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Chapter Text

"You're asking for my help?"

Mycroft sounded pleased. Awfully pleased, like he had just won a particularly tricky game and was revelling in his own success. His smile was all smugness, his fingers laced together with an air of infuriating complacency.

Already, Sherlock had half a mind to get up and leave. God, but this was humiliating.

"It seems so, doesn't it?" he replied nonetheless, although with barely suppressed heat. "There's no need for you to get quite so excited about it."

"Oh, I wouldn't call it excitement, exactly," Mycroft said, presenting Sherlock with that infuriating smirk of his. "I'm merely surprised. It has been a while since you've come to me with anything. Especially with such a delicate matter."

"I would've preferred not to," Sherlock admitted through gritted teeth. The next sentence was difficult even to think, let alone voice out loud. "But I find myself ... at a loss."

"Is that so?" Mycroft answered, and Sherlock openly snarled.

"Do you really need to rub it in like this?" he snapped. "Are you actually this childish?"

Mycroft shook his head in disapproval, but he did lose the smirk. In fact, Sherlock thought with narrowed eyes, he even looked a tad chastised. Well, as much as Mycroft was able to look so, he supposed.

"Don't worry, brother. I've no intention to rub it in,” Mycroft assured him. “I was only surprised, nothing more. As for your request: I do believe I can help you out."

Sherlock gave a curt nod.

"I had hoped so," he said, voice tense. Oh, how he wanted to leave. Desperately. Sherlock hadn't felt this humiliated in a long time. Speaking as a sub, that was a rather significant assessment.

"Of course, it might take a while," Mycroft continued, leaning back in his chair with a thoughtful look on his face.

Sherlock quelled an urge to reach over the heavy oak table and strangle his brother. Fratricide, however tempting it might seem at the moment, would unfortunately not improve his situation as a whole. He hated to admit it, truly hated it, but Mycroft was in fact his last resort.

"I can wait," Sherlock said. "Just ..."

To Mycroft's credit, the man didn't make another snide comment, but exhaled audibly, not quite a sigh.

"I understand it's a matter of relative urgency. I promise I will try my best, but if I am to help you, I must make sure it will be done properly." He paused, sending Sherlock a thoughtful look. "I do care about you, Sherlock. Surely you realise that?"

Sherlock couldn't stand it a second longer. Getting up, he hurriedly buttoned his jacket and turned.

"I will await your call," was all he replied before leaving the office in long strides.

Storming off, Sherlock couldn't help but once more envy Mycroft and his status. Why fate had decided to make Sherlock as clever and headstrong as his older brother only to punish him with natural submissive tendencies was truly beyond him. It was a cruel trick of nature, surely.

Mycroft would never understand the challenges Sherlock faced. He would never actually know what it felt like to be independent, clever, an intellectual marvel, only to be tied down by instinctual cravings. An urge so strong that not even Sherlock, so very used to denying himself the most basic of needs, could resist for any extended amount of time.

No, not even Sherlock Holmes, one and only consulting detective, could suppress his submissive side forever. Which was an even bigger problem if you had managed to scare off any decent dom in the London area - and a fair few beyond.

It wasn't as if Sherlock hadn't tried to appeal to doms who did not meet his usual standards. He had hoped that, if only he were desperate enough, a dom of mediocre intellect and skill would do the trick.

Of course they had been futile attempts. Even with his submissive side so severely neglected, Sherlock had been unable to put up with sloppy handling and laughable orders.

Which was how he had ended up in Mycroft's office, swallowing his pride as he asked his older brother to find somebody who would take care of it.

By now, Sherlock didn't care where the dom had to be flown in from, as long as he or she was bearable and could take care of Sherlock's infuriating but persistent needs.

With what means Mycroft would find such a person, Sherlock didn't want to know in detail, as long as it would be soon. He needed to be able to focus on his work. If grovelling at somebody's feet was the only way to put his mind at ease, than that's how it would have to be.

Mycroft called only two weeks after their meeting. Sherlock didn't ask what kinds of strings he had pulled to find somebody suitable this quickly. Hiding his relief, Sherlock had spit out a thank you and hung up the phone.

It still didn't sit right with him that he had asked for Mycroft's help, that Mycroft had picked this person, and that he would pay this dom to take care of Sherlock.

As it was now, though, there simply was no other way than to deal with it. Resigned to his fate, Sherlock tried to work past his hurt pride as he quietly waited at 221B, Baker Street.

Wearing one of his well-cut suits, Sherlock was kneeling on the floor right by the door, waiting for whatever dom Mycroft had hired. Where his brother had got him or her from, Sherlock didn't really want to know.

It wouldn't be a Londoner, most likely, maybe not even a dom from the UK. The continent? Sherlock sniffed in distaste as he imagined having to put up with a French dom. If anything, he'd prefer a German or a Dutch one, as annoying as the accent would be. Maybe even a dom from Spain or Portugal, if it couldn't be helped.

He’d heard of a rather promising-sounding woman from Rome, once, who favoured incredibly high and wickedly painful shoes. There was also talk of a couple of identical twins from Sweden with a vivid imagination and a rather impressive collection of bullwhips.

As it was, though, Mycroft probably hadn’t even looked into those, picking some safe, experienced but ultimately boring dominant instead.

The doorbell shook Sherlock out of his broody thoughts, and a moment later, he could hear the sound of voices floating up the stairs. The closed door muffled most of the conversation, but Sherlock was almost completely sure the dom Mycroft had sent was a man.

Good. Sherlock had always had a bit of a preference for his own sex.

He could hear movement as the guest was ushered inside and the front door closed. Shortly afterwards, somebody started mounting the stairs. Somebody who was very much not taking the steps in the light-footed but determined way Mrs Hudson usually did. In fact, Sherlock was very sure that the mysterious dom was using a cane or another kind of walking assistance as he climbed the stairs.

Sherlock silently cursed Mycroft. Had he sent him - what, an old man? Lots of experience, and progressive arthritis to go with it? A reminder that Sherlock couldn't be too picky these days? Surely, Mycroft wouldn't be so cruel.

However, before he had time to properly work up a grudge, the door was opened and in came - well, he had been right about the cane.

The man, however, was far from a frail retiree. The dom, wearing a checkered shirt over a pair of fading jeans, was hardly past forty. Processing clues and information at high speed, Sherlock had deduced in the matter of but a few seconds that this man was most definitely English, a soldier, had fairly recently returned from Afghanistan or Iraq and had a limp to show for it.

A military dom? Sherlock tried to suppress the sudden, almost heady rush of excitement. Maybe, asking Mycroft had been worth it after all.

The man blinked in surprise as he was confronted with Sherlock kneeling right by the door, but caught himself quickly. Presenting Sherlock with a polite smile, he carefully closed the door behind him.

"Hello," he said. "You must be Sherlock."

Oh, but he sounded nice. Nice and friendly, polite and soft and all wrong. What kind of soldier was this man? Observing the dom's hands more closely, Sherlock couldn't help but roll his eyes at himself. Oh, how stupid of him. Stupid! The dom was an army doctor. So much for an iron-willed soldier and a bit of military discipline.

The dom, in turn, did not miss Sherlock's annoyed expression. His smile turned a bit sour.

"Not happy with my looks?" he asked as he shrugged off his jacket, a coat that looked much too thin and worn for the cold, wet weather outside.

"No," Sherlock replied in a purposefully snide tone, "just unsure what my brother was possibly thinking when I asked for the toughest dom he could find, and he sent me an ex-army medic with a psychosomatic limp and a stiff shoulder, who's very obviously in the beginnings of a clinical depression."

For a few seconds, the dom seemed to be thrown off his game, and Sherlock couldn't help but feel pleased. He might be a sub, but he wasn't powerless. Nobody could keep up with his mind, his skills of observation, his razor-sharp tongue. Which was, of course, why he'd had trouble finding a suitable dom in the first place.

This dom, however, did not work himself up as Sherlock had expected. Instead of getting angry, he shrugged off his surprise. The little smile returned to his face.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in thought.

"Your brother said you'd do that," the dom told him with no hint of his earlier annoyance. "Very impressive, I must admit, if a tad insulting."

He hung up the coat by the door and let his eyes wander over the living room, undoubtedly taking in the mess that was the coffee table, the experiments, the skull on the mantelpiece. His face, interestingly enough, didn't give away much of the distaste he likely had to feel. Doctor or no, he had been in the army and was probably fond of tidiness.

Sherlock found himself intrigued in spite of himself.

"Everything to your liking, sir?" he asked, speaking the polite address as if it were an insult.

He nearly cringed when the dom's eyes snapped back to him, giving him a look as hard as steel. Sherlock's traitorous submissive side had half a mind to grovel and apologise for mouthing off. Instead, though, Sherlock gave the man a stubbornly unimpressed look in return. He'd defied worse than an angry glare - if it were that easy to intimidate him, Sherlock would still be wearing one of his former dom's collars.

"You do not call me that unless I have allowed you to do so," the dom said, and now his voice had a dangerous, rigid note to it. "In fact, stop kneeling. We'll talk on equal terms first."

Hiding his surprise, Sherlock got elegantly to his feet, finally getting a good idea of just how short the dom was in comparison to himself. Whether he could make up for it in natural dominance was yet to be determined.

"Feel free to sit down anywhere," Sherlock said as he moved over to his favourite armchair, the only furniture in the room that wasn't covered in research, books or experiments.

The dom took one look at the other chair and the couch, both cramped with papers and crime scene photographs, and smiled pleasantly.

"No thanks, I'd much rather stand for now," he replied, and Sherlock started to get a feeling that the polite talk and expressions were mostly just an act.

Sherlock crossed his legs and adapted his thinking pose, watching the dom limp across the room until he came to stand by the fireplace. For a few moments, he stayed silent, simply watching Sherlock with that pleasant smile of his, though his eyes were clearly assessing.

"Let me introduce myself first," the dom finally said. "I'm Dr. John Watson. You may call me John for now."

Sherlock sneered.

"John? Really? Isn't that a bit progressive? If you don't like sir, I personally very much like the ring of master. Or maybe doctor, in your case?"

John sent him another one of those faux-pleasant smiles.

"I haven't agreed to take you on yet, have I? Don't worry - my submissives would never dare to call me by my first name."

Sherlock tried to ignore the fact that that sentence was giving him rather a thrill of excitement. He wouldn't be cowed by grand statements.

"You don't have to pretend with me," Sherlock replied instead, voice sharp. "I know the kind of sum my brother must have offered to you for taking me on. Given the state of your clothes, I doubt you could refuse an offer like it. You'll at least try, if only for the first cheque."

John laughed. It was a short, dry laugh that somehow made Sherlock feel like he'd just said something incredibly stupid. He refused to blush in humiliation, but couldn't help gnashing his teeth. If there was one thing he thoroughly despised, it was feeling intellectually inadequate.

"No money in the world could convince me to take on a sub who's not willing to or even interested in submitting to me," John said, and Sherlock could detect no lie in his words. "So far, you've been predictably childish and disobedient. A typical provocateur, if ever I saw one. Your brother had warned me you'd be a piece of work and I did tell him I wouldn't take you on if you didn't show any promise. But, lucky for you, I will give you a chance to convince me that you are, in fact, in want of a dom."

Sherlock let his hands drop, uncrossing his legs as he leaned forward in his chair.

"Is that so?" he sneered. "You expect me to submit to you, just like that? To prove to you that I can grovel if only I set my mind to it?"

John clicked his tongue in disapproval. Again, Sherlock had the feeling that he had said something inadequate. How the dom knew how to do what nobody but a select few had ever managed was truly beyond him.

Slowly but surely, Sherlock was getting the feeling that he had severely underestimated this man.

"It's not about openly submitting. It's obvious that making you let go will be an almost impossible task, and hard work at best. So no, I don't want you on your knees begging for my assistance. That's one step ahead, Sherlock." He paused, drawing out the tension of the moment. "I want you to tell me why you think you deserve to kneel in front of me at all."

Oh, and he was clever. Sherlock shouldn't have underestimated him, he really shouldn't have. A physical challenge, an act of bodily humiliation combined with a bit of clichéd begging, Sherlock couldn't find any motivation for unless he had already built some kind of relationship with the dom.

