper seemed suddenly daunting, and it took a moment to suppress his nerves. "I'm going to press into you now. You won't feel any discomfort or pain. The only sensation you'll be able to feel is pleasure, and it will feel twenty times stronger than usual. Everything will be sensitive and wonderful, with no trace of pain at all." He looked John straight in the eye and touched the head of his cock to John's arsehole. "Nod if you think you're ready."
John's head lifted off the mattress, just barely, and Sherlock eased into him.
Up until this moment, Sherlock's cock had been inside John's mouth, John's hand, his own hand, and a handful of inanimate objects. He had expected this to feel like a variation on one of those experiences. He was surprised at how wrong he was. The lubricated heat of John's arse, alive and clenching around him, was entirely unique. John's back arched and he gasped as Sherlock pressed slowly, mindful about damaging the tissue, especially since John wouldn't notice the pain until they had finished. Rule number eight: no violence. Best to interpret that one as widely as possible. As Sherlock slowly lodged himself, John writhed against his invisible bonds, lifting his hips to try to take Sherlock in faster, mewling like an animal in heat. His cock was pressed almost flush against his own belly, leaking onto it. John undone was always a beautiful sight.
Sphincter muscles clenched again, and before Sherlock was fully inside, he pulled back out and jerked forward, almost without thought. John cried in relief. Sherlock had to close his eyes and breathe through his nose to steady his composure, fighting the chemical cocktail that now coursed through his brain and the blood that coursed through his cock.
This was the part he didn't quite understand. He knew what it was they were doing; he knew the words for it. John was a particular subcategory of sexual submissive, and he had cast Sherlock in the dominant role, a role that he happened to have a talent for. Which was all well and good, except sex seemed to go against the very nature of that relationship. How could Sherlock be the one in control if his thoughts were clouded by his own stimulation? How was he supposed to achieve orgasm without revealing at least a glimpse of vulnerability? And yet John seemed to enjoy seeing Sherlock turned on, coming apart, if only for a moment, which surely was not a submissive reaction. It didn't make sense. Were their roles less rigid than he had assumed? Was it possible to give over to sensation without being lost in it? He pulled out and thrust in again, this time deliberately, puzzling over the intersection and contradiction of sex and control.
He found that establishing a rhythm helped. When their movements against each other had become predictable, it was easier to lean forward and focus on other things, like running deft fingers against John's nipples or swallowing the sounds on John's lips with his own mouth. Sherlock was around human bodies all of the time, but a live person was so very different from a corpse. There were a thousand additional points of data, from the beating heart to the temperature of the skin, the rate of breath, the response of nerve endings, various sounds and smells. All corporeal systems functioning and whirring in time, changing, providing instant feedback. John's body was an active narrative, secreting the information that Sherlock consumed with his eyes, his fingers, his tongue.
It was about sixteen minutes of steady fucking before Sherlock felt himself approach climax. He grabbed John's hips and increased his pace, closing his eyes and arranging his features into something as close to neutral as he could manage. "John," he calmly stated through clenched teeth, "I want you to count down from ten to one. When you reach the number one, I want you to come. Starting...now."
As John began his second countdown of the evening, Sherlock hit his own orgasm like a brick wall. It was ripped from him with sudden and frightening intensity. He stilled, every muscle tensed, and held his breath as waves of pleasure passed through him, emptying into the condom buried in John's arse. Quite different than a mouth or a hand. Glorious, in fact. An experiment worth repeating.
He waited until the final tremor had passed before opening his eyes.
“Twooo,” John was moaning. Perfect timing. As John reached the number one, Sherlock had the pleasure of watching his untouched cock shudder and ejaculate between them, just as Sherlock had instructed.
Over the years, plenty of people had offered their bodies to Sherlock Holmes. He had never accepted any of those offers. Never planned to. He certainly never expected to find himself recovering from intercourse with his flatmate on his own bed. But then, John Watson was different. He was the first person who had ever offered his mind as well.
***
John's eyelids began to flutter, and Sherlock checked the clock on his dresser. Nine minutes, thirty-five seconds. Approximately. It usually took sometime between five and twenty minutes for John to emerge at the end of a session, but Sherlock didn't have enough data to predict the fluctuation.
"Sherlock?" John croaked, voice scratchy as though he'd been asleep for hours.
"Here," Sherlock replied.
