Fic: Sound and Fury
This is another 221b Slash Fest repost. I'm sticking it here because I have a couple of small edits, and I don't want to break auntpurl's inbox with the comments.
*needs to get over self* *grin*
It's another spicy one - although these are a slightly different Sherlock and John to the ones in " Perfectly Sound."
Title: Sound and Fury
Author: warriorbot
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC17
Word count: 3800
Warnings: Drug use, Fistfights, (Thoroughly Consensual) BDSM,
Summary From the prompt: “Sherlock's brain is in desperate need of drugs [but he] finds John to be a much more effective drug than anything ‘recreational.’”
Thanks to: ptelefolone for the incredible beta - she turned a tepid into a hot, auntpurl for the fest and ourdramaqueen for the prompt:
Scenario From Sherlock's POV - Sherlock's brain is in desperate need of drugs, but he's interrupted by John just when he's about to take them. Sherlock lashes out at him with embarrassment/frustration, and somehow they end up having very kinky sex, during which John surprises him with his trust and willingness to give him what he needs. For the first time ever, Sherlock can truly let go of his control - and finds John to be a much more effective drug than "anything called recreational".
Kinks: BDSM, particularly spanking, bondage, biting, cutting/blood play, breath control/choking
Squicks (be specific!): scat, watersports
Three additions: dirty talk, neck kissing/sucking, debauched!Sherlock
Highest rating: The higher the better :)
Ice water in his veins. That's what Bill Murray had once said, back in Afghanistan. John Watson, the man with ice water in his veins. He'd meant that John was calm under fire, directing terrified squaddies in the essentials of stabilising shoulder wounds, even as he lay bleeding into the dust.
But he had never felt like he had ice water in his veins until he came home and saw:
Sherlock - barely conscious, slumped on a chair in the kitchen. Harsh fluorescent light intensifying his sickly pallor.
The improvised tourniquet on Sherlock's bicep.
The syringe on the floor, fallen from nerveless fingers.
It made him feel anything but calm.
Back then his composure had never once wavered, even as he watched men and women die for something they believed in. Here and now the sight of Sherlock dicing with his life because he was bored tore that composure to shreds.
John didn't remember crossing the space between the door and the kitchen table. He didn't remember crouching awkwardly, traitorous leg - traitorous mind - threatening to spill him to the ground. He didn't need Sherlock's powers of deduction to know that this bender must have begun the minute he walked out of the door to spend the weekend with Sarah.
Ignoring the paraphernalia strewn in amongst glassware on the cheap Formica table, he thumbed Sherlock's eyelids open with more force than necessary. He chose to pay more attention to the sluggish pupils than to the bitter look on Sherlock's face as he finally managed to focus on John.
He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, fists clenching and unclenching. He paced, unseeing, unthinking. All sounds were drowned out by a high-pitched whine in his head - a shrill note of fury overlaid with complex harmonics of guilt.
Sherlock touched his shoulder.
The feel of Sherlock's jaw snapping shut on the end of his brutal right hook made John sick to his stomach, but it was too late. Fury unleashed, he shoved Sherlock roughly, sending him sprawling to the carpet, then turned on his heel to leave.
He felt a sudden burst of pain, a foot smashing into the back of his knee, out of nowhere. John went down fast and awkwardly. He felt his lip split open against his teeth - tasted blood - as he landed. He tried to scramble to his feet, breath knocked out of his lungs, but Sherlock was on him, pinning him down. A silent pause, while the Universe held its breath.
Sherlock lowered his head. His tongue darted to the corner of John's mouth, a momentary contact that stunned John more than the blow that had felled him. Sherlock pulled back, his eyes closed and his face impassive as if he had nothing to do whatsoever with the tongue that had greedily taken the bead of blood from John's lip.
Sherlock's head dipped again. John tasted his own blood, felt the sharp tearing pain at the corner of his mouth as Sherlock kissed him long and hard. John had wanted this for so long: he let his mind and his body fall open to the strength of the want, the need, in Sherlock's kiss.
Until Sherlock pulled back, allowing John to notice those pupils blown wide in a chemical parody of desire.
John had wanted this for so long, but not like this.
"Get off me, Sherlock. You're high."
He thrust Sherlock away and left without a backward glance.
~~~
Days passed and they still didn't speak of it. John found himself welcoming the latest murder, just for the distraction it afforded. But when the circuit of crime scenes, chases and confrontations came to an end Sherlock's brain began to tear itself apart once more.
London was too quiet for him. His senses strained but found nothing to engage with. The flat was quieter still with John out. John was out a lot recently.
He stood, equivocating at the threshold of the kitchen before flicking his robe out behind him and sitting on one of the hard chairs. It scraped on the tiles, the sudden screech shattering the silence.
He placed a small leather pouch on the table and savoured the purr of the zip as he eased it open. He had always loved that sound - it signified something about to be revealed.