But a challenge like this - asking him to use his mind, his thoughts, his rhetorical skills to convince John that Sherlock would be a suitable sub, if only he got a chance to prove it? That was sure to get a rise out of Sherlock. In spite of knowing what John's strategy was, Sherlock found himself intrigued. Frankly, he hadn't been this excited by a dom in a very long time.

For a few minutes, both Sherlock and John stayed silent, merely looking at each other. Then Sherlock started to speak.

"I'm extremely observant. Nobody can read clues like I can. I'll know in advance what you want from me, what you expect, what you'll ask me to do. I'd act on orders you haven't even voiced."

"And how is that a good thing?" John interrupted him at once. "A sub who has no patience, who wants to be one step ahead of his dom? Who thinks he knows exactly what his dom wants? What if I want one thing, but tell you to do another? What if I want you to wait ten minutes, thirty minutes, an hour, a day? What if I want to keep you on edge for weeks on end, without you knowing if I'll ever give that specific order you've been anticipating?"

Sherlock tried his hardest not to glare at the dom. Part of him felt oddly insulted by the chastising words. Another part of him felt challenged, even eager to make clear to John that he actually was a sub worth taking on.

"I'm a quick study," he assured him. "I could learn when I am to wait and when to act. In fact, I can learn anything I set my mind to, and I will excel at it. Whatever you might want, whatever you can possibly imagine, I'll be able to do it."

"A sub who thinks himself almighty?" John cut him off, and Sherlock had half a mind to growl at him. "A sub who doesn't realise he has limits? That having limits is good and important? That having a limit is what makes a challenge a challenge at all? How am I to push you if you feel like there's no boundary to push?"

Frustration was creeping up in Sherlock. What was this man's problem? If he didn't want to take Sherlock on, why didn't he say so? Why come here? If Sherlock was such a hopeless case, why waste time on him at all?

"I'm experienced," Sherlock rushed to say. "I've had multiple doms, I've seen it all. Nothing could surprise me, nothing would throw me off. I'm familiar with all kinds of dominant personae."

"You call it experience, I say you're prone to scare your doms off," John replied mercilessly. "Unable to stick with one person for any extended amount of time? Clearly not a submissive a sane person would want to hold on to, let alone take on."

"What do you want me to say then?" Sherlock hissed. "That I'm good-looking? Fit? That I know eighteen ways to get you off with my mouth alone? That there's virtually nothing I would not do for my dom? That I indulge every sexual preference my dom might have, however bizarre or humiliating?"

"I'm not sure you realise what makes a sub a good sub," John told him off quietly.

With that, Sherlock did get up from his seat. In the very back of his mind, his rationality warned him that this was a trap, that John was provoking him on purpose, that he had to calm down and assess the situation with cold logic.

But right now, Sherlock wasn't rational. Sherlock felt oddly hurt, raw even, swelling emotions forcing him to make a declaration he hadn't voiced in years.

"I can learn, then," he exclaimed. "You can teach me what it means. I can be good. I can be excellent, I know it. If only you'd let me prove it, you'd see. You'd see how very good I could be for you."

"Is that so?" John asked calmly, sounding unfazed, even underwhelmed, and Sherlock, suddenly feeling vulnerable and scared and all those things he hated so much about his submissive side, crumbled.

"Please," he said fervently. "Let me prove it to you. Let me try. Please."

A ringing silence descended upon the room. Sherlock felt as if his words were echoed back to him a hundred times. There was a voice inside his head that screamed at him to get away, to take back his words, to at least stop looking at John like this. Like being allowed to become his sub was the most important thing in Sherlock's life.

But Sherlock was far from the thoroughly logical, analytic creature he usually aspired to be. Right now, all Sherlock could feel was an urgent sense of submission. In this moment, he craved nothing more than for John to accept him, to tell him what to do, to make him feel dominated, whole.

John's face gave nothing away as he carefully stepped towards Sherlock, his limp nearly unnoticeable. He was still being silent, eerily so, and the fear that he would reject Sherlock suddenly was so present, so harsh that Sherlock could hardly breathe. What if he said no? What could Sherlock possibly do to convince him not to?

But then, suddenly, tender fingers were running through Sherlock's hair, asserting gentle pressure until Sherlock's knees gave in and Sherlock had to arch his neck to look up at him. John's eyes were soft and warm and wonderfully focused, focused on Sherlock, and oh, how he had missed this, how he had craved it, this feeling of looking up at somebody better than him.

"All right," John said calmly. "Very well, Sherlock. I'll let you prove it to me. You deserve a chance."

In this moment, it only felt natural to press his face against John's stomach, to curl his hands into the fabric of John's shirt and just breathe. Warm fingers continued to pet his hair, tenderly massaging his scalp, until Sherlock's breathing had evened out. Slowly, rationality was returning to him, and after a few minutes, Sherlock drew back, cheeks flushed in humiliation.

John, it seemed, immediately noticed the difference, as he carefully took a step back, disentangling his fingers from Sherlock's curls.

"Feeling better?" he asked.

And now he was back to pleasant and nice and Sherlock cursed his submissive side, cursed John, cursed the fact that he had been broken so easily. This wouldn't happen again.

Taking back his words was not an option now, not when being comforted by John had felt so good, not when there finally seemed to be a dom that could make Sherlock let go. But he wouldn't make it easy for him. He couldn't. Sherlock was not a mindless, obedient pet.

"Don't believe for a second that you've somehow tamed me," Sherlock told him, glaring up at John from where he was still kneeling on the floor.

John laughed loudly, though this time, it didn't make Sherlock feel the least bit stupid. If anything, it felt like John was genuinely amused by his stubborn attitude.

"Oh, Sherlock. No, of course not. Like I said - you'll be a right piece of work." He sobered a bit, his eyes still soft with genuine mirth. "But I don't think you're a hopeless case. Not entirely."

Sherlock swallowed heavily, looking away. If only his cheeks weren't still so stupidly flushed. Who knew what kinds of conclusions John would be drawing from that.

"What now?" Sherlock asked harshly, still not looking at John. "Do you want to punish me for mouthing off earlier?"

John shifted where he stood.

"No. Like I said - I hadn't taken you on then, so there's nothing I have to punish you for." He moved further away, and now Sherlock did look up, watching him walk towards the door and take his coat from the hook.

"Wait!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Where are you going? Aren't you staying?"

John shook his head.

"No. I think this was quite enough for one day. We'll slowly get used to each other, step by step. Unless, of course..." John sent him a questioning look. "Do you need me to stay for a bit longer?"

Sherlock understood at once what he was asking. Was Sherlock still feeling vulnerable, more vulnerable than he was letting on? Did he need John to stick around to make sure he wouldn't break down or start hyperventilating? Sneering, Sherlock got up to his feet and crossed his arms. They hadn't even had a proper session yet. There was nothing to worry about.

"No. Go. I'm sure you have other things to do, and I certainly have. Have a nice day, John."

John slipped easily into his coat, relying on his cane almost as an afterthought.

"Take care, then," he replied and turned the doorknob. He was halfway through the door before he turned around once more, sending Sherlock a stern look. "Oh, and Sherlock?"

Sherlock, though he tried to fight it, stiffened right where he stood.

"Sir should be just fine from now on."

With that, he was gone

Sherlock was not known for his patience, not when it didn't benefit an experiment or case.

When John Watson didn't call or leave a message in the three days after their first encounter, Sherlock was already fed up. Using his well-trained skills in retrieving information he sorely needed, Sherlock figured out John's mobile phone number in a matter of twenty minutes, and had texted him in seconds.


What are you waiting for?
I thought you had agreed
to take me on.
-SH


When there was no immediate reply, Sherlock couldn't help but send another.


Have you changed your
mind?
-SH


And immediately regretted it. That sounded disgustingly needy. Like he was going insane without a dom nearby. Sherlock hated to sound weak. He wasn't weak. He was a sub, a damned sub, but he was not helpless. He didn't need a dom to be a proper person, only to clear his mind of those disgusting submissive urges his body had decided to throw at him since puberty.

Working himself up, Sherlock almost missed his phone vibrating as it finally received a response.


I've just been busy. But
how about tonight? 7pm?


Sherlock growled at the phone. Busy? For three whole days? Hardly. This was a mind game if ever Sherlock had seen one. John wanted Sherlock on edge, needy, wanton. He probably had wanted Sherlock to make the first step and ask for him, too. And Sherlock had fallen for it.

Sherlock blamed it on the insistent itch in the back of his mind that hadn't stopped since he had knelt by John's feet.

Well, Sherlock could play, too. Tonight, he'd be a beacon of self-control, a master of restraint. He wouldn't go to pieces, not like last time. John would fail to coax out any kind of response. Sherlock wanted to see him as raw and frustrated as he felt himself, wanted to see him lose that infuriating composure, the polite smiles, the calmness of his voice.


I suppose tonight is
adequate.
-SH


Good. Wear something
comfortable.


Huffing in annoyance, Sherlock threw his phone onto the coffee table and watched it slip over the accumulated mess and onto the floor. Something comfortable. What on Earth had that man planned? Did he want Sherlock to be able to - what, undress quickly? Kneel for hours? Move throughout the whole night?

Snarling, Sherlock realised that making him wonder had obviously been just another part of John's plan. So basic, so dull - yet, it worked. Sherlock hated it and refused to speculate further.

Still, 7:00 pm found Sherlock sitting on his armchair, wearing black trousers and one of the few plain white t-shirts he owned, ears alert. Mrs Hudson wasn't home tonight, so Sherlock would have to let John in.

The anticipated ring didn't come until 7:20 and Sherlock, who had grown increasingly impatient, stormed down the staircase, only to remind himself of his plan as he arrived at the bottom of the stairs: self-restraint. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock found his composure. Most likely, being late had been just another part of John's plan. Sherlock refused to take the bait anymore.

When Sherlock opened the door, a perfectly calm mask had slipped into place. Still, he couldn't help but raise his eyebrows at the sight that awaited him.

John Watson was thoroughly wet, the fabric of his coat darkened by rain and his hair a dripping mess. Sherlock hurried to step aside, letting John in. Curious. Sherlock hadn't even noticed it had started raining, but glancing outside as he closed the door, a heavy shower had indeed engulfed Baker Street. Had he really been that much in thought?

"Hello. Sorry for the delay," John said as he wiped his feet on Mrs Hudson's doormat and ran a hand through his hair. "Tube was shut down for a bit, some sort of signal failure right by Baker Street Station, it seems."

"It's fine," Sherlock told him, watching John awkwardly peel himself out of his wet coat while still holding on to his cane.

Maybe Sherlock had misjudged John's manipulative streak a bit. At least, Sherlock could detect no lie in the dom's bearing, only a slight shiver due to the cold - his being late had not been part of some scheme to throw Sherlock off his game.

Well. Being late had been far from the only thing Sherlock had mentally ascribed to John's obvious agenda. Relaxing his narrowed eyes, Sherlock did his best to radiate indifference.

"Anywhere I can have this dry a bit?" John asked, and Sherlock pointed at a radiator down the hall.

"Mrs Hudson won't mind," he informed him and John nodded, walking off to drape his wet coat over the heater.

As he returned, Sherlock had already taken the first few steps upstairs. He didn't turn to see if John followed, knowing that he would have to do so anyway. Opening the door to the flat, Sherlock walked into the living room, only to stand calmly by the sofa and wait.

John took his time to mount the stairs, given the state of his leg, and Sherlock breathed out heavily through his nose. The limp was plainly psychosomatic, and judging from the reaction John had given him during their first meeting, he knew it as well. Why wasn't he getting over it?

Finally, John arrived upstairs, closing the door behind him as he walked into the living room. When he turned, he was smiling slightly again, taking in Sherlock's form.

"How are you then, Sherlock?" he asked.

Sherlock took a careful pause before replying.

"Fine. You?"

If John was annoyed by his short response, he didn't let it show.

"Bit wet, but mostly good," he replied, eyes alert. Sherlock watched him briefly take in the state of the room (as messy as before), the weather outside (still raining), Sherlock's clothes (comfortable). Then, his gaze settled back on Sherlock's face.

"I was glad you got in touch," John said. "Although I don't remember giving you my number."