He took a moment to catalog John's usual post-trance symptoms. Slight disorientation. Physical and mental relaxation. Mild euphoria. The first time John had awoken in this calm haze, Sherlock had been surprised, though he really shouldn't have been. It was a common enough physiological response to hypnosis. Also a common response to orgasm. Also a common response to submission, for those with the inclination. So which of those three factors had the greatest effect on John's current stupor? Impossible to tell. He would have to isolate each stimulus and somehow calculate John's reaction, and even then the results would be inconclusive. The whole, in this case, was likely greater then the sum of its parts.
Sherlock waited until John appeared fully alert. "How are you feeling?" he asked, even though he could read the answer in his face and the lines of his body.
At first, John merely answered, "Christ," which shouldn't have been such a satisfying response. "That was...I knew you were planning something, but..." He let out a shaky laugh, and draped an arm over his face, covering his eyes. Was he trying to hide somehow? Hide his thoughts, his emotions? He should know that such a thing was impossible. "Fucking Christ, I don't think I can move," he concluded.
Sherlock smiled, and didn't point out the fact that of course he could move. "I take it you enjoyed yourself, then?"
John merely laughed again and let his arm drop back to his side. With a groan of protest, he lifted himself up on both elbows, and cast his gaze about the room; either he was more disoriented than Sherlock suspected, or he was looking for something in particular. Sherlock couldn't determine what. His clothes, perhaps? They were still on the floor where they'd been discarded. John was stark naked, and Sherlock was only wearing underpants. Putting everything else back on had seemed like unnecessary effort.
"What," asked John, "no tea?"
Sherlock frowned in surprise at John's observation. When they first started hypnosis, Sherlock had used tea as the only means he could think of to ease John through his inevitable emotional aftermath. He hadn't used that particular ritual in a while because as far as he could tell John no longer required it. But he supposed John was right to expect it now. First time intercourse carried a heavy cultural weight. And anal sex came with greater baggage still, especially for heterosexual men. Why hadn't Sherlock considered that?
He replayed his actions over the past nine minutes. He had cleaned them both off, stepped into his pants, decided that the rest of his clothes were boring, sat down cross-legged on the bed, and then…that’s where he had remained, cataloging the experience for later.
"I forgot," he admitted.
"Forgot?" John seemed to find that amusing. He glanced down at his naked torso, then back up at Sherlock. Was he feeling self-conscious? Did he want his clothing back? No, it was something else, because John was still smiling, still amused. "So you've just been sitting there this whole time, watching me, then?"
Now that John said it, Sherlock realized that was exactly what he'd been doing. He pouted at having been found out, and evaded the question with, "I was thinking."
John's smile went from teasing to something more sentimental. "I know," he said. "You're always thinking. Come here."
John sat up to wrap a hand around the back of Sherlock's neck, and pulled him into what was by now a familiar kiss. Familiar in every detail, because Sherlock had long ago memorized the contours of John's mouth, and could probably sketch his teeth from memory. Familiar in style, as well; John kissed confidently, aggressively. Something Sherlock had learned, not through one of John's carefully worded rules but through his actions, was that the submission he craved was temporary. It existed in isolation, from the start of hypnosis to the end of it. Then things were meant to return to the status quo, and at some point John had developed the habit of signifying this boundary with kissing. He tipped Sherlock back onto the bed, awkwardly, and it took a moment for Sherlock to untangle his limbs before John pressed down on top of him, reconnecting their lips. With Sherlock on his back, it was a very literal reversal of rolls. Was John even aware of it?
The kissing was brief, which was good; Sherlock began to lose focus if it lasted for too long. But he didn't mind this short burst of physicality, the strangely comforting taste of John's breath, or the curious process of John regaining control for himself. After the kiss had ended, John settled on top of him and slightly to the side, one arm draped over Sherlock's chest, his head nestled into Sherlock's neck. Sherlock absently placed his free hand in John's hair and stroked his scalp.
This was the part he was learning to enjoy. The nonsexual feel of another body. Heat. Skin. Muscle. Pulse. The physical aspect wasn't enough to occupy his mind, and soon his thoughts began straying to the calculations he'd so far gathered on the rare bacteria he'd recently procured. But John's army-fit body was oddly pleasant, oddly conducive to thinking. He continued to stroke John's hair in time with John's steady breathing along his neck, and it made an agreeable backdrop to the workings of his brain. John hummed appreciatively, and the vibrations tickled along Sherlock's nerve endings.
"I'm starving,” John mumbled.
"You should have eaten something before you left work," Sherlock pointed out. It had been obvious that their plans would extend past dinner.