There were three sharp clinks as he placed a spoon, a lighter, a syringe on a metal tray by his left hand. The chime of metal against glass, water for the spoon. A brittle rustle, as he teased open a wad of tin foil. The snap of a lighter, the hiss and bubble of boiling water. The whine of needle-point against spoon as he drew the solution up into the syringe.
This, then, would be the moment where he usually anticipated the long sigh of satisfaction to come when the drug finally hit. Instead he found himself remembering John snarling, "Get off me, you're high."
The clatter of glass on metal as he threw the unused syringe down onto the tray shattered his concentration. He drummed his fingers on the table. The buzz of the fluorescent light, the loud ticking of the clock, snagged at his thoughts. Thoughts of John, shoving him to the floor, of John under him, of John's mouth open beneath his own - a leitmotif of confusion and desire.
He heard feet on the stairs, the creak of the door and John's groan of dismay as he saw the syringe.
John's voice rang out, deep and angry, "Oh for… Why, Sherlock? Why are you doing this?"
Sherlock was on his feet instantly. His own voice cracked as he hurled his denial. "I didn't do it. I stopped myself.”
John strode into the kitchen, grabbed Sherlock's wrists, tearing at his sleeves, exposing his forearms. Sherlock struggled against the roughness of John's touch, but found himself held tight, strong arms dragging him towards the sitting room, pulling him close so John could better search him for traces of intoxication.
He pushed John away roughly. "I told you - I'm clean," he growled.
"I don't trust you."
Sherlock grabbed John's hair, breathing raggedly as he thrust John's face towards the crook of his arm.
"Look, damn it," voice lowered, commanding John to believe him. "I have it under control."
John drove an elbow into Sherlock's midriff, winding him. He struggled to tear his hair free and turned under Sherlock's grip, his hair tearing at the roots. With a shove to Sherlock's shoulder, he threw them both to the ground. His breath was expelled with a grunt as he landed on top of Sherlock.
Sherlock grasped John's shirt in his clenched fists.
"God I want this, John. Let me fight you."
John recoiled in shock. Two sets of shallow, rapid breaths punctuated the silence as he weighed his answer.
"Why? You can't win. And I don't surrender."
"So? So what if you win?"
“You’re going to pay for putting me through this.”
“How?”
"I will have you, Sherlock. Whatever I want, I'll take."
Sherlock moaned, sucked down air like a man saved from drowning. "And if I win?"
"You won't."
John drove his arms between Sherlock's clenched fists and shoved them apart, but Sherlock didn't relinquish his hold on John's shirt. Cloth tore and buttons pulled free but still he wouldn't let go, as he held John down, tight on top of him. He clawed at John's back and got nothing for his pains but an open palmed slap across the face and John taunting him.
"Is that all you've got? There's nothing you can do to me that I can't handle. You know it," John sneered, "civilian."
Sherlock strained upwards, eyes clouded with want, tried to bring his lips to John's.
"No!" John commanded. "No surrender. I want to win." He pulled back. "I want to conquer you."
John was leaning back, off balance but out of reach. Biding his time.
John the soldier.
And Sherlock the chess player.
Who spotted his opening and thrust a hip upwards, sending John sprawling. With a snarl, he fell on John instantly. John's hands were strong and skilled, but Sherlock anticipated every move. The devastation in the room was complete as they fought for supremacy, now one above, now the other, with no heed to the collateral damage in their wake.
Eventually John's wrists were pinned above him. Sherlock’s other hand roamed free, pulled at his hair, caressed his throat, pressed over his mouth. John met Sherlock's eyes and saw the sheer need written there.
Sherlock seemed to read the message in his pliant limbs, and pleading eyes. I submit to you.
Sherlock slowly withdrew his hand from John's mouth.
"I thought you didn't trust me?"
"Not with your own safety, no. But I think I'm safe in your hands." John said, and in the privacy of his thoughts he added, and even if I'm not, you need this. I need this.
"Get up, John."
Sherlock's voice was curt and John wondered how he could have misread things so catastrophically badly. He stood, trembling.
"Go to your room."
John left the room, pulling his ruined shirt from his shoulders as he did.
~~~
John was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, when his door swung open. Sherlock was standing in the doorway, dressed in nothing but trousers and a thin leather belt. In his hand he held a small leather bag.
"You're mine?"
"Oh Jesus Christ, yes, Sherlock. I thought... I thought you wouldn't come."
"Yes or no will do. You are mine?"
"Yes."
"Completely?"
"Yes."
"And you trust me?"
"Yes."
"Completely?"
A pause.
"No."
A feral smile spread over Sherlock's face as he murmured, "Good."
He walked slowly to the bedside, smile deepening as he eyed John appreciatively.
"I want you naked." John's eyes widened at the suddenness of the demand. "Don't make me repeat myself, John."