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly.

"Not that difficult to acquire, if you know where to look."

John raised his eyebrows.

"And where would that be?"

"Online database."

"I don't remember putting my number anywhere onto the internet," John answered, frowning.

"Not anywhere you'd be able to access, no," Sherlock quipped, expecting to get some sort of rise out of him.

However, John did not twist his mouth in annoyance. Instead, he even laughed a bit, then traced his upper lip with the tip of his tongue as if to keep himself from smiling too widely.

"Well, I have met your brother," he stated, mirth in his voice. "I shouldn't be too surprised or impressed you know how to retrieve private information as well."

"Oh, has Mycroft been showing off again?" Sherlock said with a hint of scorn.

"Yes. He's much like you that way," John said, managing to break Sherlock's control momentarily.

"I am nothing like my brother," he spat heatedly.

That pronouncement did make John tighten his mouth.

"I won't have you talk to me that way," he announced, and his voice had adopted that steely tone Sherlock had been so surprised about last time. "In fact, I have been exceedingly obliging so far, Sherlock. Have you forgotten why I am here?"

Sherlock relaxed his hands by his sides when he noticed they were curled into tight fists. This hadn't been the plan. He needed to stay calm.

"I apologise," he said, not sounding sorry at all.

When John raised an eyebrow, Sherlock smiled blandly.

"Sir," he added.

John narrowed his eyes.

"You seem to labour under a misapprehension," he said and walked forward, getting much closer to Sherlock with but a couple of steps. "I may have refused your brother's money, but I have not agreed to take you on indefinitely or unconditionally. In fact, much relies on you showing me that you appreciate me doing this for you. Do you understand me?"

Sherlock willed his eyes not to widen too drastically. He might not look it, but Dr John Watson could be frightening when he showed off just why his ID had dominant printed on it. Sherlock felt himself go tense.

"How do you mean?" Sherlock asked. "Sir?" he added, when John's look turned more intense, sharp.

"I am not stupid, Sherlock. I can see you're trying so hard to appear like you didn't send me two text messages that sounded about as desperate as if you'd shown up on my doorstep begging me to let you service me."

Sherlock swallowed heavily.

"I don't need you, Sherlock," John continued icily. "If I want a sub, I can go out and find somebody, somebody pliant and obedient, somebody who puts their mouth to better use than to talk back at me. No, Sherlock, I don't need you. You need me."

John was so close now that he had to raise his head to look into Sherlock's eyes, but somehow, it didn't make him lose any of the firm dominance he was displaying. When he spoke, Sherlock could nearly feel his hot breath against his own face.

"You begged me to take you on, and I agreed because I saw your desperation. You need someone to show you your place. So do not play games with me. If I feel like you're not trying, if I notice you're putting on an act of indifference, if I even remotely believe you are not willing to try and follow my lead, I swear I'll leave and not come back, not even if you send big brother for me again."

Sherlock's knees buckled. He was torn between his rising anger at John's words, sharp and hot in his throat, and a deeply seated urge to beg forgiveness from the dom he had angered. In the end, he settled on another apology, locking his legs and resisting kneeling without being ordered to.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said, and this time, he meant it.

A few seconds of quiet tension descended upon the room, with John pinning Sherlock with his gaze.

Then, John's face relaxed into a much friendlier expression and he took a step back, not half as intimidating as only seconds before. Sherlock found he could breathe evenly again.

"Good. I knew you'd be reasonable. You don't strike me as a particularly daft man."

Sherlock huffed out a breath, half indignation, half relief. Warily, he watched as John walked through the room, hardly in need of his cane, only to sit down in Sherlock's armchair.

"Now, let's see if we can't make you lose some of that tension you've clearly worked up," John said, and sounded so agreeable that Sherlock had a hard time linking this pleasant side of the man with the unrelenting dom he had been only half a minute ago. "Come here then, Sherlock. Kneel."

Slowly, unsure where this would lead but not yet sure he wanted to anger him again quite so quickly, Sherlock followed John's steps and lowered himself to his knees by John's side. With the rug lining the sitting area under his knees, it wasn't nearly as uncomfortable as it could be.

"Very good," John praised and brushed an approving thumb over Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock did his best not to acknowledge the shiver of appreciation the touch caused. He wasn't as easily manipulated as this.

“Let us talk first,” John went on. “Your brother was surprisingly reticent about you and your former dominants.”

Sherlock stiffened a bit where he was kneeling. John's fingers immediately returned to Sherlock’s cheek, brushing lightly down his face in a more calming gesture. Trying not to lean into the touch, Sherlock had to grudgingly admit that John was very observant when it came to his sub’s reactions.

“I don’t see how they are relevant,” he stated curtly.

“Oh, but they are highly relevant,” John retorted. “Clearly, it didn’t work out with any of them, so I would like to know why. How are we both to avoid mistakes otherwise?”

“Fine. I don’t want to talk about them.”

Sherlock hardly had time to move before John’s fingers curled around his chin, forcing him to tilt his head upward until he had to look the dom in the eye.

“First of all: respect. If you fail to call me sir one more time, punishment is in order. Understood?”

Fighting a heady rush that threatened to make him lose composure, Sherlock replied tightly: “Yes, sir.”

John nodded sharply.

“Good. Second: I respect if you want to forget about bad experiences in the past, but I won’t have you being stubborn just for the sake of denying me vital information. Is that clear, Sherlock?”

Again, Sherlock could only find one response: “Yes, sir.”

John’s fingers immediately turned soft again, fingertips pressing lightly into Sherlock’s skin, feeling almost reassuring before the dom dropped his hand back into his lap.

“Now,” he reasoned, “if you want to skip some of your experiences for now, you may. But talk to me. There must be things you can share with me.”

Collecting his thoughts, Sherlock shifted on his knees so he could look at John more comfortably.

“There are certain things I look for in a dom,” Sherlock explained soberly. “Intelligence - I cannot put up with a fool, they could never come close to mastering me. Creativity - I loathe clichéd repetition, and while I can appreciate certain traditions or a fixed set of rules, I will not put up with a lack of originality. Third: overbearance - I might be a sub, but I am not a mindless pet or toy. I can very well put my needs after those of my dom, I certainly understand the appeal of denial and I am willing to sacrifice my own pleasure for that of my dom, but I will not be used like an object, and I won’t be reduced to a lesser person.”

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock found that the last few sentences had come out rather more harshly than he had intended. John, however, didn’t seem too fazed.

“That sounds pretty reasonable to me,” John remarked calmly. “Everybody has certain expectations in their partner, a sub as much as a dom.” He paused, looking thoughtfully at Sherlock. “You outlining yours so explicitly though makes me wonder what that says about your former doms.”

“I have hardly encountered a dom that met my expectations,” Sherlock continued. “I have found that those traits are hard to come by. Additionally, tastes differ, I understand. Many subs do want to be reduced, some even seek a dom administering stupid violence and search for somebody they can mindlessly submit to. In fact, it seems, most subs do, and most doms deliver.”

Sherlock hesitated. John’s eyes looked far too searching for his taste.

“I did find a few that met my taste, but it seems they could not put up with me for long. I fear compatibility is based on more than similar expectations. Eventually, I was convinced that a ‘perfect package’ was not to be found, and I switched doms frequently as soon as things didn’t go smoothly. Of course, there’s not an endless supply of suitable partners, not even in London. And I fear...”

Sherlock cut off, unwilling to sound pathetic.

“Yes?” John prompted quietly.

Sherlock cleared his throat, not willing to admit to himself that telling John about this was making him uncomfortable.

“I fear I’ve built a bit of a reputation. Most circles have heard of me being difficult, and those people who haven’t soon find out.”

“You’re unable to find somebody yourself anymore,” John concluded. “Which is why you sent out your brother.”

“Just so.”

They both went quiet for a bit, Sherlock trying not to shift impatiently where he was still kneeling on the floor. Eventually, John spoke up.

“I appreciate you sharing this with me,” he said, voice warm. “I’ll try and live up to your expectations, and I can at least calm your fears in one department: I don’t like my subs to be mindless drones, and certainly don’t seek to make them so.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock commented, “I do hope you’re telling the truth, too.”

A heavy hand settled on Sherlock’s head, and he immediately knew what was to come. All of a sudden, he felt both excited and queasy.

“As we have established that you do have a mind of your own as well as ample experience with doms,” John stated, his tone much firmer that before, “I can only assume you are skipping the polite address on purpose.”

Sherlock stubbornly refused to give an answer.

“What did I tell you would happen if you failed to show me proper respect?” John prodded.

“I’d receive punishment,” Sherlock grudgingly recited.

“I fear I didn’t understand you.”

Sherlock only half-suppressed a noise of annoyance.

“I’d receive punishment, sir.”

“Quite right. Get up, Sherlock. Now.”

Sherlock got up from his knees and came to stand right by the armchair. Part of him was stubbornly refusing to acknowledge that he had purposely provoked this punishment. Another part was almost excited to see what this new dom had to offer.

"Go and get me a cup of tea," John said.

Well. That was more than anticlimactic.

"Excuse me?" Sherlock said incredulously. "Is that supposed to be a punishment?"

"Are you questioning me already?" John retorted, face serious.

Sherlock stared at him for a few moments longer, then huffed and turned to stride towards the kitchen. What an insufferable man. He'd seemed reasonable enough listening to Sherlock's experiences, but already, he was a disappointment. Make tea? Was he actually serious? There had to be some ulterior motive. Maybe he had yet to figure out a proper punishment and was buying time. That seemed to be the only sensible explanation.

Making a proper cup of tea actually proved to be a small challenge. He found the kettle quickly enough, but Sherlock hadn't cleaned it since that experiment on temperature-induced blood clotting and it didn't look useable anymore. He ended up boiling water in a rather dented pot on the stove, finding one of the few clean cups to produce some dubious-looking herbal tea after a good ten minutes.

"How do you take it?" Sherlock called from the kitchen.

When no answer was forthcoming, Sherlock did not bother to swallow his annoyed sigh.

"How do you take your tea, sir?" Sherlock repeated tensely.

"Milk, no sugar," John replied from the living room, voice perfectly friendly.

Returning to the living room, Sherlock had a half a mind to pour the hot tea into John's lap and be done with him.

"Your tea, sir," Sherlock said curtly as he offered the drink to his dom.

John curled his fingers around the tea cup, smiling slightly as he received it.

"Good. I see you're not completely unable to follow an order," he remarked and took a small sip. As he didn't spit it out again, Sherlock supposed it was tolerable enough. "Now, pick up my cane."

Sherlock blinked at the dom, then couldn't suppress a shiver. So the tea had been a diversion. John had planned on punishing him physically all along. Swallowing, Sherlock bowed slightly to grasp the cane where it stood against the side of the armchair. He hadn't been caned often, but the few times he had, it had hurt badly. Curling his fingers around the cane, he tried to calculate how painful it would be this time.

The cane was not too heavy, being made apparently of aluminium, but it was hollow. Sherlock was sure you could remove the rubber foot at the bottom to give it even more of an edge, making this a proper tool for discipline.

Did skipping sir really merit such a punishment? But then, Sherlock had not really been the picture of obedience so far, had he? Maybe John wanted to cow him, show him who was making the rules.

Sherlock was torn between another heady rush of excitement and disgust that the prospect of being beaten with a bloody walking stick had such an effect on his submissive side. He knew it wasn't the pain he'd enjoy, but instead the feeling that he had deserved it, and afterwards, he'd be forgiven, maybe even rewarded for enduring it quite so well.

Sherlock angrily willed away the treacherous thoughts, then presented John with the cane.

John shook his head.

"You misunderstand me," John stated. "Listen carefully: I want you to turn around, go three steps, then face me again. Lower yourself onto your knees, but do not rest on the heels of your feet. I want you kneeling straight, with your arms stretched out parallel to the ground. Hands facing upwards. The cane must rest evenly on them. Understood?"

Sherlock could picture it clearly in his head, right up to the weight of the cane on his hands. He was starting to get an inkling what this punishment would entail.

"Yes, sir", he replied carefully, then turned to do as he was told.