"Couldn't plan that far ahead. Could barely concentrate at all today, actually."
Sherlock tensed. Was that a rebuke? Rule number two involved not interfering with John's life. Sherlock had never, so far as he knew, broken a rule, and he didn't mean to. He sensed that if he ever did, their arrangement would immediately come to an end. John would cut off access to his mind. Revoke his gift. Would Sherlock take it by force? No, he wouldn't. It could never be the same as John giving it willingly.
"That's not my fault," said Sherlock, overly defensive. "I instructed you not to begin until after you'd left your office."
John ran his fingers along Sherlock's arm, and Sherlock relaxed under the touch. Not angry, then. Good. "Didn't stop me from thinking about it, though." He shifted, burying his face so that his next words were muffled against skin and pillow. "In case I haven't said it lately...you're incredible. Thank you."
Somehow, with the tone of his voice, John managed to make gratitude sound like an apology, and Sherlock didn't know how to respond. How could John remain so spectacularly blind? They'd been at this for months, and yet he could tell John still felt guilty about it sometimes, still thought that Sherlock was doing him a favor out of some nebulous concept of friendship, when he should know by now that Sherlock didn't participate in things that didn't interest him. Period. But he couldn't begin to explain something so obvious. And John insisted on ignoring the clear message of his actions, which loudly announced, 'This is mutually beneficial. I want this as well.'
If John couldn’t understand something so simple, Sherlock was afraid to think of what would happen if he ever accidentally broke a rule. It was perfectly likely-sometimes it seemed inevitable. Would John be able to tell the difference between unintentional and deliberate? Would he be able to forgive the offense, whatever it ended up being?
And really, it was all John's fault, anyway. He was the one who had placed his complete trust in Sherlock against all available logic. Sherlock didn't deserve it-and he wasn't used to thinking in terms of what he did or did not deserve. Sometimes, at darker moments, he wondered whether John were doing it on purpose, setting the expectations so high that Sherlock would feel pressured to live up to them. Forcing his hand, tricking him into decent behavior. But he chased the thought away. John was honest to a fault, incapable of manipulation. And he wasn't a completely unreasonable man. Which left the only conclusion that he genuinely saw something trustworthy in Sherlock, and Sherlock struggled to see it for himself. He wanted to prove John right. He couldn’t help it.
Sherlock realized he'd let the silence stretch for too long without a response. "Don't thank me," he said. "It makes me sound altruistic."
Which could have been the wrong thing to say, but it must have sufficed, because he could feel the lips against his neck form a smile. “Okay.”
"Chinese?" asked Sherlock.
"Curry," John replied.
They peeled themselves from the bed and back into their clothes, and Sherlock felt the satisfying weight of the pocket watch once again resting against his thigh. They then filed out of the bedroom, and settled in for what would probably be, by comparison, a dull evening.
A/N ETA: Some wonderful people have made some wonderful things for me, so if you enjoyed this verse, I urge you to check it out:
Cover design by slodwick
Command by cuddles_and_jam
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4,780
Warnings: Explicit sex involving D/s and hypnosis
Disclaimer: I don't own it.
Summary: Over the years, plenty of people had offered their bodies to Sherlock. He had never accepted, and never planned to. But John was the first person who had ever offered his mind as well.
A/N: This is a sequel to Under Control, which I recommend reading first. If not, the main thing to know is that John and Sherlock are in a sometimes-sexual relationship in which John is regularly hypnotized. I hadn't planned to write more in this verse, but then I found myself with one extra story to tell, and I wanted to get it out there before the new episodes hit and I disappear for a while. This is the last thing I'll be writing in this verse, but if anyone else wants to dabble in my sandbox and write me some fic, I wouldn't object. :)
On AO3
Down We Go
A text, from John: Leaving work now.
Sherlock grinned from his recumbent position on the couch.
Happy travels. SH
He replaced the phone in his pocket and laced his fingers together on his chest, then closed his eyes and let his imagination spiral outward, out to where John was pocketing his own phone, back left pocket, alongside his keys. He would be gathering his things about now, putting on his coat, saying goodbye to his coworkers and trying not to sound suspiciously breathless, which would be a waste of concern because people were idiots and no one would recognize the obvious signs that he was trying very hard to suppress the start of an erection until he had made it outside. He would hesitate at the front door, possibly with one foot hovering just over the threshold.
