Anything For You Part 1
Title: Anything For You
Characters: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~900
Warnings: Sub!John, Dom!Sherlock
Summary: Sherlock knows a lot of things about John, even some things that John himself doesn't know. Like the fact that John loves taking orders. Of course, it would be much easier if John knew that, too.
This was written for a fill on the BBC Sherlock Kink Meme.
---
It starts with a case, like so many things do. John is standing off to the side, arms folded, waiting patiently for Sherlock when Anderson comes storming by. His face is flushed, eyes practically sparking in anger, and really he looks like he's about two seconds from punching someone. John doesn't say anything, knows better than to get in the way of someone who has just been pissed off by Sherlock, but Anderson catches sight of him.
And it all goes to hell from there.
"I see you're waiting for him like a good little bitch," Anderson says coldly, stopping.
John looks at him. Raises an eyebrow.
"Don't you ever give of it? Being his pet? It's disgusting, you know, the way he orders you around, and you just put up with it."
"Fuck off, Anderson," John says tiredly, looking back to where Sherlock is. It's been a long three days and he can't remember the last time he slept or ate. All he wants is to go home and have a cup of tea and sleep.
"Makes me wonder if you like it," Anderson hisses, whirling on his heel and storming away.
John doesn't want him go. He keeps watching Sherlock, keeps his face in the exact same expression that it was in before. There's no visible indication that something in his stomach has tightened at the accusation.
Anderson isn't the first person to comment on how John always answer when Sherlock calls. If someone were to ask when he last denied Sherlock something, he wouldn't have an answer. The truth is, it just makes sense to give in. Sherlock is like a force, a hurricane that has pulled John in, and if you refuse him something he becomes impossible to live with. He'll sulk and pout and sometimes ignore you until something more interesting comes alone to distract him. It's easier to give in and make him happy. That's all it is, really.
"John!" Sherlock calls.
John snaps to attention, realizing that he has drifted off into his own world. He crosses the yard and stands beside Lestrade as Sherlock launches into his deductions, sweeping around the bodies, twirling so that his coat flies out behind him. It's all so dramatic and so very Sherlock. He exchanges an amused smile with Lestrade and waits patiently for Sherlock to finish.
"Come on," Sherlock says abruptly, nearly cutting himself off. "Lestrade, text me when you have a new, interesting case." He sails off, leaving John to shrug at Lestrade and jog to catch up with him. His leg flares briefly with pain, as it does when he is overtired, and he winces slightly.
"Stop it," says Sherlock, looking straight ahead.
"Stop what? I'm not a mind-reader, Sherlock, you'll have to give me more than that."
"Stop favouring your leg. There's nothing wrong with it."
John shoots him an annoyed look but straightens, trying to ignore the ache. Sherlock begins teling him more details about the case, things that he won't share with the police, and the pain becomes a distant memory as John listens and absorbs, filled to the brim with fascination by that amazing mind.
They reach Baker Street and John is relieved to collapse on the couch. He thinks to himself that he never wants to move again. Sherlock undresses slowly, sliding his coat off, and pins him with a pale blue-gray stare.
"What did Anderson say to you?"
"What?" John mumbles. He is half asleep.
Sherlock repeats his question.
"Rubbish," John says through a yawn. "Utter rubbish. Isn't that all Anderson ever comes up with?"
"It upset you."
"No, it didn't." He's a little more awake now, but just barely Why would it make him upset? He needs Sherlock to be happy. He likes making Sherlock happy. Making Sherlock happy makes John happy. He blinks heavily, thinking that there might be something wrong with that thought, but he is given no time to figure the answer out.
Sherlock looms over him, eyes taking in everything. After a moment, he reaches out and slides his hand into John's hair. "I know what he said."
"Then why did you ask?"
"To see if you would tell me."
"Sherlock, I'm really not in the mood for your games tonight."
"Tell me what Anderson said, John." It's spoken in a considerably lower voice, and before John can stop himself, it spills out, word for word, what the other man said. Sherlock listens, never taking his eyes off of John's face.
"See?" John says when he's done. "Rubbish. He's trying to make it sound like it's something it's not." Because it's not. It's not.
"Go to bed, John."
John's legs are moving before he consciously registers the command. He wavers, looking hazily at Sherlock, thinking that there is something not quite right. "Sherlock..."
"Shh. Go into your room, get undressed, and go to bed, John. We'll talk in the morning."
Even though he had been thinking about a cup of tea, John goes. He gets undressed, stripping down to his pants, and disregards his pajamas even though he never sleeps in just his pants. He crawls beneath the covers and puts his head on the pillow, feeling heavy, sated, and oddly content. Just before sleep washes over him completely, he hears a violin begin to play.