Kneeling down, Sherlock realised that John had manoeuvered him away from the soft carpet lining the sitting area and had him kneel on the hard floor boards instead. Stretching his arms as he had been ordered to, it only took Sherlock half a minute in the described posture to realise that this would become very uncomfortable very quickly.

"You are to keep your posture straight and not to move," John told him, eyes on Sherlock's form. "As soon as I see you slack, I'll have you correct it."

"Sir," Sherlock spoke up. "How long will this punishment last?"

John's pleasant smile looked the slightest bit cruel.

"As long as I feel it is necessary," he replied, and took a very slow sip of his tea. "Now, hush. I don't want you talking, either."

The cane really wasn't too heavy, which was a relief at first. Soon, though, Sherlock realised that the lack of weight actually made it difficult to judge whether or not he was holding up his pose properly.

For ten minutes or so, 221B was silent, John's eyes trained on Sherlock's motionless form as he calmly drank his tea.

"Arms," John suddenly said, voice sharp, and Sherlock noticed that his arms had indeed been sagging.

Swallowing, Sherlock carefully corrected his posture until John nodded swiftly.

Soon, Sherlock lost any sense of time. His vision seemed to tunnel until all he could focus on was John, sitting on the armchair, commenting on Sherlock's posture as soon as something was amiss, meanwhile drinking his tea.

"Straight back, Sherlock." "Arms again, Sherlock, don't slack." "Don't topple over." "Keep your chin up."

While his knees and arms did hurt a bit, this punishment wasn't about pain at all. It was about balancing, keeping your posture, and simply doing as you were told and not diverting from the given path.

If Sherlock hadn't been so busy making sure he was kneeling straight, he might have wasted more than a thought on how clever a punishment this was. Nobody had ever ordered him to do something similar, especially not to teach him a lesson.

After what seemed an eternity, John finished his tea and got up from the armchair. Sherlock, sensing the punishment might be over, started to relax his arms.

"I didn't say you were done," John admonished him sharply, and Sherlock pressed his lips tightly together as he made his arms rise again, his body trembling slightly as he did so.

Without his cane, John walked slowly, carefully, until he stood right in front of Sherlock, watching him strain under the challenge of keeping still and upright.

"You're doing so well,” he voiced after minutes of quiet observance. “If you were half as determined to address me respectfully as you are now to master this punishment, I swear you'd become a model submissive in the matter of a week."

He leaned forward, fingers ghosting lightly over Sherlock's stretched arms.

"You've been trembling on and off for a good half hour now, but as soon I admonish you, you're back on track. It's brilliant. You're doing just brilliantly, Sherlock."

John sounded so sincere in his appraisal that Sherlock had to swallow heavily. Suddenly, he felt a bit like crying, an urge he resolutely refused to give into. They were only a few words of praise. Granted, he hadn't been praised in a long time, but surely that didn't mean he had to start weeping over an uttered brilliant, especially not in front of a dom he hadn't even known for a week.

"You know there is no shame in enjoying praise,” John added. “What good is a punishment if you can't feel better afterwards?"

Sherlock had to briefly avert his eyes at the soft look John was giving him. He could hardly remember any of his former doms lauding him with half as much friendliness.

"Sherlock, answer me: what are you supposed to call me?"

Sherlock had to swallow again before voicing a reply, and his voice sounded thick as he offered: "I'm supposed to call you sir ... sir."

Seemingly amused at Sherlock's awkward phrasing, John nodded in encouragement, the tip of his tongue showing briefly.

"Why are you supposed to call me that? Back straight, Sherlock."

Shifting to readjust his posture, Sherlock took a sharp breath through his nose before his response. His voice had gone slightly croaky now.

"To show you my respect, sir."

"Perfect, yes. And will you strive to do so from now on?"

Sensing that his voice might fail this time, Sherlock tried to get away with a nod. John, of course, wasn't having any of it.

"A proper answer, Sherlock."

Closing his eyes, Sherlock tried to focus on making his voice work. He swallowed several times, trying to relax his throat. Eventually, he managed to form an audible response: "Yes, sir."

His eyes snapped open again as the cane was lifted from his hands.

"You may relax," John told him quietly.

Trembling, Sherlock carefully lowered his arms and sank back until he rested on his heels. His arms and legs felt funny, almost as if they'd fallen asleep.

"You did very well, Sherlock. Very, very well indeed."

Sherlock watched John step closer through slightly blurry eyes until all he could see was the soft button-up shirt he was wearing. When warm fingers curled around Sherlock's chin and tipped it up, Sherlock had to take another deep breath to keep himself from crying after all.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John asked softly.

Frustrated, Sherlock tried to look away, only to be forced to refocus by the firm clasp of John's hand.

"I don't know," Sherlock finally choked out. "I don't know, sir."

John's eyes looked searchingly at him. Then, the dom loosened his grasp after all, seeming not to expect a more thought-out response.

"You've been tense and frustrated for a while, Sherlock," he observed. "Don't try to worry too much about reacting a bit more strongly than you are used to."

Making use of his cane, John straightened up again and took a step back.

"Now, if you're ready, rejoin me at the chair."

Watching John walk over and sink back into the armchair, it took Sherlock a few moments to collect himself and get up to follow, only to kneel back down by the armchair. It came as no surprise when tender fingers ran through his hair, only to pull gently until Sherlock moved to kneel right in front of John.

At first, Sherlock was almost sure John expected some sort of sexual service. But really, all he did was guide Sherlock's face to his upper legs to rest there. For a few moments, Sherlock refused to slump against them and wind down, some part of him still refusing to acknowledge that that was what he needed.

John however, seemingly infinitely more patient that Sherlock himself, simply continued carding his fingers through Sherlock's curls until he finally did relax, burying his face in the fabric of John's jeans.

The room was quiet again for a long time, but lacking the tension that had dominated during the punishment. All Sherlock could think about was how tender John was being to him, how warmly he had praised him, and how good it felt.

For some reason, in that moment, it didn't even seem all that pathetic.

Eventually, John shifted in his seat, causing Sherlock to raise his head, feeling like he'd been shaken awake from a doze.

"It's late," John murmured, running his fingers over Sherlock's scalp for a last caress before leaving him be. "I should get going."

Sherlock didn't try and hide his unhappy expression.

"Already, sir?" he asked, and couldn't help but enjoy the pleased glow in his stomach when John smiled widely in approval.

It wasn't like it was such a big feat to accomplish, remembering to call one's dom sir. Yet at the same time, John could make Sherlock feel like he'd just solved the most complicated and mysterious of cases with a single approving look.

"I fear, yes. I'll come back, though. How about the weekend?"

Sherlock had half a mind to tell him to come back the next day, in the morning even, but stopped himself. He could hold out until the weekend. He'd gone for months without even a hint of a dom in his life - clearly, he could manage another couple of days. Besides, it wouldn't do to give John any more of an advantage than he already had.

"The weekend is acceptable to me, sir."

"Good."

Sensing that John wanted to get up, Sherlock shifted and carefully stood up and stepped aside. Feeling like it was the polite thing to do for the dom that had just prevented you from working yourself into a crying fit, Sherlock followed John out and downstairs, even putting up with John's maddeningly slow descent on the stairs.

Feeling daring, he even fetched John's coat from the radiator. John's Thank you made him feel glowy all over, and Sherlock wondered if he hadn't subconsciously done it to receive another one of those approving looks.

When John opened the door, it was still raining outside. Sighing, John made as if to walk into the rain with that stupidly thin coat of his, no umbrella by his side.

"Wait," Sherlock called, then walked over to Mrs Hudson's hall stand, fishing between her coats and jackets until he found the purple pocket umbrella he knew she stored there. "There you go, sir."

John accepted the umbrella with a kind expression.

"Thank you," he repeated, and before Sherlock could process it, he had stretched up a bit and placed a kiss on Sherlock's cheek. "You're doing so well, Sherlock. I hope you'll keep it up?"

Instead of waiting for a response, John opened the umbrella and stepped out into what had turned from a mere shower into a proper downpour. Sherlock looked after him, the kiss seemingly burning on the skin of his cheek.

Had he really earned such affection already? On the first day, essentially?

At a loss, Sherlock closed the door, only to lean against it from the inside. Not even a week under this new dom, and already he was thrown off his game. What else would John Watson do to surprise him?

Chapter Text

It was, of course, inevitable that Sherlock would eventually have to stand John up for a case.

One of the more prominent reasons for his former doms never sticking around for long had always been Sherlock’s tendency to abandon them and all previous arrangements for a murder case. None of them had ever understood how important Sherlock’s work was to him, even when they were able to somewhat grasp the general appeal his profession might hold.

As it was, Sherlock had at least expected to progress and settle the arrangement between himself and the new dom a bit more before starting to ruin it all again. After all, he had made himself beg Mycroft for help, and even though he would not mind showing his brother how he was not omnipotent, driving John Watson off didn’t seem to be the most intelligent way to do so.

Annoyingly, if only John had named an earlier day, even time for their next meeting, it would have all been fine.

It hadn’t been fine, though. Not at first.

Early Saturday morning, Sherlock received a simple text message from John.


I’ll be over at 2pm, if
that works for you.


Fine.
-SH


Only after sending his reply had Sherlock wondered if his response hadn’t been too rude of him, then shrugged it off. Using sir or any kind of submissive talk in something as impersonal as a text message surely was a silly thing to expect.

John’s following message, while containing an order and coming right to the point, didn’t strike Sherlock as very reprimanding, at least.


Good. I’ll expect you
to have straightened
up that mess of a
living room by then.


Scowling, Sherlock had stalked out of his bedroom where he had been playing the violin, and took in the state of the sitting room.

It was indeed somewhat messy, but not any more so than usual. Sherlock certainly didn’t have a problem with it. Besides, hadn’t it been fine the other day? John didn’t seem to have minded terribly much, not even during their second encounter where they had actually spent more than just half an hour in the very room.

Sherlock half-heartedly pushed some of the case folders to the edge of the table, only to have them fall onto the floor.

God, but tidying simply was such dreadful business. Utterly dull.

And really, at the end of the day, as long as he knew where everything could be found, a bit of a jumble couldn’t be that big of a problem, could it?

Sherlock threw a quick glance at his watch. Not even past 9:00 am. There was still plenty of time to tidy the room before John would be around. Sherlock could still get started on that lead paint experiment for one of Lestrade’s cold cases he’d not got around to until now.

Another calculating glance around the room told him he could get it done in a hour without having to hurry too much. Even less if he simply packed most of the things in some boxes and carried them upstairs into the spare room. John wouldn’t know the difference.

Deciding on a course of action, Sherlock left the living room in order to retrieve the battered old cans of paint from where he had stacked them up in the bathtub earlier this week.

The next thing he knew, it was nearly half past one and his phone was ringing loudly, blaring with Lestrade’s personalised ringtone - obnoxious, but impossible to miss.

Carelessly dropping two slides of paint samples onto the kitchen table, Sherlock had picked up and listened to Lestrade’s words, then got dressed and rushed off so fast he nearly didn’t close the door behind him.

Arriving at the crime scene not twenty minutes after the call, Sherlock ignored Donovan’s usual scathing comments in favour of bombarding Lestrade with questions until he finally had all the crucial information to work with.

The scene of the murder was delightfully gruesome: three bodies in varying states of mutilation and decay, arranged almost artfully in a garden fountain, its water having turned a sickly copper tone due to the chemicals in the water mixing with blood and possibly something else.

Fascinated by the chemistry of it all, Sherlock ignored Anderson’s complaints all together and stalked right up to the bodies, examining them closely.

He was already halfway through his explanation of why and how it had probably happened (he could almost definitely prove that the former neighbour had done it with a simple experiment at home) when Donovan interrupted his speech rather more forcefully than he was used to.

“Hey, freak. Freak! Sherlock, will you shut your know-it-all mouth for one second!”

It was moments like this where Sherlock was almost surprised to remember that Sally Donovan was a dominant with a rather powerful voice. She usually was so easy to snap at and ignore, after all.

“What?” he snarled, hardly giving the barely-there submissive urge to cringe and apologise a chance to even bother him. He turned away from an overwhelmed-looking Lestrade, only to stop short when he noticed John Watson standing right by Donovan’s side.