He knew what would happen the moment he placed it on the other side. He had been thinking of this, obsessing over it, all day. Obvious from his text. Obvious even without the text.
Yes, John would probably hesitate, take a deep breath, and then he would lower his foot. And his mind would immediately supply his starting number: one thousand. Accompanied by the first wave of relaxation in his bones. Right about...now.
Sherlock checked his watch-the pocket watch, which he wouldn't need tonight, but he enjoyed using as a timepiece when John wasn't around to be distracted by it-and did a few calculations. Factoring in traffic at this time of day, and estimating the speed of John's internal countdown, he expected him to reach three hundred and twenty five before arriving at their front door. Barring the chance that he might run into an emergency or an acquaintance, either of which would override the suggestions. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that.
John, while he still had most of his faculties intact, was probably hoping the same thing. The suggestions had been planted the night before, just as John had slipped into bed. When he opened his eyes, blinking away the lingering effects of trance, his first question had been, “What if someone notices?”
Sherlock had scoffed. “People don’t notice anything if it doesn’t directly concern them. And,” he pointed out, “I did include a fail-safe.”
“Yes,” said John, smiling, distracted by arousal, “very considerate of you.” Sherlock could see his hand moving toward his crotch, then stopping halfway there and coming to rest on his thigh. “So what…” he began to ask, then stopped the sentence as well, shaking his head. “No, never mind. I don’t think I want to know, do I?”
“More fun if you don’t,” Sherlock agreed.
Although it was a bit annoying that he could never properly surprise John when he insisted on remembering everything that happened under hypnosis, this could be enjoyable as well, that John knew exactly what was happening and could do nothing about it. And, of course, he knew nothing of what was to come once he arrived at 221B.
Sherlock couldn't help another look at the pocket watch. He calculated John's current position. Six hundred and fifty seven…six hundred and fifty six…six hundred and fifty five. John would be in a light trance by now, a little spaced out to the casual observer. No different from most adults on their commute home, their thoughts focused on the work they left behind and the dinner that awaited them.
No one would guess that John was counting himself down, deeper and deeper with every meter he traveled, and couldn't help himself. Nor did he want to.
Sherlock continued to follow John’s route with his thoughts, street by street, and when the door downstairs opened and closed, Sherlock checked his watch once more. Right on schedule. He stood and waited until John-footsteps slower, heavier than usual-had reached the top of the stairs before turning the door handle and opening it onto the landing. Sherlock took in the sight before him.
John stood with a dazed expression, which Sherlock had seen enough times to estimate the level of trance he was experiencing. On an imprecise scale of one to ten, probably an eight or a nine. John's eyes moved in and out of focus, and his heavy lids blinked more frequently. His mouth was hanging open; his arms hung loose at his sides. There was a subtle sway to his posture. His coat was just long enough to hide the bulge in his trousers, but Sherlock didn't need to see it to know it was there. When John was in trance, it was safe to assume he was also aroused. The correlation was permanently etched into his psyche. It was fascinating.
"Welcome home," Sherlock greeted him quietly.
John looked up at him, eyes still trying to focus properly, and said, "Four hundred and thirteen."
Hm. The pace of his counting must have slowed. Sherlock took John by the hand and led him inside the flat directly to his bedroom, letting the door close behind them. John followed behind like a devoted puppy, a metaphor that John detested, but at times like these Sherlock couldn't help coming back to it. He eased John down onto the edge of the bed and regarded him, arms crossed.
"I should have you come home like this more often."
John responded with a silly looking grin. His usually expressive face was often smooth and blank under hypnosis, but sometimes a hint of emotion pushed through.
The smile faded when Sherlock instructed him to close his eyes and drift deeper while they talked. John looked peaceful, as though he were asleep. Correction: more peaceful than if he were asleep, because Sherlock had seen him asleep, and had been witness to the memories that still tortured him at night, that made him thrash and scowl and wake in a panic. This was preferable.
"Very good John. I want to let you know what we're going to be doing this evening," Sherlock explained in the encouraging tones he reserved for precisely this. "I plan to fuck you, here on my bed. If that bothers you, you will find it easy to bring yourself immediately and naturally out of trance. If, however, you think you might be interested, you can feel free to drop ten times deeper into hypnosis for me."
John's response was almost immediate. His head tipped forward, and Sherlock could see the last bit of tension draining from his back as he folded his entire body toward his lap. His arms were useless appendages at his sides, his hands at awkward angles against the bedclothes. Like a puppet with severed strings. Level ten. Sherlock couldn't imagine a more beautiful sign of consent.