He hurried to comply and then hesitantly lowered himself the bed. He felt utterly exposed to Sherlock's scrutiny, especially as the man's eyes were magnetically drawn to John's rapidly stiffening cock. Sherlock broke the silence.
"You like this?"
No answer.
"Not rhetorical, John. Do you like this? Yes or no?"
"Yes," he said, his voice trembling. Oh God, I love it. You can tell I love it. You're just trying to humiliate me, he thought, but he choked down the words. He knew there wasn’t a chance in hell that Sherlock would find the observation remotely novel.
Sherlock unzipped the bag and placed the contents on the bedside table, as John watched, hypnotised: four lengths of thick, black cord; a red rubber ball attached to a black strap; an eye-mask, the type they give to passengers to help them sleep on long distance flights. John didn't think that sleep was on offer.
Sherlock was about to withdraw something more from the bag when he stopped.
"Perhaps later. If you're good." The thought of what might still be hidden was all it took to make John fully hard.
"Arms," ordered Sherlock, grabbing the nearer of John's wrists and securing it to the headboard with the soft cord. John obediently stretched his other arm, allowing himself to be tied.
"Now legs,” John was slower to obey this time - the feeling of exposure was intense. With a frustrated sigh, Sherlock thrust John's legs apart, pressing his hands roughly into John's thighs. As he tied John's ankles he asked again, "Are you mine, John Watson?"
"Yes, oh God, yes. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm..."
"That's enough." Sherlock was toying with the red ball, running his thumb softly over its surface. He lent over John, bringing his face so close that John could feel warm breath on his cheeks. Sherlock slipped his thumb between John's lips and pressed firmly enough to make him open his mouth. The keening sound of disappointment John made as Sherlock's fingers withdrew was cut short as the ball gag was inserted and secured.
Sherlock raked his eyes over John's body again. “So vulnerable, my dear John. So hesitant and yet so eager to be persuaded.”
Sherlock’s hands shook slightly in anticipation as he removed his belt. The faint noise of the buckle being released sounded strangely significant in the quiet room. He pulled slowly, drawing the strip of leather free. John's eyes followed it and his back arched slightly.
“You want this?” Sherlock asked as he draped the belt over the bedside table, where it held John entranced. “Unexpected, but very welcome.”
Sherlock turned away, unbuttoned his trousers and let them fall to the floor. Nothing underneath, John thought foggily. Oh dear God, how often has he had me reach into his pocket when he's been wearing nothing underneath?
Sherlock looked over his shoulder, saw the wondering look on John's face.
"More often than you'd think, John. I was asking myself if you’d ever notice."
As he turned back to the bed, John stared greedily at the immaculate body before him. From the flat planes of his chest to his narrow hips to the impressive hard-on, there wasn't an inch of Sherlock that wasn't perfect.
Sherlock began to caress himself with gentle strokes, coaxing an ever stronger erection. He looked at John contemplatively as he slipped his thumb in his mouth, then used it to tease the head of his own cock.
"I like you watching me, John. I like knowing that you want to watch me, even as I come. That it would turn you on. And that there isn't a damn thing you can do about it."
A whimper escaped around the edges of the gag as John moaned his frustration.
"If I let you have one of your hands back, you could touch yourself, couldn't you? I can see how much you want that. Maybe you could earn it."
He straddled John's chest, one hand still gently fucking himself, the other toying with the strap of John's gag. "Shall I make you earn it?"
John's nods were frantic, his eyes closing as the realisation of what Sherlock was suggesting hit him. The gag was released and instead there were fingers twined in John's hair and a cock in his throat. Sherlock’s heavy shaft pressed between John’s bruised lips. He desperately sucked in breath between the deep thrusts, frantic groans resonating in his throat. Sherlock’s fingers tightened and the sharp pain at his scalp brought tears to his eyes. He wanted precisely two things at that moment: to taste Sherlock’s come in his mouth, and to fuck himself senseless at the same time.
Sherlock’s hips jerked in broken rhythm. His eyes were heavily lidded as he drove deeper. John’s fervent tongue brought him almost to the brink before he pulled back with iron self-control.
"Not so eager, my dear John. There are other things I want to introduce you to yet. Tell me. Is this the furthest you’ve ever been with a man?"
"Once. With Bill. No further," a red flush of shame burned John's cheeks as he found himself confessing to Sherlock, who was as composed and inscrutable as ever.
"Ah John - I believe you'd answer anything I asked right now," Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Tell me: when I finally let you, will that be the first time you've thought about me as you've come?"
When John didn't answer, Sherlock's fingers began to toy with the knot at John's left wrist.
"I could make it worth your while to answer me. Or I could just take what I like. Which is it to be?" Sherlock's fingers grazed down John's arm, to his jaw, his throat, "Do you think about me when you touch yourself?"
Sherlock's predatory smile showed that he knew the answer before John finally gasped out, "Yes. Oh, God yes."