John looked - well, not angry. Really, he didn’t have much of an expression at all beyond a furtive glance for the blood-covered fountain, half-obscured by Lestrade’s and Sherlock’s frames.

The rest of him - rigid stance, tightened hands - spoke volumes, though.

Suddenly remembering all about the arranged time, Sherlock threw a swift glance at his watch. 3:16 pm. More than fashionably late.

“He says he’s with you,” Donovan continued, a smug sort of smile making her lips twitch unattractively.

Sherlock didn’t need to be a genius to work out just why she had let a strange passerby with such a feeble excuse onto the crime scene. She had undoubtedly realised that John was a dom. A dom asking, possibly in an angry tone, for Sherlock.

Sherlock who was, though he dearly liked to pretend otherwise, a submissive, and known to be one, too.

Donovan had put two and two together and was now hoping to see something none of the people of Scotland Yard had yet had a chance to witness: Sherlock Holmes receiving a dressing-down and possibly punishment from his dom.

Suddenly filled with actual dread, Sherlock took a couple of swift steps towards John.

“You can’t be here,” he said, hating the way the pitch of his voice went up, just obvious enough for Donovan and the others to pick up on.

“Can’t I now?” John replied.

God, but he sounded terrifying. While his face was still mostly blank, his voice definitely was not. It was more than pure steel. It was razor-sharp, practically cutting in its intensity.

Sherlock failed to give a response. Anything he could possibly say would most likely end up in him being yelled at and humiliated in public. He despised and feared the very idea.

“I take it you have forgotten,” John finally continued and his nostrils flared just the tiniest bit.

“Yes,” Sherlock managed, some part of his mind screaming at him to add sir, the other refusing to have him acknowledge their positions in any way in front of Lestrade and his team.

For a few seconds, it actually looked like John would snap, his throat working angrily as he simply stared Sherlock down. Sherlock was already picturing himself cowering in the dirt, begging for John’s forgiveness. He had no illusions that it couldn’t happen when the shouting started, given John’s influence on him so far.

But then, miraculously, John closed his eyes and took several short breaths. When he looked at Sherlock again, he seemed calmer. Even his voice was merely intense rather than close to cutting Sherlock to pieces.

“Finish up here, then, but quickly. We’ll talk afterwards.”

With that, he turned and stalked off again towards the police tape, suppressed anger evident in every single one of his steps. Sherlock couldn’t help but gape after him before catching himself.

Turning around with as much dignity as he could muster, he quickly revealed to Lestrade the likely solution to the case and gave a promise he’d deliver the proof by the end of the next day.

Without a word of goodbye, Sherlock then left the back garden that was the crime scene and hurried into the direction John had disappeared to.

However, he did not miss Donovan leering at him or Anderson hissing: “Oh, he’s finally going to get it now.”

It had been that obvious, hadn’t it? Even without John or him making it explicit, they all knew who John was and why he had come. Hell, they probably would hear John shouting at Sherlock anyway, seeing as Sherlock was already approaching him now.

The dom had hardly put twenty feet of distance between himself and the barrier tape and was looking with dark eyes at Sherlock hurrying towards him.

Suddenly feeling both frightened to his bones and oddly raw at being exposed in front of Lestrade and his people, Sherlock came to a halt a few steps away from John, not sure he was able to face him any closer than that without doing or saying something he’d regret later.

For a few seconds, there was tense silence between them, Sherlock trying to suppress any sort of tremble in his body, John simply staring at him with hard eyes.

Then, John’s eyes shifted. He looked past Sherlock and back towards the crime scene.

“It seems we have an audience,” he said quietly.

Sherlock whipped his head around at once, only to see Donovan, Anderson, a few other passingly familiar constables as well as Lestrade himself curiously, no, shamelessly staring at them from afar.

“This is not something to discuss in public,” John announced.

Sherlock looked at him again, forbidding himself to be relieved just yet, but finding himself hoping for privacy nonetheless.

“221B?” he queried, voice uncharacteristically soft.

“I reckon that would be best, yes,” John agreed, and it was all Sherlock could do not to sigh too obviously in relief.

They walked up quietly to the main street to flag down a cab, riding to Baker Street in the matter of fifteen minutes, although they felt like torturous hours to Sherlock.

Several times during the ride, Sherlock opened his mouth to explain, to say anything really, but was stopped by John’s now rather heated glare.

Clearly, the dom was having a hard time controlling himself any longer, but refused to snap in a cab of all places. Sherlock was already impressed (and quite thankful) John hadn’t simply let go back at the crime scene, no matter the amount of curious spectators.

At 221B, John simply got out of the cab, leaving Sherlock to pay off the driver. Once he had stepped out of the car as well, Sherlock realised that John had already disappeared into the house, leaving the door wide open behind him.

Sherlock hesitated briefly, confusion cutting through the dread he was feeling.

Had John acquired a key without Sherlock’s knowledge or had Mrs Hudson been just this quick about opening the door? And, more importantly, how had John known Sherlock was at the crime scene in the first place?

Mycroft, Sherlock thought suddenly, a wave of proper anger struggling to obliterate the ever-growing fear over John’s impending ire. That meddling bastard!

Curling his hands into fists, Sherlock all but stormed into the house, kicking the door shut before mounting the stairs with heavy steps. Only at the top of the staircase did he remember John’s much more intimidating anger and slowed down again as he walked into the living room.

John had planted himself firmly by the fireplace, posture as rigid as the expression on his face. Sherlock had never known a man of his size could be so quietly terrifying.

“Close the door,” John ordered sharply after Sherlock had entered.

Sherlock didn’t need to be told twice, swiftly closing the door behind him, only to end up standing with his back right up against it. He suddenly had a desire to have an exit close to him, an option to flee at any given moment.

John, however, was not having it.

“Get rid of that coat and sit down there!” he barked, pointing at Sherlock’s armchair - still the only seating furniture not covered in things.

Another icy flush of dread overcame Sherlock as he hastily rid himself of his coat and stalked to the armchair. He realised that he had never come around to tidying up the living room like he had been told to.

Sitting down as slowly, as if the upholstery was covered in needles, Sherlock could only think of all the things he’d done wrong today. Wrong, wrong, wrong. So much of it. So many things he had messed up, a proper cause to anger John Watson.

Suddenly, Sherlock was feeling sick. He couldn’t look at John, couldn’t find the defensive anger he had felt only moments earlier, couldn’t even come up with a few meek words of apology, let alone a smart excuse. All he was left with was a panicked pulse and a livid dom three steps away from him.

When John finally spoke up, Sherlock prepared to expect the very worst.

“Are you even remotely aware how angry I am right now?” John asked, voice clipped.

Sherlock was glad he wasn’t looking at John. He was sure that question alone, paired with another seething look, would have brought him to his knees. He feared nothing more than ending up grovelling by John’s feet and begging his forgiveness, though a much more instinctual part of him repeatedly told him he did not even deserve that, deserved no leniency whatsoever.

“I’m furious, Sherlock,” John continued harshly. “Frankly, I have half a mind to leave and forget all about you and this whole bloody day.”

Leave and forget all about you. Sherlock thought he might actually throw up.

Leave! Of course he’d leave! Finally a dom that seemed neither dull nor particularly predictable and Sherlock had driven him away already. Of course he had.

Sherlock praised himself for being clever almost on a daily basis, but not right now. A genius he might be, but even the dimmest of subs could manage to hold onto a dom for more than six days.

“The only thing that keeps me from doing that,” John went on, much louder than before. “The only thing that prevents me from saying ‘fuck it’ and going my merry way is that I cannot find peace until you have told me what the bloody hell you were thinking!”

The last part was shouted properly and Sherlock almost felt compelled to slip off the armchair and cower after all. Pathetic! Pathetic, and yet some part of him felt guilty for not doing it.

A small voice in the back of his mind seeking reason wondered if Sherlock forgetting about their meeting really merited such anger from John. It had been clear he’d been busy with important things, hadn’t it? John had picked him up at a crime scene, for God’s sake!

But then, many doms expected their subs to obey at all times, did they not? No excuses, unless you were lying in hospital half-dead.

Realising he still hadn’t replied to John, Sherlock hurried to appease him with something other than prostrating himself.

“Sorry,” he whispered instead, still looking at the floor as he was trying to make amends without fully humiliating himself. “I’m sorry.”

That did seem to calm John down a bit. At least, he wasn’t shouting anymore.

“Sorry, are you,” he exclaimed instead, almost sounding a strange, angry version of amused. “Sorry! Sorry for scaring me or sorry I’m this close to giving you the punishment of a lifetime?”

At that pronouncement, Sherlock’s head snapped up after all. He knew he was gaping, but had he heard that correctly? Sorry for scaring him?

“I... scaring you?” Sherlock finally said, voice far closer to flabbergasted than he was remotely comfortable with.

That, in turn, seemed to work John right back up.

“Of course for scaring me, you idiot!” he snapped, his face turning slightly red. Sherlock cringed back into his seat in sheer self-preservation. “You scared me to death! What did you think I was feeling when I found your flat empty and your mobile phone abandoned in the kitchen? What do you think I was feeling when I followed the address Mycroft texted me, only to end up at a bloody murder scene!”

At that, he stopped. For a minute, John merely breathed heavily, clearly past the point of coherent articulation. Eventually, however, the anger ebbed off again, leaving John with a rather tired and worn sort of voice.

“I was terrified, Sherlock,” he finished, eyes intense. “For a moment, I thought you were dead.”

Everything fell into place. John wasn’t this angry because Sherlock had forgotten. John had been worried. Scared, even. Two meetings, and John had cared enough not to leave and simply write Sherlock off as a lost cause. Instead, he had gone out of his way to make sure Sherlock was all right.

Stuck with staring at John, Sherlock only realised he had started shaking when John’s expression changed from tired anger into honest concern.

“Oh dear,” he said and promptly approached the chair. “Oh dear, now I’ve done it.”

Sherlock watched speechlessly as John crouched by the chair instead of using the difference in height - for once in his favour - to tower over him.

“Breathe, Sherlock. Here, hold on to my hands. There you go.”

Curling his fingers around John’s, Sherlock tightly pressed his lips together. Back to the almost-crying part, were they? God, how Sherlock hated it. Despised it. No dom would feel this vulnerable realising somebody cared for them. No dom would clutch another person’s hands so tightly, secretly wishing they’d never let go.

“I’m sorry about all the shouting,” John was saying, brushing his thumbs over Sherlock’s fingers in a reassuring gesture. “I shouldn’t have. I know you’ve been feeling more vulnerable, I should have shown more restraint.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock managed, forcing down the shaking to a mere tremble. And then, just because it seemed right, he said again: “I’m sorry.”

Suddenly, he was keenly aware he hadn’t once called John sir so far, let alone shown him any kind of respect if you didn’t count following shouted orders out of pure instinct and fright.

“Sir,” he added hastily.

John only stared at him for a few moments. Then, he nodded tightly.

“All right,” he concluded curtly. “We’re both sorry. Good. Fine.”

He squeezed Sherlock’s fingers for a last time before letting go of them, then straightened up again. He took a few steps away and Sherlock, stupidly, obviously, felt like he had to say: “I didn’t tidy the living room.”

“No, you most certainly did not,” John agreed.

They stayed silent.

John, apparently caught between regret and a new wave of more moderate anger, took a turn about the room whilst rubbing a hand over his face. Sherlock, simply unable to say or do anything that didn’t involve listing more of his failures or starting to apologise again, silently cursed himself for being the trembling mess of a sub that he was.

Finally, John put an end to it.

“All right,” he was saying. “All right. I knew this wouldn’t be straight-forward when I agreed to take you on. So let’s just... let’s just try and work this out.”

He turned to face Sherlock again.

“Why were you at a murder scene, if not to be murdered?”

Oh, good. This, Sherlock could work with. Questions and answers, easy. No shouting, no orders, no feeling like he had to beg for forgiveness.

“I solve them,” he explained shortly. “The murders, I mean.”

“You solve them,” John repeated, rather a bit dumbly in Sherlock’s opinion.

“Yes. Did Mycroft not tell you?”

Rubbing his hand over his face once more, John sighed in resignation.

“No. No, he most certainly did not. So you’re - what, a private detective?”