"That's right," Sherlock all but whispered. "Nice and deep. Completely relaxed." He reached forward and rubbed the top of John's head with affection, pressed against the back of his neck to coax him deeper.
He would have been disappointed if John had awoken. Not because of the fucking, as one might expect. That was mere curiosity, and Sherlock could probably take it or leave it. He'd soon find out one way or the other. This, on the other hand, this exact moment...this was where the buildup was headed. This was his favorite part. The moment when John granted him complete control to do what he pleased. John's remarkable gift of himself.
"I want you to stand up and open your eyes again without leaving this deep, relaxed state. In fact, everything that I say and do will only draw you down deeper. You can go ahead and stand up now; you'll find that you have just enough energy."
Sherlock had to support him by the elbow, because John's muscles had a difficult time finding the balance between loose relaxation and the tension required to lift a human weight. Finally, John was on his feet, and Sherlock issued his next command.
"Remove all of your clothing, John. And when you're finished, you can remove mine as well."
He thought John might like that touch, and it saved him the trouble of having to do it himself. John's movements were sluggish as he complied. First came his jacket, and then he removed his shoes and socks before coming back to his shirt, revealing the scars that Sherlock had imagined in detail before ever actually seeing them in person. The battle wounds, both physical and metaphysical-John bared them without shame. Sherlock's docile soldier. He always removed his clothes in the exact same order. Was that a human trait, or a quirk specific to John?
Once he was completely divested, he walked slowly to Sherlock, his erect cock leading. He expected John to remove his clothes in the same order, but instead John started at the top and worked his way down. Sherlock offered the minimal amount of help, shrugging a shoulder or lifting a foot. Before long, they were both completely nude, though John was the one exposed. The scent of his arousal was sharp in the air.
Careful not to let him stumble on the discarded clothes on the floor, Sherlock guided him back to the bed and had him lie down on his back, muttering a few encouragements to keep him in as deep a state as possible. He walked around to the side of the bed, taking his time, taking in the well-known details of John's physique, noting the even pace of his breath, the glaze of his eyes as they followed his movements. He lifted John's right arm by the wrist, and appreciated the dead weight of it. A physical manifestation of mental acquiescence. The human body was capable of amazing things. He then placed the arm firmly on the mattress by the headboard, stretched high above John's head, and didn't need to instruct him to leave it there. Walking around to the other side of the bed, he repeated the process, so that John's torso was pulled taught and his wrists were crossed above him. With one firm hand, he held the wrists down in place and spoke into John's ear while John stared at his mouth.
"I want you to imagine that your wrists are tied tightly together, and pinned to the bed. So that no matter how hard you try, you will not be able to move them from this position. Imagine those bonds now, become tighter and tighter-" he squeezed John's wrists for emphasis- "and tighter and tighter, though it will not be uncomfortable. It's so easy to imagine your wrists bound together, and affixed tightly to the mattress." He released his grip and took a step back. "You can go ahead and try to move your arms now, but the harder you try, the more firmly in place they will remain."
He allowed John to struggle for a few moments, watching as the muscles of his arms flexed and tensed to no avail. Energy converted into nothing, like a denial of physics. When he was satisfied, he allowed John to stop and ease into his position, while Sherlock climbed onto the bed.
At this point he hesitated. He understood the mechanics of what he was about to do, but theory and practice were always two different matters. He hoped his research would prove sufficient. He hoped he could at least make it enjoyable for John, who stared at him expectantly with heavy-lidded eyes. Right. First step: make himself hard.
He retrieved the lube and condom that he'd earlier stolen from the drawer by John's bed. (So predictable, John, really.) The lube was applied to his hand and his hand worked around his cock. Closing his eyes, he focused as he usually did on the purely physical sensations, pressure and slide of skin against skin in a steady rhythm, until he had achieved what he felt was a useable erection. He took a deep breath to steady himself, then picked up the condom before hesitating again.
Was the protection really needed, he wondered? He, himself, was clean, and he knew John's medical record inside and out. Neither of them were in danger of contracting anything. But as a doctor, John would probably appreciate the unnecessary precaution, correct? And his subconscious might object if Sherlock proceeded without one. As pointless as it seemed, Sherlock didn't want to risk anything that could shock John out of his obedient state. Although perhaps John would find it more enjoyable without the thin barrier. What to do? He stared at the small packet and frowned.