Sherlock's eyes lost their focus at last - his hands shaking as he prepared his dose. He picked up the gag and tightened it firmly on John's mouth, pulled the blindfold over John's eyes.
"A test of your self control, John. I'm going to untie your hands, but the moment you touch yourself, all this stops. You will never have what comes next. And I know you want what comes next. Nod if you understand."
John nodded, groaned.
All four bonds were untied. Sherlock's trembling fingers traced tantalisingly close to John’s cock but never quite touched.
"Over," he commanded. "On your knees."
John felt his wrists tied roughly to the headboard. Sherlock's knees pressed between his own, forcing his legs apart.
"Oh God, John. You look perfect. Too perfect."
John heard the bright click of a belt buckle and tensed as he anticipated what must happen next. Still he cried out at the sharp bite of leather on flesh as the first blow hit home. Sherlock started slowly, looking for limits, for the speed and intensity that were as much as John could tolerate, then pushed still further. John submitted to the pain that overwhelmed him as his legs began to tremble under the onslaught.
"You said you could handle anything I did to you," Sherlock's voice was hoarse with desire as he brought the belt down again and again. "Was that a boast, doctor?"
John shook his head, high off pain and shame and a perverse pride that it was over him that Sherlock was losing control. I will let myself be broken, he thought, eyes screwed tight beneath his blindfold, as long as it’s Sherlock who breaks me.
He heard a cry, almost orgasmic, as he felt his skin tear. He heard the belt cast aside, felt eager hands tracing the welts on his flesh, felt Sherlock's tongue tracing the score marks, tasting the blood he had drawn.
"I will have you, John. Whatever I want I'll take."
John’s stomach clenched as he recognised his own words from before, understood the power of them: both the strength that they promised and the need that they betrayed. He widened the gap between his legs, pushed himself backwards to the extent of his bonds, invited Sherlock in.
Fingers touched him first, parting him gently. A tongue darted at the tight, sensitive spot where no-one had ever touched him before. He resisted the urge to flinch, fearing that Sherlock would take it all away: this threat, this promise.
A finger followed next, chill and slick with lubricant. The gentleness of the touch belied the urgency of Sherlock's desire. The moment John felt Sherlock enter him he knew he was no longer his own man. He wanted to belong to Sherlock completely. He tried to quieten the trembling in his limbs as this most intimate of touches went deeper.
He almost sobbed with frustration as the touch was withdrawn, but it returned, thicker and deeper. A second finger, then a third. He heard ragged breath behind him as Sherlock's self-control began to abandon him. The time for gentleness had passed and John was being fucked open, Sherlock's fingers preparing the way.
"You are mine."
A statement, not a question, as Sherlock entered him in a single, smooth move. Sherlock’s strokes were slow to start with, deliberate and calculating. He paused after every one of John’s quiet moans, taunting with the promise of more. Beneath the pressure of the gag, John’s begging became wordless, inarticulate cries. There was mute pleading in the tension in every line of his body, in the way he strained against the ropes.
Sherlock’s fingers curled tightly on John's hips as he drove deep, losing himself in John’s body - so completely given to him. He threw his head back with an almighty groan - John wished he could see that face: mouth fallen open, eyes screwed shut - as he traced the smooth, raised welts on John’s back. With rough, disjointed movements he began to take what he needed. John felt Sherlock’s fingers pulling and tugging at the knots that held his arms captive.
"Touch yourself, John. I want to feel you come. I want you to come while I'm fucking you."
John wrenched a hand free and did as he was bidden. Beneath his blindfold he imagined the way the two of them must look, reflected in the mirror on his wall. So debauched and so divine. He clenched so tightly that Sherlock moaned in answer.
"You look incredible. So fucking filthy. How long have you wanted this, John? Wanted to fuck yourself while I sodomise you?"
The words, and the hot breath at his neck, unmade him. His legs buckled as he came, hot and wet, over his fist. Sherlock's arm snaked around his waist and held him up, pulled him back, as he drove into him, deeper still. Sherlock's hips moved in a broken rhythm and a long, low stream of obscenities fell from his lips.
"Oh Christ, John. I'm in you, I own you, I’m fucking you. Oh, God, I'm… I’m coming in you…"
Sherlock was still deep inside John as he reached up to remove the gag and blindfold. His lips brushed John's ear as he whispered, "You were incredible. I knew you were brave but, my God, the things you let me do to you."
I needed them as much as you did, thought John but, realising what this triumph meant to Sherlock, he chose to say instead, "Fair's fair. If I'd have won..." He stopped as he felt the shudder against him, Sherlock's cock still inside him twitching a final spasm as the thought of what would have happened if roles were reversed thrilled through them both.
"Don't, John, unless you're trying to inspire me to fresh heights." Sherlock gave one last thrust before slowly withdrawing with a sigh.
They both collapsed to the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
"I know your tricks now Sherlock..."
"Some of them..."
"So next time don't expect to win so easily."