“Consulting detective,” Sherlock corrected him, pleased to realise that he almost sounded normal again. “Only one in the world.”

“Consulting. Of course. Obvious,” John dead-panned. Then: “So, you were called in short-notice?”

“Yes. DI Lestrade calls me when he’s stuck. Which is practically always.”

“Right,” John said. He seemed to be limited to rather short utterances. “So, when was that, then? In the morning?”

“Half past one,” Sherlock told him.

John took a moment, probably to silently reevaluate all he had heard and seen today. Sherlock could tell the exact moment John came to the right conclusions. Cold dread returned with a vengeance, but at least the shaking did not. Now that John had stopped shouting, Sherlock found he could rein himself in again.

“You never bothered to tidy up, did you?” John concluded aloud. “Hadn’t planned on it, really. Defying me again. Outright defying me. It’s insulting, frankly.”

Sherlock couldn’t actually argue with any of that. If Lestrade hadn’t called, Sherlock would have focused on his experiment until John had turned up. If he had actually planned to follow his orders, Sherlock would have tidied up at once.

“And when you got called away,” John continued, “you didn’t even think to inform me. Just a quick text, ‘Sorry, something important came up, please excuse me’. Nothing. Running off, no mobile phone with you, no note, no explanation, leaving me to worry.”

Sherlock swallowed. He hadn’t meant to leave his phone behind, but John was obviously angry again, and this time, his mind wasn’t clouded by furious relief. John was back to being the dom Sherlock had come to grudgingly respect in the past days. Right now, Sherlock didn’t dare to mouth off.

In fact, Sherlock didn’t even want to begin to think about the consequences this disastrous day would most likely entail.

“Fine,” John finally said. “Fine, we’ll make this work. It is clear some sort of punishment is in order, but I want you to help me so we can make clear what it is you are being punished for, do you understand?”

John was trying to approach this situation in rational way. Relieved, Sherlock gave a proper response: “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” John said, a brief flash of approval on his face. “Now: not tidying up. You’re definitely being punished for that. You had ample time before the call and did not do it on purpose. Am I right?”

Not about to argue, Sherlock repeated: “Yes, sir.”

“Okay. Next: rushing off without your mobile phone or leaving a note - I won’t punish you for that, not this time. Clearly, we’ve neglected talking about your work, so we’ll have to make some rules regarding short-notice calls from the police. Sound reasonable?”

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

Well, this was already much more than Sherlock had hoped for. Really, John seemed to be rather good at sorting through this instead of administering random punishment as he pleased and be done with it.

Sherlock had never had a dom approach things quite like this. John Watson truly was a special case.

“Now, your behaviour at the crime scene,” John went on. “I am not quite so sure about that.”

He hesitated briefly, looking at Sherlock curiously, searchingly.

“I felt you were rather keen not to mix up this,” he made a waving gesture between them, indicating he was talking about their arrangement, “and your work. Is that true?”

Sherlock hesitated. How was he to answer this? If he told John the truth, that he felt exposed and humiliated at the very thought of John ordering him about in front of Scotland Yard, surely he would feel that this relationship was doomed to fail. No dom wished not to be recognised by their sub in public. But if he lied and told him it was fine, John would most likely end up coming along one day and have him kneel and beg in front of everyone. Anderson and Donovan would have a field day over it.

John, of course, picked up on his reluctance. Sherlock once more had to give him credit for his intuition.

“There is no wrong answer,” John assured him. “But you must be honest with me. This won’t work any other way.”

Breathing harshly through his nose, Sherlock braced himself. Why was he hesitating at all? It was not like keeping John around was of paramount concern in his life. If Mycroft could find one willing candidate, he surely could find another. Truly, if John left over this, he wasn’t the right dom for Sherlock at any rate.

“I would prefer not to have our arrangement interfere in any way with my work,” Sherlock stated clearly. “I cannot bear the thought of being distracted, let alone ordered about by you when I am working. Sir.”

John took his time to assess Sherlock’s words. Then, he gave one swift nod.

“Fine. I’ll respect that. No explicit orders or statements while you’re working and no proper obedience expected. However, I would like to keep the option to renegotiate this in case we progress to a point where you would be more comfortable doing it differently.”

Immediately, Sherlock was about to argue, but John was holding up a hand.

“No, let me finish. I know you cannot possibly imagine it now, but I’m convinced you might actually like the idea one day. Just imagine an order you have to abide by for more than a few hours, or a punishment that is not limited to one time and place. Excluding your work entirely would severely affect my future options and your enjoyment as a whole.”

Blinking, Sherlock fought a sudden flush spreading on his cheeks. He thought of past orders like that, orders he had enjoyed. He even imagined what John, who had proven himself rather worthy so far, could possibly come up with in terms of tasks and guidance. The possibilities, as embarrassing as it was to admit it even just to himself, were deeply enticing.

“Fine,” he said, if rather grudgingly. “Open to renegotiation, sir.”

“Perfect.”

For the first time today, John was back to displaying open approval, and Sherlock had a hard time not to acknowledge how good that felt after all the repressed guilt and dread of the past thirty minutes or so.

Of course, it didn’t last long. There was, after all, still a punishment to endure.

“Now, Sherlock,” John said, face and voice growing serious. “I can’t help but notice the sorry state of this room.”

Bracing himself for what was to come, Sherlock tensed on his chair.

“Get up,” John ordered, and Sherlock followed.

He was anxious about what John might have planned, but also, oddly, craving a hard hand. This day simply had been an entire mess so far. Sherlock couldn’t help but oblige his submissive side and yearn for punishment and, ultimately, order and peace of mind.

“Clearly, you cannot yet be trusted to follow an order as simple as this on your own,” John said rather coldly. “Therefore, we’ll do this the painstaking way.”

Unsure what John could possibly mean, Sherlock grew tense where he stood right in front of the chair. Painstaking? Literally painstaking? Or rather humiliating? Hard to endure?

“First, though, I want to be comfortable. This might take a while, after all. Place the armchair by the kitchen door. I want a good view of the entire room.”

It was the tea-situation all over, John stretching out the time until he revealed the true punishment. Sherlock didn’t know whether to be impressed or annoyed. Swiftly, he pushed the chair to the designated spot, then watched John get comfortable, shifting until he looked entirely relaxed but hardly lazy.

“My shoes, Sherlock,” he said next. “Take them off.”

Oh. Oh. God, but Sherlock hated this punishment already. There were few things he found more humiliating than servicing a dom like this. Dressing and undressing them while cowering by their feet, pretending it was the very best place to be.

Not ready to put up with any more reluctance or hesitation on Sherlock’s part, John repeated his order much more sharply.

“My shoes, Sherlock. Now.”

Biting his tongue, Sherlock did kneel down, and started to unlace John’s shoes. It wasn’t like he had never done this. He simply didn’t see the appeal. It was a blatant display of power and superiority on the dom’s side and pure humiliation for the sub.

“Very good,” John praised Sherlock nonetheless when the shoes were resting neatly by the chair. “I’m much more comfortable now.”

Sherlock refused to admit that it felt even remotely good or rewarding to hear that.

“You’ll probably want to remove yours as well,” John continued, almost pleasantly now, and Sherlock dared to glare at the floor as he shifted to undo his own shoes.

Once he was done, placing his shoes by John’s, he knelt down properly again, looking up at John in what hopefully looked like a display of submissive eagerness rather than stoic acceptance.

John smiled down at him, clearly amused by whatever he saw on Sherlock’s face.

“No need to look quite so ready to suffer. This punishment will rather be about following my orders and being respectful than enduring an ordeal, although both will be involved.”

Sherlock stayed silent, quietly willing John to get on with it and finally explain properly.

“Now, as I said, you’re clearly unable to follow an order while I am not around to check on you. Therefore, you’ll tidy this room now, while I am still here. As you can’t seem to be expected to do it by yourself, you’ll tell me precisely what you’re planning on doing. Constantly. And respectfully. If I feel you’re mouthing off to me again, I might just add a few strikes with that crop I’ve spotted over there to make my point.”

Caught between a spark of arousal, excitement and a touch of furious indignation, Sherlock didn’t bother to look for which crop John meant. There was only one in the room, and it was Sherlock’s favourite riding crop. Black, smooth leather, something he’d always rather enjoyed presenting to his doms once they had progressed beyond a certain stage.

“In fact, why don’t we start with you delivering that crop to me. Just as a reminder.”

Almost letting slip a sigh, Sherlock got up, only belatedly realising that John had not given his permission. However, when no admonishment came it became clear John had not planned on having Sherlock crawl about the room for the rest of the night, something Sherlock was more than grateful for.

Retrieving the crop from where it rested on one of the bookshelves, Sherlock turned back to John sitting in the chair. He presented the crop to John, but John made no move to take it from Sherlock’s hands.

“First: you’ll talk to me. ‘Yes, sir, no sir, thank you, sir.’ It is not that difficult. Second: Kneeling. If you show or present me with something, you’ll be on your knees. Understood?”

Swallowing down a fair bit of hurt pride, Sherlock said: “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

Kneeling down again, Sherlock once more presented John with the crop, who took it from him with expert hands. For a few moments, Sherlock watched John handle the crop, judging its weight and impact, running his fingertips over the smooth material.

Sherlock firmly told himself that it was not a fascinating sight in the least. Especially not worth provoking John into using the crop on him.

“Very nice. Thank you, Sherlock.” And, maybe just because he could, John ran the very tip of the crop over Sherlock’s cheek in a rather strange form of caress.

Sherlock could not hide the pleasant shivers it caused. John’s eyes, in turn, went rather wide with fascination.

“Oh, you like this, then,” John said, his voice turning oddly rough all of a sudden.

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock admitted, telling himself that it was not a sign of weakness that he was blushing a bit. Just a reaction due to awakened memories and the feel of the leather. Not at all pathetic.

“Maybe I won’t punish you with it, then,” John mused, a wicked smile playing about his lips. “Rather, this seems to be a treat. An incentive, even?”

Curling his fingers against his thighs, Sherlock dared to nod in response.

“Hm?” John prodded, once more caressing Sherlock’s cheek with the smooth tip of the crop.

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock breathed. “I enjoy it.”

John smiled, eyes crinkling.

“I’m glad you’re sharing that particular piece of information with me,” he said, voice oozing with approval. Sherlock almost smiled in return, it felt so rewarding. “Anything else I should know about? How do you feel about the cane?”

“Punishment, sir,” Sherlock immediately stated.

The riding crop could be rather wickedly pleasant. A caning, however, simply hurt, a stark reminder he had failed and was being punished for it.

“Very well,” John said thoughtfully, then grew serious again. “Now, back to your punishment at hand. Get started.”

At first, it was strictly humiliating. That, and infuriating.

No matter which item Sherlock picked up, he had to tell John where he planned to put it, why it went there and, if John ordered him to, had to kneel down by John’s feet to let him have a look at it first. Given the rather large assortment of curious things Sherlock had accumulated over the years (his skull and the taxidermied bat from the mantelpiece only being the tip of the iceberg), the kneeling and waiting parts happened rather more often than Sherlock had ever thought he could endure.

John was entirely unrelenting about Sherlock being respectful, too. The few times Sherlock skipped the sir, John had Sherlock apologise profusely, something that Sherlock found so humiliating he knew his face had flushed rather unattractively while asking for John’s forgiveness. Neglecting to thank or acknowledge John brought about an equally sharp reprimand with Sherlock having to bow his head as he muttered another set of apologies.

Really, time should have passed cruelly slowly.

What Sherlock had not expected, though it had surely been what John had been aiming for, was that half an hour or so into the task, the constant questions, replies and kneeling came almost naturally to Sherlock.

Soon, he forgot not a single polite address or expression and his motions became much more fluent, almost natural rather than carefully rehearsed and repeated.

Sherlock was almost surprised when John told him to keep kneeling by his side. It was a bit like waking from a dream, so focused had Sherlock been on his task. A swift look about the room showed a much cleaner picture than before. It could almost be called organised.

“Well done,” John told him, cupping one side of Sherlock’s face with his hand. “That wasn’t too hard, was it?”

Sherlock huffed, feeling rather indignant about the pleased flutter in his stomach. Feeling pleased about cleaning up a bit, having accomplished a task a four-year-old could manage? Utterly idiotic, and yet he did.