So much indecision over something so small was idiotic. And this was the part that Sherlock hated: this caring bit. Trying to figure out what would make someone else happy. It was hard work, he wasn't particularly good at it, and he disliked the things he wasn't good at. But he did care about John, there was no point in denying it. He could still remember the trembling of John's hand after his Moriarty experiment, the pain in his eyes, and he never wanted to be the cause of that again. He also remembered every laugh and moan he had ever elicited from him since the day they first met.
Yes to the condom, he decided. Just in case.
He rolled it over his cock, then set to work preparing John. The preparation was as much verbal as it was physical. Sherlock's probing fingers were coupled with the suggestion of loose muscles, and John opened up easily, making inarticulate, animal noises. This was another of John's interesting quirks: he seemed incapable of being quiet during sex, and usually appeared oblivious to the sounds he produced. Sherlock could, of course, command his silence, but he rather liked the whimpers and cries. They sounded like wordless flattery.
He looked for evidence of whether John had ever played with his arse before, but couldn't draw any definite conclusions. The muscle was simply too elastic to retain any evidence. Then he realized he could simply ask, although it wasn't nearly as much fun as deducing. "John, have you ever been penetrated before?"
"With my fingers," slurred John, barely pausing between moans, his first words since stating his countdown number at the start of the evening.
Sherlock nodded and maneuvered John into position, lining himself up. He really hoped he managed to do this right. What was so simple on paper seemed suddenly daunting, and it took a moment to suppress his nerves. "I'm going to press into you now. You won't feel any discomfort or pain. The only sensation you'll be able to feel is pleasure, and it will feel twenty times stronger than usual. Everything will be sensitive and wonderful, with no trace of pain at all." He looked John straight in the eye and touched the head of his cock to John's arsehole. "Nod if you think you're ready."
John's head lifted off the mattress, just barely, and Sherlock eased into him.
Up until this moment, Sherlock's cock had been inside John's mouth, John's hand, his own hand, and a handful of inanimate objects. He had expected this to feel like a variation on one of those experiences. He was surprised at how wrong he was. The lubricated heat of John's arse, alive and clenching around him, was entirely unique. John's back arched and he gasped as Sherlock pressed slowly, mindful about damaging the tissue, especially since John wouldn't notice the pain until they had finished. Rule number eight: no violence. Best to interpret that one as widely as possible. As Sherlock slowly lodged himself, John writhed against his invisible bonds, lifting his hips to try to take Sherlock in faster, mewling like an animal in heat. His cock was pressed almost flush against his own belly, leaking onto it. John undone was always a beautiful sight.
Sphincter muscles clenched again, and before Sherlock was fully inside, he pulled back out and jerked forward, almost without thought. John cried in relief. Sherlock had to close his eyes and breathe through his nose to steady his composure, fighting the chemical cocktail that now coursed through his brain and the blood that coursed through his cock.
This was the part he didn't quite understand. He knew what it was they were doing; he knew the words for it. John was a particular subcategory of sexual submissive, and he had cast Sherlock in the dominant role, a role that he happened to have a talent for. Which was all well and good, except sex seemed to go against the very nature of that relationship. How could Sherlock be the one in control if his thoughts were clouded by his own stimulation? How was he supposed to achieve orgasm without revealing at least a glimpse of vulnerability? And yet John seemed to enjoy seeing Sherlock turned on, coming apart, if only for a moment, which surely was not a submissive reaction. It didn't make sense. Were their roles less rigid than he had assumed? Was it possible to give over to sensation without being lost in it? He pulled out and thrust in again, this time deliberately, puzzling over the intersection and contradiction of sex and control.
He found that establishing a rhythm helped. When their movements against each other had become predictable, it was easier to lean forward and focus on other things, like running deft fingers against John's nipples or swallowing the sounds on John's lips with his own mouth. Sherlock was around human bodies all of the time, but a live person was so very different from a corpse. There were a thousand additional points of data, from the beating heart to the temperature of the skin, the rate of breath, the response of nerve endings, various sounds and smells. All corporeal systems functioning and whirring in time, changing, providing instant feedback. John's body was an active narrative, secreting the information that Sherlock consumed with his eyes, his fingers, his tongue.
It was about sixteen minutes of steady fucking before Sherlock felt himself approach climax. He grabbed John's hips and increased his pace, closing his eyes and arranging his features into something as close to neutral as he could manage. "John," he calmly stated through clenched teeth, "I want you to count down from ten to one. When you reach the number one, I want you to come. Starting...now."