"Next time?" Sherlock turned to John with a taunting smile, "Next time I don't expect to win at all."
*needs to get over self* *grin*
It's another spicy one - although these are a slightly different Sherlock and John to the ones in " Perfectly Sound."
Title: Sound and Fury
Author: warriorbot
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC17
Word count: 3800
Warnings: Drug use, Fistfights, (Thoroughly Consensual) BDSM,
Summary From the prompt: “Sherlock's brain is in desperate need of drugs [but he] finds John to be a much more effective drug than anything ‘recreational.’”
Thanks to: ptelefolone for the incredible beta - she turned a tepid into a hot, auntpurl for the fest and ourdramaqueen for the prompt:
Scenario From Sherlock's POV - Sherlock's brain is in desperate need of drugs, but he's interrupted by John just when he's about to take them. Sherlock lashes out at him with embarrassment/frustration, and somehow they end up having very kinky sex, during which John surprises him with his trust and willingness to give him what he needs. For the first time ever, Sherlock can truly let go of his control - and finds John to be a much more effective drug than "anything called recreational".
Kinks: BDSM, particularly spanking, bondage, biting, cutting/blood play, breath control/choking
Squicks (be specific!): scat, watersports
Three additions: dirty talk, neck kissing/sucking, debauched!Sherlock
Highest rating: The higher the better :)
Ice water in his veins. That's what Bill Murray had once said, back in Afghanistan. John Watson, the man with ice water in his veins. He'd meant that John was calm under fire, directing terrified squaddies in the essentials of stabilising shoulder wounds, even as he lay bleeding into the dust.
But he had never felt like he had ice water in his veins until he came home and saw:
Sherlock - barely conscious, slumped on a chair in the kitchen. Harsh fluorescent light intensifying his sickly pallor.
The improvised tourniquet on Sherlock's bicep.
The syringe on the floor, fallen from nerveless fingers.
It made him feel anything but calm.
Back then his composure had never once wavered, even as he watched men and women die for something they believed in. Here and now the sight of Sherlock dicing with his life because he was bored tore that composure to shreds.
John didn't remember crossing the space between the door and the kitchen table. He didn't remember crouching awkwardly, traitorous leg - traitorous mind - threatening to spill him to the ground. He didn't need Sherlock's powers of deduction to know that this bender must have begun the minute he walked out of the door to spend the weekend with Sarah.
Ignoring the paraphernalia strewn in amongst glassware on the cheap Formica table, he thumbed Sherlock's eyelids open with more force than necessary. He chose to pay more attention to the sluggish pupils than to the bitter look on Sherlock's face as he finally managed to focus on John.
He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, fists clenching and unclenching. He paced, unseeing, unthinking. All sounds were drowned out by a high-pitched whine in his head - a shrill note of fury overlaid with complex harmonics of guilt.
Sherlock touched his shoulder.
The feel of Sherlock's jaw snapping shut on the end of his brutal right hook made John sick to his stomach, but it was too late. Fury unleashed, he shoved Sherlock roughly, sending him sprawling to the carpet, then turned on his heel to leave.
He felt a sudden burst of pain, a foot smashing into the back of his knee, out of nowhere. John went down fast and awkwardly. He felt his lip split open against his teeth - tasted blood - as he landed. He tried to scramble to his feet, breath knocked out of his lungs, but Sherlock was on him, pinning him down. A silent pause, while the Universe held its breath.
Sherlock lowered his head. His tongue darted to the corner of John's mouth, a momentary contact that stunned John more than the blow that had felled him. Sherlock pulled back, his eyes closed and his face impassive as if he had nothing to do whatsoever with the tongue that had greedily taken the bead of blood from John's lip.
Sherlock's head dipped again. John tasted his own blood, felt the sharp tearing pain at the corner of his mouth as Sherlock kissed him long and hard. John had wanted this for so long: he let his mind and his body fall open to the strength of the want, the need, in Sherlock's kiss.
Until Sherlock pulled back, allowing John to notice those pupils blown wide in a chemical parody of desire.
John had wanted this for so long, but not like this.
"Get off me, Sherlock. You're high."
He thrust Sherlock away and left without a backward glance.
~~~
Days passed and they still didn't speak of it. John found himself welcoming the latest murder, just for the distraction it afforded. But when the circuit of crime scenes, chases and confrontations came to an end Sherlock's brain began to tear itself apart once more.
London was too quiet for him. His senses strained but found nothing to engage with. The flat was quieter still with John out. John was out a lot recently.
He stood, equivocating at the threshold of the kitchen before flicking his robe out behind him and sitting on one of the hard chairs. It scraped on the tiles, the sudden screech shattering the silence.
He placed a small leather pouch on the table and savoured the purr of the zip as he eased it open. He had always loved that sound - it signified something about to be revealed.