“A bit pointless, sir,” he quipped.

“Pointless?” John asked, clearly amused at Sherlock’s assessment, though his fingers curled the slightest bit more roughly into Sherlock’s skin, a reminder not to be too cheeky. “I don’t know. The room is tidied up, we’ve both calmed down, and you’ve been such a good sub towards the end, I’m rather inclined to reward you.”

“Reward me, sir? How?”

It was only the briefest of glances, but John did catch him looking at the crop still resting in John’s lap. He smiled, dropping his hand from Sherlock’s face.

“Would you like me to use this on you?” he asked.

Sherlock swallowed.

This was rather a turning point, wasn’t it? If he agreed, he would admit that he trusted John with this, respected him. It might also mean they were taking a big step towards a definitive commitment. Sherlock had avoided calling John his dom so far, but if they were already at a point like this after only a week, surely it would mean that this could be called a relationship of sorts. Especially in the light of John refusing payment from Mycroft and sticking around nonetheless.

So many implications. A committed relationship, just a few words away? Sherlock simply couldn’t agree to something he didn’t know the full repercussions of.

“If I say yes,” Sherlock stated slowly. “What does that mean for us?”

John’s whole posture changed momentarily, going from playfully offering a reward to negotiating the very nature of their relationship. Sherlock was thankful he knew the difference on his own and didn’t need it spelled out.

“Whatever you want it to mean,” John assured him quietly. “It’s not part of a proper commitment if you’re not ready. I can make you feel good without you having to worry that you’re making some kind of binding promise to me.”

God, but he was so reasonable. Sherlock was sure he wouldn’t even feel hurt if Sherlock made it clear he did not want to make a commitment right now or even refused him outright. It was not like he had never had reasonable doms before, but John Watson was taking things to a whole new level. He was understanding and kind, but no less strict or unrelenting if he had to be.

Really, John was everything Sherlock wanted in a dom and rather a lot more he hadn’t known he’d desired.

And yet... Sherlock did not feel ready. The very thought of John collaring him any time soon made him feel a bit sick.

“I...” he started out roughly, then stopped. He couldn’t sound like a scared little sub. He needed to sound strong, like somebody who know exactly what they wanted. “I’d rather it didn’t mean anything more than a reward for a job well-done.”

As predicted, John did not look hurt or angry, though he did take a few moments to let Sherlock’s choice sink in.

“Then that’s all that it’ll be.”

He smiled. And laid the crop on the armrest.

“Not today, though, I fear,” he announced, almost cheerily.

Sherlock just stopped himself from gaping.

“Excuse me?” he said.

“It’s been a tiring day. I don’t think either of us could appreciate it.”

“But sir,” Sherlock spoke up, rising a bit from where he had been resting on his heels.

“No buts, Sherlock,” John reprimanded him. “I’ve decided on rewarding you, that alone you can be thankful for. It’s my decision entirely when I want to do it, and I’ve decided on tomorrow rather than today.”

“So I am to wait?” Sherlock asked, incredulous.

“Yes. I think you’d very much benefit from an exercise in patience.” He bowed down, getting much closer to Sherlock. “Besides,” he rumbled. “Don’t you think a bit of anticipation will make this so much better?”

Sherlock could not deny the pleasant tingles running down his back at that pronouncement. Anticipation, yes. Thinking about it throughout the night, unable to focus on something else. Waiting for it to happen. Of course that was appealing.

“Fine,” he said. “As you wish, sir.”

“Brilliant,” John replied mirthfully, and before Sherlock knew what was happening, John had clasped his chin again, tilting his head for what was obviously going to be a kiss.

Sherlock did not miss that John purposefully gave him a few moments to refuse, though found that he really did not want to. He even stretched up a bit, making it easier for John to reach him.

John’s lips were soft and chaste against his at first, but soon turned demanding once he was sure Sherlock was actually fine with it. His other hand came up, both hands now roughly cupping Sherlock’s face, trapping him. Seconds later, Sherlock’s lips were parted by John’s insistent tongue and Sherlock felt his mouth go soft and pliant, entirely willing to have John lead him in this.

There was no other way to describe the kiss than John owning Sherlock’s mouth. He was discovering the shape of it, playing with Sherlock’s tongue as he pleased, hardly stopping in between for catches of breath or adjusting the angle.

Sherlock felt intimately taken, possessed even. For the first time, he felt true arousal because of John and his cock started lengthening, growing harder as the kiss progressed.

When John stopped, undoubtedly because their position was rather uncomfortable for any extended sort of snog, Sherlock’s face was flushed and he was breathing heavily.

“Look at you,” John murmured, brushing the very tongue that had felt so wonderfully demanding over his own moist lips. “Gorgeous. And so obviously aroused. You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock agreed almost shakily. Remembering today’s lesson, he added: “Thank you, sir.”

“Perfect,” John approved immediately. “Picture perfect. You really do deserve your reward tomorrow. I can’t wait to make you squirm with that crop of yours. You’ll be beautiful, Sherlock.”

Another quick kiss, and John fully released Sherlock to put on his shoes, by himself this time, and get up from the chair.

Sherlock, feeling rather weak in the knees, didn’t feel much like following John’s example.

“You’ll be okay for tonight?” John asked him with a smile, brushing an affectionate hand through Sherlock’s hair when he realised Sherlock would not follow him downstairs today.

“Yes, sir.”

Sherlock watched John put on his coat, a pleasant heat still pooling in his groin. He wondered if John would mind …

“No touching yourself, of course,” John said at once, as if he had read Sherlock’s thoughts. “I’ll know if you have.”

Huffing, Sherlock shifted on his knees. He did not doubt for a moment that John would.

“Yes, sir.”

Brushing an affectionate thumb over Sherlock’s cheek one more time, John finally left the flat with a quick good-bye.

It would take Sherlock an entire hour to realise that John had left his cane in the hallway when he had hurried out to the murder scene, and it was still resting there now.

Chapter Text

The next morning found Sherlock wrist-deep in warm blood, fishing for the pipette he had dropped right into the large china bowl holding it.

He had hoped that proving the neighbour’s guilt for Lestrade’s latest case would take his mind off things. Instead, mental pictures of John expertly wielding the riding crop kept distracting him from his task.

He had, of course, no idea what John would actually do with the crop. It might very well end up being a short to-the-point whipping with a bit of professional aftercare by doctor’s hands instead of the slow and teasing climax Sherlock’s mind seemed to be hung up on.

Swearing under his breath, Sherlock finally got hold of his pipette and removed his hand from the bowl which was resting on a hotplate, nearly knocking the thermometer into it instead. Spread out on the kitchen counter beside was an array of petri dishes filled with different kinds of diluted chemicals, one of which would hopefully turn into the copper tone from the crime scene once the blood was added to it.

Telling himself to finally concentrate, Sherlock carefully added a few drops of blood to each of the dishes.

He completely ignored the doorbell when it rang as well as the footfall on the staircase a few moments later and only looked up from his task when he heard a by now familiar voice utter a colourful curse.

Surprised, Sherlock spotted John standing in the kitchen doorway, eyes glued to Sherlock’s soiled hand. He’d only quickly wiped it on a kitchen towel. He supposed it would look a bit alarming to a casual observer.

“What the hell is going on here?” John exclaimed. “Is that blood?”

“Yes. Not mine, though,” Sherlock replied calmly and put down the pipette when he’d prepped the last petri dish. “I had no idea you were coming over already.” Hurriedly, he tagged on a sir when he realised he’d slipped up again.

John didn’t seem to have noticed though.

“It not being your blood somehow doesn’t make this any less alarming, Sherlock,” he was saying as he stepped closer. “What are you doing?”

“Solving a case,” Sherlock answered. “You saw the crime scene yesterday, sir. Blood-covered fountain? Three mutilated bodies?”

“No. I mean, yes I did, but no, that does not explain this. Not really.”

“I’m proving that the former neighbour did it,” Sherlock pointed out. Wasn’t it obvious? “Chemical engineer with a cleaning bug. Lots of odd scouring agents around at his house, naturally. Just have to figure out which one, so Lestrade will have something to go on.”

John still looked slightly incredulous. Sherlock doubted he had gained a better understanding of the case, but at least he’d stopped the foolish staring.

“And you got the blood from...?” John finally asked, stepping around Sherlock to look at the hot plate. Sherlock was surprised when the dom actually peered into the bowl of blood with something akin to interest.

“Got a friend at the blood bank who owes me a rather big favour.”

“Right, of course. Friend at the blood bank. Don’t we all.”

Sherlock was taken aback when John actually giggled a bit. It was an oddly endearing sound, even for a dom. Sherlock couldn’t help but smile briefly, although there was no real reason for it.

“Any results, then?” John added when he had calmed himself.

More than a tad pleased about John’s honestly interested enquiry, Sherlock nodded.

“I’ve narrowed it down to a rough formula. Just have to find the right brand, now.” Sweeping his eyes over the prepared slides, he realised none of them had turned quite the distinct tone he had aimed for. “Not any of these, though, unfortunately.”

“Chemical engineer, you said?” John offered. “He probably has access to odd brands. Foreign ones even.”

“Precisely,” Sherlock agreed. John was making not too bad an effort. For some reason, Sherlock thought it rather nice to see him try and help with the case. “It might take a while to get my hand on the right one, though luckily, I’ve also got a number of friends in that department.”

“Naturally,” John said to that and laughed out loud again.

Still amused, eyes crinkling with genuine mirth, he continued: “Sorry for not texting you beforehand, by the way. I can come back later if you’re not ready yet. I had just thought you’d prefer me coming by early today.”

“Ah,” was Sherlock’s only reply, keenly aware again of what had kept him up the better part of the night and distracted him during the day.

The reward. Now that John was standing so close to him, Sherlock found that providing Lestrade with evidence did not seem quite as alluring as before.

“Should I go?” John questioned, making it clear with his tone he’d not take offence if that was what Sherlock wanted.

“No, it’s fine, sir. Stay.”

Tracing his lips with his tongue, John nodded with crinkled eyes.

“Wonderful. Whenever you’re ready, then. Though you probably want to wash up a bit first.”

Looking down at his stained hands, Sherlock had to agree. Unless John was into some kind of blood play (and Sherlock was sure he’d have deduced that by now), this wasn’t very appealing. He switched off the hot plate, letting the rest of the blood go to waste, then left the kitchen for the bathroom.

When he returned, John had finished examining the slides and was sitting comfortably on the sofa in the living room, already sans coat and shoes. Once Sherlock had entered, John pointed at his cane resting by the door to the landing.

“You’ve found it, then,” he said.

“I did, sir. You left it before you rushed off to the crime scene, I take it?”

“Must have, yes. Funnily enough, I ended up not needing it.”

“Psychosomatic pain,” Sherlock commented and John nodded.

“Turns out properly worrying about your sub will get rid of that.”

Sherlock tried his hardest not to perk up too obviously. John thought of Sherlock as his sub? Sherlock’s heart seemed to skip a beat. Hadn’t he made it clear that he was not up for a true commitment? Did John not want to honour his promise of respecting that after all?

Although, studying John’s entirely relaxed posture and expression, it didn’t look like he had noticed just what he had said. Well, perhaps it had just been a turn of phrase.

“Anyway,” John continued good-naturedly, oblivious to Sherlock’s conflicted thoughts. “I seem to remember something about you having earned a reward.”

At once, spiking anticipation made Sherlock’s skin itch. Without further comment, he turned to retrieve the crop from where it was still placed on the armrest, just where John had left it the day before.

The crop seemed warmer than usual in his fingers, although that was of course impossible. Nobody had touched the crop for half a day. Still, Sherlock gave himself a moment to really feel the crop. The handle was soft, not coarse at all, proof of the expensive quality of the leather. It stuck ever so slightly to Sherlock’s skin as he touched it, almost moulding itself against his fingers. Squeezing a bit, Sherlock got a sense for the firmness of the thick core underneath.

God, how he loved this crop. He did not understand why, but he did. Just feeling it rest in his hand warmed Sherlock’s cheeks.

Keenly remembering his last lesson, he knelt down by the sofa before presenting the item to John.