As John began his second countdown of the evening, Sherlock hit his own orgasm like a brick wall. It was ripped from him with sudden and frightening intensity. He stilled, every muscle tensed, and held his breath as waves of pleasure passed through him, emptying into the condom buried in John's arse. Quite different than a mouth or a hand. Glorious, in fact. An experiment worth repeating.
He waited until the final tremor had passed before opening his eyes.
“Twooo,” John was moaning. Perfect timing. As John reached the number one, Sherlock had the pleasure of watching his untouched cock shudder and ejaculate between them, just as Sherlock had instructed.
Over the years, plenty of people had offered their bodies to Sherlock Holmes. He had never accepted any of those offers. Never planned to. He certainly never expected to find himself recovering from intercourse with his flatmate on his own bed. But then, John Watson was different. He was the first person who had ever offered his mind as well.
***
John's eyelids began to flutter, and Sherlock checked the clock on his dresser. Nine minutes, thirty-five seconds. Approximately. It usually took sometime between five and twenty minutes for John to emerge at the end of a session, but Sherlock didn't have enough data to predict the fluctuation.
"Sherlock?" John croaked, voice scratchy as though he'd been asleep for hours.
"Here," Sherlock replied.
He took a moment to catalog John's usual post-trance symptoms. Slight disorientation. Physical and mental relaxation. Mild euphoria. The first time John had awoken in this calm haze, Sherlock had been surprised, though he really shouldn't have been. It was a common enough physiological response to hypnosis. Also a common response to orgasm. Also a common response to submission, for those with the inclination. So which of those three factors had the greatest effect on John's current stupor? Impossible to tell. He would have to isolate each stimulus and somehow calculate John's reaction, and even then the results would be inconclusive. The whole, in this case, was likely greater then the sum of its parts.
Sherlock waited until John appeared fully alert. "How are you feeling?" he asked, even though he could read the answer in his face and the lines of his body.
At first, John merely answered, "Christ," which shouldn't have been such a satisfying response. "That was...I knew you were planning something, but..." He let out a shaky laugh, and draped an arm over his face, covering his eyes. Was he trying to hide somehow? Hide his thoughts, his emotions? He should know that such a thing was impossible. "Fucking Christ, I don't think I can move," he concluded.
Sherlock smiled, and didn't point out the fact that of course he could move. "I take it you enjoyed yourself, then?"
John merely laughed again and let his arm drop back to his side. With a groan of protest, he lifted himself up on both elbows, and cast his gaze about the room; either he was more disoriented than Sherlock suspected, or he was looking for something in particular. Sherlock couldn't determine what. His clothes, perhaps? They were still on the floor where they'd been discarded. John was stark naked, and Sherlock was only wearing underpants. Putting everything else back on had seemed like unnecessary effort.
"What," asked John, "no tea?"
Sherlock frowned in surprise at John's observation. When they first started hypnosis, Sherlock had used tea as the only means he could think of to ease John through his inevitable emotional aftermath. He hadn't used that particular ritual in a while because as far as he could tell John no longer required it. But he supposed John was right to expect it now. First time intercourse carried a heavy cultural weight. And anal sex came with greater baggage still, especially for heterosexual men. Why hadn't Sherlock considered that?
He replayed his actions over the past nine minutes. He had cleaned them both off, stepped into his pants, decided that the rest of his clothes were boring, sat down cross-legged on the bed, and then…that’s where he had remained, cataloging the experience for later.
"I forgot," he admitted.
"Forgot?" John seemed to find that amusing. He glanced down at his naked torso, then back up at Sherlock. Was he feeling self-conscious? Did he want his clothing back? No, it was something else, because John was still smiling, still amused. "So you've just been sitting there this whole time, watching me, then?"
Now that John said it, Sherlock realized that was exactly what he'd been doing. He pouted at having been found out, and evaded the question with, "I was thinking."
John's smile went from teasing to something more sentimental. "I know," he said. "You're always thinking. Come here."
John sat up to wrap a hand around the back of Sherlock's neck, and pulled him into what was by now a familiar kiss. Familiar in every detail, because Sherlock had long ago memorized the contours of John's mouth, and could probably sketch his teeth from memory. Familiar in style, as well; John kissed confidently, aggressively. Something Sherlock had learned, not through one of John's carefully worded rules but through his actions, was that the submission he craved was temporary. It existed in isolation, from the start of hypnosis to the end of it. Then things were meant to return to the status quo, and at some point John had developed the habit of signifying this boundary with kissing. He tipped Sherlock back onto the bed, awkwardly, and it took a moment for Sherlock to untangle his limbs before John pressed down on top of him, reconnecting their lips. With Sherlock on his back, it was a very literal reversal of rolls. Was John even aware of it?