There were three sharp clinks as he placed a spoon, a lighter, a syringe on a metal tray by his left hand. The chime of metal against glass, water for the spoon. A brittle rustle, as he teased open a wad of tin foil. The snap of a lighter, the hiss and bubble of boiling water. The whine of needle-point against spoon as he drew the solution up into the syringe.
This, then, would be the moment where he usually anticipated the long sigh of satisfaction to come when the drug finally hit. Instead he found himself remembering John snarling, "Get off me, you're high."
The clatter of glass on metal as he threw the unused syringe down onto the tray shattered his concentration. He drummed his fingers on the table. The buzz of the fluorescent light, the loud ticking of the clock, snagged at his thoughts. Thoughts of John, shoving him to the floor, of John under him, of John's mouth open beneath his own - a leitmotif of confusion and desire.
He heard feet on the stairs, the creak of the door and John's groan of dismay as he saw the syringe.
John's voice rang out, deep and angry, "Oh for… Why, Sherlock? Why are you doing this?"
Sherlock was on his feet instantly. His own voice cracked as he hurled his denial. "I didn't do it. I stopped myself.”
John strode into the kitchen, grabbed Sherlock's wrists, tearing at his sleeves, exposing his forearms. Sherlock struggled against the roughness of John's touch, but found himself held tight, strong arms dragging him towards the sitting room, pulling him close so John could better search him for traces of intoxication.
He pushed John away roughly. "I told you - I'm clean," he growled.
"I don't trust you."
Sherlock grabbed John's hair, breathing raggedly as he thrust John's face towards the crook of his arm.
"Look, damn it," voice lowered, commanding John to believe him. "I have it under control."
John drove an elbow into Sherlock's midriff, winding him. He struggled to tear his hair free and turned under Sherlock's grip, his hair tearing at the roots. With a shove to Sherlock's shoulder, he threw them both to the ground. His breath was expelled with a grunt as he landed on top of Sherlock.
Sherlock grasped John's shirt in his clenched fists.
"God I want this, John. Let me fight you."
John recoiled in shock. Two sets of shallow, rapid breaths punctuated the silence as he weighed his answer.
"Why? You can't win. And I don't surrender."
"So? So what if you win?"
“You’re going to pay for putting me through this.”
“How?”
"I will have you, Sherlock. Whatever I want, I'll take."
Sherlock moaned, sucked down air like a man saved from drowning. "And if I win?"
"You won't."
John drove his arms between Sherlock's clenched fists and shoved them apart, but Sherlock didn't relinquish his hold on John's shirt. Cloth tore and buttons pulled free but still he wouldn't let go, as he held John down, tight on top of him. He clawed at John's back and got nothing for his pains but an open palmed slap across the face and John taunting him.
"Is that all you've got? There's nothing you can do to me that I can't handle. You know it," John sneered, "civilian."
Sherlock strained upwards, eyes clouded with want, tried to bring his lips to John's.
"No!" John commanded. "No surrender. I want to win." He pulled back. "I want to conquer you."
John was leaning back, off balance but out of reach. Biding his time.
John the soldier.
And Sherlock the chess player.
Who spotted his opening and thrust a hip upwards, sending John sprawling. With a snarl, he fell on John instantly. John's hands were strong and skilled, but Sherlock anticipated every move. The devastation in the room was complete as they fought for supremacy, now one above, now the other, with no heed to the collateral damage in their wake.
Eventually John's wrists were pinned above him. Sherlock’s other hand roamed free, pulled at his hair, caressed his throat, pressed over his mouth. John met Sherlock's eyes and saw the sheer need written there.
Sherlock seemed to read the message in his pliant limbs, and pleading eyes. I submit to you.
Sherlock slowly withdrew his hand from John's mouth.
"I thought you didn't trust me?"
"Not with your own safety, no. But I think I'm safe in your hands." John said, and in the privacy of his thoughts he added, and even if I'm not, you need this. I need this.
"Get up, John."
Sherlock's voice was curt and John wondered how he could have misread things so catastrophically badly. He stood, trembling.
"Go to your room."
John left the room, pulling his ruined shirt from his shoulders as he did.
~~~
John was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, when his door swung open. Sherlock was standing in the doorway, dressed in nothing but trousers and a thin leather belt. In his hand he held a small leather bag.
"You're mine?"
"Oh Jesus Christ, yes, Sherlock. I thought... I thought you wouldn't come."
"Yes or no will do. You are mine?"
"Yes."
"Completely?"
"Yes."
"And you trust me?"
"Yes."
"Completely?"
A pause.
"No."
A feral smile spread over Sherlock's face as he murmured, "Good."
He walked slowly to the bedside, smile deepening as he eyed John appreciatively.
"I want you naked." John's eyes widened at the suddenness of the demand. "Don't make me repeat myself, John."
He hurried to comply and then hesitantly lowered himself the bed. He felt utterly exposed to Sherlock's scrutiny, especially as the man's eyes were magnetically drawn to John's rapidly stiffening cock. Sherlock broke the silence.