Part 2
Characters: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~900
Warnings: Sub!John, Dom!Sherlock
Summary: Sherlock knows a lot of things about John, even some things that John himself doesn't know. Like the fact that John loves taking orders. Of course, it would be much easier if John knew that, too.
This was written for a fill on the BBC Sherlock Kink Meme.
---
It starts with a case, like so many things do. John is standing off to the side, arms folded, waiting patiently for Sherlock when Anderson comes storming by. His face is flushed, eyes practically sparking in anger, and really he looks like he's about two seconds from punching someone. John doesn't say anything, knows better than to get in the way of someone who has just been pissed off by Sherlock, but Anderson catches sight of him.
And it all goes to hell from there.
"I see you're waiting for him like a good little bitch," Anderson says coldly, stopping.
John looks at him. Raises an eyebrow.
"Don't you ever give of it? Being his pet? It's disgusting, you know, the way he orders you around, and you just put up with it."
"Fuck off, Anderson," John says tiredly, looking back to where Sherlock is. It's been a long three days and he can't remember the last time he slept or ate. All he wants is to go home and have a cup of tea and sleep.
"Makes me wonder if you like it," Anderson hisses, whirling on his heel and storming away.
John doesn't want him go. He keeps watching Sherlock, keeps his face in the exact same expression that it was in before. There's no visible indication that something in his stomach has tightened at the accusation.
Anderson isn't the first person to comment on how John always answer when Sherlock calls. If someone were to ask when he last denied Sherlock something, he wouldn't have an answer. The truth is, it just makes sense to give in. Sherlock is like a force, a hurricane that has pulled John in, and if you refuse him something he becomes impossible to live with. He'll sulk and pout and sometimes ignore you until something more interesting comes alone to distract him. It's easier to give in and make him happy. That's all it is, really.
"John!" Sherlock calls.
John snaps to attention, realizing that he has drifted off into his own world. He crosses the yard and stands beside Lestrade as Sherlock launches into his deductions, sweeping around the bodies, twirling so that his coat flies out behind him. It's all so dramatic and so very Sherlock. He exchanges an amused smile with Lestrade and waits patiently for Sherlock to finish.
"Come on," Sherlock says abruptly, nearly cutting himself off. "Lestrade, text me when you have a new, interesting case." He sails off, leaving John to shrug at Lestrade and jog to catch up with him. His leg flares briefly with pain, as it does when he is overtired, and he winces slightly.
"Stop it," says Sherlock, looking straight ahead.
"Stop what? I'm not a mind-reader, Sherlock, you'll have to give me more than that."
"Stop favouring your leg. There's nothing wrong with it."
John shoots him an annoyed look but straightens, trying to ignore the ache. Sherlock begins teling him more details about the case, things that he won't share with the police, and the pain becomes a distant memory as John listens and absorbs, filled to the brim with fascination by that amazing mind.
They reach Baker Street and John is relieved to collapse on the couch. He thinks to himself that he never wants to move again. Sherlock undresses slowly, sliding his coat off, and pins him with a pale blue-gray stare.
"What did Anderson say to you?"
"What?" John mumbles. He is half asleep.
Sherlock repeats his question.
"Rubbish," John says through a yawn. "Utter rubbish. Isn't that all Anderson ever comes up with?"
"It upset you."
"No, it didn't." He's a little more awake now, but just barely Why would it make him upset? He needs Sherlock to be happy. He likes making Sherlock happy. Making Sherlock happy makes John happy. He blinks heavily, thinking that there might be something wrong with that thought, but he is given no time to figure the answer out.
Sherlock looms over him, eyes taking in everything. After a moment, he reaches out and slides his hand into John's hair. "I know what he said."
"Then why did you ask?"
"To see if you would tell me."
"Sherlock, I'm really not in the mood for your games tonight."
"Tell me what Anderson said, John." It's spoken in a considerably lower voice, and before John can stop himself, it spills out, word for word, what the other man said. Sherlock listens, never taking his eyes off of John's face.
"See?" John says when he's done. "Rubbish. He's trying to make it sound like it's something it's not." Because it's not. It's not.
"Go to bed, John."
John's legs are moving before he consciously registers the command. He wavers, looking hazily at Sherlock, thinking that there is something not quite right. "Sherlock..."
"Shh. Go into your room, get undressed, and go to bed, John. We'll talk in the morning."
Even though he had been thinking about a cup of tea, John goes. He gets undressed, stripping down to his pants, and disregards his pajamas even though he never sleeps in just his pants. He crawls beneath the covers and puts his head on the pillow, feeling heavy, sated, and oddly content. Just before sleep washes over him completely, he hears a violin begin to play.
Part 2