The kissing was brief, which was good; Sherlock began to lose focus if it lasted for too long. But he didn't mind this short burst of physicality, the strangely comforting taste of John's breath, or the curious process of John regaining control for himself. After the kiss had ended, John settled on top of him and slightly to the side, one arm draped over Sherlock's chest, his head nestled into Sherlock's neck. Sherlock absently placed his free hand in John's hair and stroked his scalp.
This was the part he was learning to enjoy. The nonsexual feel of another body. Heat. Skin. Muscle. Pulse. The physical aspect wasn't enough to occupy his mind, and soon his thoughts began straying to the calculations he'd so far gathered on the rare bacteria he'd recently procured. But John's army-fit body was oddly pleasant, oddly conducive to thinking. He continued to stroke John's hair in time with John's steady breathing along his neck, and it made an agreeable backdrop to the workings of his brain. John hummed appreciatively, and the vibrations tickled along Sherlock's nerve endings.
"I'm starving,” John mumbled.
"You should have eaten something before you left work," Sherlock pointed out. It had been obvious that their plans would extend past dinner.
"Couldn't plan that far ahead. Could barely concentrate at all today, actually."
Sherlock tensed. Was that a rebuke? Rule number two involved not interfering with John's life. Sherlock had never, so far as he knew, broken a rule, and he didn't mean to. He sensed that if he ever did, their arrangement would immediately come to an end. John would cut off access to his mind. Revoke his gift. Would Sherlock take it by force? No, he wouldn't. It could never be the same as John giving it willingly.
"That's not my fault," said Sherlock, overly defensive. "I instructed you not to begin until after you'd left your office."
John ran his fingers along Sherlock's arm, and Sherlock relaxed under the touch. Not angry, then. Good. "Didn't stop me from thinking about it, though." He shifted, burying his face so that his next words were muffled against skin and pillow. "In case I haven't said it lately...you're incredible. Thank you."
Somehow, with the tone of his voice, John managed to make gratitude sound like an apology, and Sherlock didn't know how to respond. How could John remain so spectacularly blind? They'd been at this for months, and yet he could tell John still felt guilty about it sometimes, still thought that Sherlock was doing him a favor out of some nebulous concept of friendship, when he should know by now that Sherlock didn't participate in things that didn't interest him. Period. But he couldn't begin to explain something so obvious. And John insisted on ignoring the clear message of his actions, which loudly announced, 'This is mutually beneficial. I want this as well.'
If John couldn’t understand something so simple, Sherlock was afraid to think of what would happen if he ever accidentally broke a rule. It was perfectly likely-sometimes it seemed inevitable. Would John be able to tell the difference between unintentional and deliberate? Would he be able to forgive the offense, whatever it ended up being?
And really, it was all John's fault, anyway. He was the one who had placed his complete trust in Sherlock against all available logic. Sherlock didn't deserve it-and he wasn't used to thinking in terms of what he did or did not deserve. Sometimes, at darker moments, he wondered whether John were doing it on purpose, setting the expectations so high that Sherlock would feel pressured to live up to them. Forcing his hand, tricking him into decent behavior. But he chased the thought away. John was honest to a fault, incapable of manipulation. And he wasn't a completely unreasonable man. Which left the only conclusion that he genuinely saw something trustworthy in Sherlock, and Sherlock struggled to see it for himself. He wanted to prove John right. He couldn’t help it.
Sherlock realized he'd let the silence stretch for too long without a response. "Don't thank me," he said. "It makes me sound altruistic."
Which could have been the wrong thing to say, but it must have sufficed, because he could feel the lips against his neck form a smile. “Okay.”
"Chinese?" asked Sherlock.
"Curry," John replied.
They peeled themselves from the bed and back into their clothes, and Sherlock felt the satisfying weight of the pocket watch once again resting against his thigh. They then filed out of the bedroom, and settled in for what would probably be, by comparison, a dull evening.
A/N ETA: Some wonderful people have made some wonderful things for me, so if you enjoyed this verse, I urge you to check it out:
Cover design by slodwick
Command by cuddles_and_jam