"You like this?"
No answer.
"Not rhetorical, John. Do you like this? Yes or no?"
"Yes," he said, his voice trembling. Oh God, I love it. You can tell I love it. You're just trying to humiliate me, he thought, but he choked down the words. He knew there wasn’t a chance in hell that Sherlock would find the observation remotely novel.
Sherlock unzipped the bag and placed the contents on the bedside table, as John watched, hypnotised: four lengths of thick, black cord; a red rubber ball attached to a black strap; an eye-mask, the type they give to passengers to help them sleep on long distance flights. John didn't think that sleep was on offer.
Sherlock was about to withdraw something more from the bag when he stopped.
"Perhaps later. If you're good." The thought of what might still be hidden was all it took to make John fully hard.
"Arms," ordered Sherlock, grabbing the nearer of John's wrists and securing it to the headboard with the soft cord. John obediently stretched his other arm, allowing himself to be tied.
"Now legs,” John was slower to obey this time - the feeling of exposure was intense. With a frustrated sigh, Sherlock thrust John's legs apart, pressing his hands roughly into John's thighs. As he tied John's ankles he asked again, "Are you mine, John Watson?"
"Yes, oh God, yes. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm..."
"That's enough." Sherlock was toying with the red ball, running his thumb softly over its surface. He lent over John, bringing his face so close that John could feel warm breath on his cheeks. Sherlock slipped his thumb between John's lips and pressed firmly enough to make him open his mouth. The keening sound of disappointment John made as Sherlock's fingers withdrew was cut short as the ball gag was inserted and secured.
Sherlock raked his eyes over John's body again. “So vulnerable, my dear John. So hesitant and yet so eager to be persuaded.”
Sherlock’s hands shook slightly in anticipation as he removed his belt. The faint noise of the buckle being released sounded strangely significant in the quiet room. He pulled slowly, drawing the strip of leather free. John's eyes followed it and his back arched slightly.
“You want this?” Sherlock asked as he draped the belt over the bedside table, where it held John entranced. “Unexpected, but very welcome.”
Sherlock turned away, unbuttoned his trousers and let them fall to the floor. Nothing underneath, John thought foggily. Oh dear God, how often has he had me reach into his pocket when he's been wearing nothing underneath?
Sherlock looked over his shoulder, saw the wondering look on John's face.
"More often than you'd think, John. I was asking myself if you’d ever notice."
As he turned back to the bed, John stared greedily at the immaculate body before him. From the flat planes of his chest to his narrow hips to the impressive hard-on, there wasn't an inch of Sherlock that wasn't perfect.
Sherlock began to caress himself with gentle strokes, coaxing an ever stronger erection. He looked at John contemplatively as he slipped his thumb in his mouth, then used it to tease the head of his own cock.
"I like you watching me, John. I like knowing that you want to watch me, even as I come. That it would turn you on. And that there isn't a damn thing you can do about it."
A whimper escaped around the edges of the gag as John moaned his frustration.
"If I let you have one of your hands back, you could touch yourself, couldn't you? I can see how much you want that. Maybe you could earn it."
He straddled John's chest, one hand still gently fucking himself, the other toying with the strap of John's gag. "Shall I make you earn it?"
John's nods were frantic, his eyes closing as the realisation of what Sherlock was suggesting hit him. The gag was released and instead there were fingers twined in John's hair and a cock in his throat. Sherlock’s heavy shaft pressed between John’s bruised lips. He desperately sucked in breath between the deep thrusts, frantic groans resonating in his throat. Sherlock’s fingers tightened and the sharp pain at his scalp brought tears to his eyes. He wanted precisely two things at that moment: to taste Sherlock’s come in his mouth, and to fuck himself senseless at the same time.
Sherlock’s hips jerked in broken rhythm. His eyes were heavily lidded as he drove deeper. John’s fervent tongue brought him almost to the brink before he pulled back with iron self-control.
"Not so eager, my dear John. There are other things I want to introduce you to yet. Tell me. Is this the furthest you’ve ever been with a man?"
"Once. With Bill. No further," a red flush of shame burned John's cheeks as he found himself confessing to Sherlock, who was as composed and inscrutable as ever.
"Ah John - I believe you'd answer anything I asked right now," Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Tell me: when I finally let you, will that be the first time you've thought about me as you've come?"
When John didn't answer, Sherlock's fingers began to toy with the knot at John's left wrist.
"I could make it worth your while to answer me. Or I could just take what I like. Which is it to be?" Sherlock's fingers grazed down John's arm, to his jaw, his throat, "Do you think about me when you touch yourself?"
Sherlock's predatory smile showed that he knew the answer before John finally gasped out, "Yes. Oh, God yes."
Sherlock's eyes lost their focus at last - his hands shaking as he prepared his dose. He picked up the gag and tightened it firmly on John's mouth, pulled the blindfold over John's eyes.
"A test of your self control, John. I'm going to untie your hands, but the moment you touch yourself, all this stops. You will never have what comes next. And I know you want what comes next. Nod if you understand."
John nodded, groaned.
All four bonds were untied. Sherlock's trembling fingers traced tantalisingly close to John’s cock but never quite touched.
"Over," he commanded. "On your knees."
John felt his wrists tied roughly to the headboard. Sherlock's knees pressed between his own, forcing his legs apart.
"Oh God, John. You look perfect. Too perfect."
John heard the bright click of a belt buckle and tensed as he anticipated what must happen next. Still he cried out at the sharp bite of leather on flesh as the first blow hit home. Sherlock started slowly, looking for limits, for the speed and intensity that were as much as John could tolerate, then pushed still further. John submitted to the pain that overwhelmed him as his legs began to tremble under the onslaught.
"You said you could handle anything I did to you," Sherlock's voice was hoarse with desire as he brought the belt down again and again. "Was that a boast, doctor?"
John shook his head, high off pain and shame and a perverse pride that it was over him that Sherlock was losing control. I will let myself be broken, he thought, eyes screwed tight beneath his blindfold, as long as it’s Sherlock who breaks me.
He heard a cry, almost orgasmic, as he felt his skin tear. He heard the belt cast aside, felt eager hands tracing the welts on his flesh, felt Sherlock's tongue tracing the score marks, tasting the blood he had drawn.
"I will have you, John. Whatever I want I'll take."
John’s stomach clenched as he recognised his own words from before, understood the power of them: both the strength that they promised and the need that they betrayed. He widened the gap between his legs, pushed himself backwards to the extent of his bonds, invited Sherlock in.
Fingers touched him first, parting him gently. A tongue darted at the tight, sensitive spot where no-one had ever touched him before. He resisted the urge to flinch, fearing that Sherlock would take it all away: this threat, this promise.
A finger followed next, chill and slick with lubricant. The gentleness of the touch belied the urgency of Sherlock's desire. The moment John felt Sherlock enter him he knew he was no longer his own man. He wanted to belong to Sherlock completely. He tried to quieten the trembling in his limbs as this most intimate of touches went deeper.
He almost sobbed with frustration as the touch was withdrawn, but it returned, thicker and deeper. A second finger, then a third. He heard ragged breath behind him as Sherlock's self-control began to abandon him. The time for gentleness had passed and John was being fucked open, Sherlock's fingers preparing the way.
"You are mine."
A statement, not a question, as Sherlock entered him in a single, smooth move. Sherlock’s strokes were slow to start with, deliberate and calculating. He paused after every one of John’s quiet moans, taunting with the promise of more. Beneath the pressure of the gag, John’s begging became wordless, inarticulate cries. There was mute pleading in the tension in every line of his body, in the way he strained against the ropes.
Sherlock’s fingers curled tightly on John's hips as he drove deep, losing himself in John’s body - so completely given to him. He threw his head back with an almighty groan - John wished he could see that face: mouth fallen open, eyes screwed shut - as he traced the smooth, raised welts on John’s back. With rough, disjointed movements he began to take what he needed. John felt Sherlock’s fingers pulling and tugging at the knots that held his arms captive.
"Touch yourself, John. I want to feel you come. I want you to come while I'm fucking you."
John wrenched a hand free and did as he was bidden. Beneath his blindfold he imagined the way the two of them must look, reflected in the mirror on his wall. So debauched and so divine. He clenched so tightly that Sherlock moaned in answer.
"You look incredible. So fucking filthy. How long have you wanted this, John? Wanted to fuck yourself while I sodomise you?"
The words, and the hot breath at his neck, unmade him. His legs buckled as he came, hot and wet, over his fist. Sherlock's arm snaked around his waist and held him up, pulled him back, as he drove into him, deeper still. Sherlock's hips moved in a broken rhythm and a long, low stream of obscenities fell from his lips.
"Oh Christ, John. I'm in you, I own you, I’m fucking you. Oh, God, I'm… I’m coming in you…"
Sherlock was still deep inside John as he reached up to remove the gag and blindfold. His lips brushed John's ear as he whispered, "You were incredible. I knew you were brave but, my God, the things you let me do to you."
I needed them as much as you did, thought John but, realising what this triumph meant to Sherlock, he chose to say instead, "Fair's fair. If I'd have won..." He stopped as he felt the shudder against him, Sherlock's cock still inside him twitching a final spasm as the thought of what would have happened if roles were reversed thrilled through them both.
"Don't, John, unless you're trying to inspire me to fresh heights." Sherlock gave one last thrust before slowly withdrawing with a sigh.
They both collapsed to the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
"I know your tricks now Sherlock..."
"Some of them..."
"So next time don't expect to win so easily."
"Next time?" Sherlock turned to John with a taunting smile, "Next time I don't expect to win at all."