John took it calmly, one hand curling around the handle, the other tracing the entire length of the crop. Sherlock watched in fascination as John’s thumb played repeatedly with the leather tongue at the top, letting it slide smoothly over the tip of his finger.

In a matter of moments, Sherlock revisited last night’s frustration as he grew hard again. It was too enticing a picture, John studying the crop, mentally preparing himself to give the reward he had promised Sherlock, testing the quality of the instrument.

Finally, John’s attention shifted to Sherlock and he brushed the very thumb that had caressed the tip of the crop over Sherlock’s forehead, down his flushing cheeks, only to trace his mouth.

Sherlock only just stopped himself from kissing John’s finger, though the increasing pleasure he felt simply had to show on his face. When John’s finger dropped away, Sherlock sighed a bit, blinking up at John.

“You really do deserve this,” John said warmly, eyes solely focused on Sherlock. “Just look at yourself. On your knees without me having to tell you, calling me sir without a hint of sarcasm. You’ve improved so much already, Sherlock. You’re really not a hopeless case at all. Actually, I think you’re full of potential.”

Blinking, Sherlock willed down the sudden tight feeling in his throat. Praise. Always the praise. It got to him like nothing else, made him as emotional as any other sub out there. It was so hard not to give in and simply enjoy it, but he couldn’t. Simply couldn’t, not now. It would feel too much like defeat.

“It’s such a shame you’re having a hard time relaxing, though,” John continued, moving his hand again to gently clasp Sherlock’s chin. “You’re not comfortable at all with how much you enjoy this, are you?”

Sherlock didn’t much feel like answering that. John’s look grew concerned and very, very tender.

“Are you unhappy with being a sub?” he softly prodded.

“Can we not talk about this, sir?” Sherlock snapped at once, rather more harshly than the situation possibly merited.

John did not grow angry though.

“Of course,” he said, dropping his hand from Sherlock’s face and curling it firmly around the crop instead. “Let’s make you feel good, yes?”

“Where would you like to go, sir?” Sherlock asked, keen on keeping John’s mind solely on this track. “My bedroom?”

“If you’re comfortable with that.”

“I wouldn’t have suggested it otherwise.”

With that, Sherlock rose from his knees to lead the way, holding the door open for John who nodded in approval as he passed and entered Sherlock’s bedroom, hand still curled confidently around the crop.

“Perfectly tidy,” John commented as he took in the state of the room. “Preparation or habit?”

“I don’t like my bedroom to be cluttered, sir.”

John didn’t say anything, but Sherlock could see the amusement written clearly on the dom’s face. He watched John take in the room. His eyes lingered at the framed periodic table on the wall, clearly making the connection to the experiment in the kitchen.

Finally, he turned back towards Sherlock with a smile that looked much less affectionate and rather a bit dirty.

“Time to undress, don’t you think?”

Sherlock’s body reacted at once. His cock, having grown softer during their verbal exchange, hardened again as he watched John sink down on the bed and cross his arms, the crop sticking up prominently. God, he looked handsome. Just a pair of worn jeans and a long-sleeved shirt and yet Sherlock could not wish another outfit on the dom. John Watson had apparently perfected the art of looking utterly dominant and alluring merely by holding a crop.

Eyes firmly set on the dom, Sherlock lifted his hand and started unbuttoning the white dress shirt he was wearing. Once he was done, he carelessly dropped it to the floor.

Of course, he should have known John would not put up with sloppiness, no matter the circumstances.

“No”, he ordered at once, voice firm. “Pick that up, fold it, put it over a chair. Reward or not, you’ll adhere to my standards. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock said, exhaling harshly as bowing down made his growing erection shift a bit. “Sorry, sir.”

Once he had folded the shirt, Sherlock unbuttoned his black trousers. Unsure whether or not he was allowed, Sherlock did not press his hand against the bulging fabric of his pants, though a bit of friction would have been a welcome release. Instead, he was careful to keep his touches light as he slipped out of the trousers, once more bowing to fold them as he had done with the shirt, as well as to remove his socks.

“You’re quite a sight,” John said when Sherlock was upright and facing him again. His voice sounded deeper than before and his eyes were running over Sherlock’s body approvingly, which only aroused Sherlock more. “Finish up.”

Swallowing, Sherlock slowly hooked his thumbs into the hem of his pants. He wasn’t shy about nudity, not really. It was just a naked body, transport mostly, certainly nothing John had not seen before. Still, there was something so intimate about it now. Maybe because he was so obviously turned on while John was sitting on the bed, perfectly calm and fully dressed. Or, perhaps, simply because it was John watching.

Bracing himself, though for what he did not really know, Sherlock pulled down his pants, placing them by his other clothes for now before returning to his former spot. He tried to appear relaxed, but could tell it was not entirely convincing.

“You haven’t got yourself off since I’ve told you not to, have you?” John remarked, taking in Sherlock’s state of arousal.

“No, sir,” Sherlock confirmed quietly, although he had heard no doubt in John’s voice.

“Good.”

For a few moments, John simply looked at him with keen eyes. He was taking in all of Sherlock, the expression of his face as much as the rest of him. Finally, John stood and approached.

“Don’t move,” he ordered and raised the crop.

Sherlock expected a straightforward whack and his muscles tensed. Of course, John was not to be predicted this time, either. Instead of diving right into the whipping, he only lightly ran the crop from Sherlock’s hip up to his collarbone.

Biting back a sigh, Sherlock shivered with pleasure.

“Absolutely stunning,” John said. “So very gorgeous. Do you even realise how attractive you are?”

“I’m not blind, sir,” Sherlock dared to quip.

This time, the expected whack did come, a rather light but precise strike for Sherlock’s right nipple. Hissing but not allowed to move, Sherlock had to silently admit he’d provoked that.

“Watch the snark,” John warned him. “Just because this is a reward and you’re fond of the crop doesn’t mean I cannot turn this into a very unpleasant punishment if I want to.”

Sherlock wished he could hide the fact that he grew harder just from hearing that pronouncement.

“Unbelievable,” John said, almost leering a bit at Sherlock. “Fine. Just to prove my point, I’ll have you stand on your toes. Don’t sink back onto your heels until I allow you to, understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock said and obeyed at once.

What followed could nearly be called cruel. John took care and plenty of time to run the very tip of the crop over what was possibly every part of Sherlock’s body.

Starting with Sherlock’s left cheek, John proceeded to repeatedly brush the crop over Sherlock’s lips, then down his neck, making a point to briefly increase the pressure as it passed over Sherlock’s pulse. Once more, he traced Sherlock’s clavicles, then continued downwards to circle Sherlock’s nipples.

Sherlock was of course resting only on his toes and had a hard time standing still as he felt the crop brush teasingly over his skin. John looked so wonderfully focused, too, his eyes following the path of the leather, only briefly checking over Sherlock’s posture and expression for a second or two before once more returning all attention to the movements of the crop.

The leather tongue was now following the thin but dark line of hair trailing down the stomach and towards Sherlock’s groin, but it did not come near his crotch. Instead, John made a point of brushing right past it, apparently preferring to tease the inside of Sherlock’s left thigh for a moment or two.

“How does this feel then?” John asked, voice rougher than usual.

He looked up from where the crop was now drawing small, teasing circles over the pale skin of Sherlock’s upper leg and Sherlock could tell that John was rather excited by learning Sherlock’s body so thoroughly.

“Very good, sir,” Sherlock replied dutifully, voice quivering as much as his legs. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’ve earned it,” John emphasised, shifting the crop to trace the junction of Sherlock’s left leg and hip. “You’ve made such an effort the past days, after all. Does it make you feel good, to know that you’ve pleased me?”

Swaying a bit on his toes, Sherlock felt this was not the time to lie to himself nor to John.

“It does, sir,” he admitted.

John’s answering smile was all pride mixed with approval, his eyes glittering in a way that told Sherlock just how elated John was about hearing him confirm that.

“I’m glad, Sherlock,” John stated, moving the crop to draw one, teasingly light line right past the base of Sherlock’s cock, brushing through the coarse pubic hair.

Sherlock breathed out harshly, nearly losing his balance. Swaying, he had to use his right heel to steady himself.

“Sorry, sir,” he said at once, immediately rising back onto his tiptoes. His eyes widened a bit. He hadn’t done this to provoke John, surely that was obvious?

He needn’t have worried, though, as John only smiled reassuringly and said: “No harm done.”

He moved, circling Sherlock until he stood behind him. Sherlock could no longer observe John now, but the tip of the crop was still brushing over his skin, following the line of Sherlock’s hip, telling Sherlock just which part of his body John was currently focusing on.

Sherlock tried to concentrate on even breathing and his balance as John traced the line of Sherlock’s spine, tickling the back of Sherlock’s neck before brushing the crop downward again. He tensed when the leather tongue met the crease of his behind, but John decided on merely outlining the buttocks for now, as it seemed.

“How many would you like?” John finally asked, brushing the crop right across Sherlock’s bottom, applying more and more pressure with each stroke.

Sherlock found this to be an unfair question, given that the sub was hardly ever responsible for matters like this, and for good reason, too.

“How many do I deserve, sir?” he finally replied, hoping not to sound too smart.

John only hummed in amusement. Sherlock was unable to see his face, but could imagine John’s firm gaze on Sherlock’s yet unmarked skin, blue eyes glittering with anticipation.

“That is the question at hand, isn’t it?” The crop stopped moving, now resting on Sherlock’s right buttock. “You may stand on your heels again.”

Sinking back down into a proper stand, Sherlock tried to compose himself for what was to come - as far as that was possible, standing naked and aroused before a calm and perfectly dressed dom.

“I’ll expect a word of thanks for each stroke,” John announced, voice firm and authoritative. “This is a reward, and I want to be sure you are grateful I am granting it.”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock said.

“Good. Bend over. Grab the board at the end of the bed to steady yourself. No moving.”

Doing as he was told, Sherlock closed his eyes. His cock was very hard now, almost fully erect as the thrill and excitement over John’s wicked teasing mingled with anticipation over what was yet to come.

“Get ready.”

The first hit felt stark and sharp against his skin. Sherlock’s eyes snapped open again as a line of skin flared up, then turned pleasantly hot and began to tingle.

“Thank you, sir,” he breathed.

The next stroke followed at once, drawing another hot line across Sherlock’s right buttock. He could imagine how quickly his pale skin would turn red to form a thin welt.

“Thank you, sir,” Sherlock repeated, curling his hands firmly around the wooden frame of the bed to steady himself.

The next few minutes were filled with nothing but the crack of the crop against Sherlock’s skin and an endless line of uttered thank yous falling from Sherlock’s lips with no hesitation.

It was blissful.

Sherlock’s cock thickened further as the crop struck again and again. It was beyond pleasurable: the sharp bite of the crop, the short but intense heat blooming on his skin, making way for a pleasant sort of lasting pain. Soon, a drop of pre-cum trailed down the length of Sherlock’s hardness and with the next strike, Sherlock let slip a small but throaty moan.

“Three more, I should think,” John told him and lightly touched the abused skin with his thumb. Sherlock almost sobbed, it felt so good. “All right?”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock murmured. “Please …”

The remaining three strokes were pure bliss. Sherlock did not bite back the moans slipping from his lips at each impact. His last Thank you, sir sounded raptured even to his own ears.

He heard John step back and move next to Sherlock, but his vision seemed suddenly blurred. Blinking, Sherlock realised his eyes had watered a bit throughout the last couple of strokes. He couldn’t find it in himself to care, only squeezed his eyes together to get rid of the unshed tears.

When his vision was clear again, Sherlock could see that John had placed the crop at the end of the bed and was now watching him intently.

“Straighten up,” he ordered and Sherlock obeyed, uncurling his hands from the wooden board with some difficulty before he stood upright again.

“My, my,” John said, voice oozing with pleasure. His cheeks were a tad flushed and his eyes glued to Sherlock’s cock. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen somebody draw this much enjoyment from a riding crop.”

Now that the very crop was no longer cutting into his skin, Sherlock found he craved nothing more than release. Swallowing, he briefly curled his hands into tight fists, then made an effort to relax them, momentarily distracting himself from the ache of his neglected arousal.

“You look ravishing, Sherlock,” John continued, looking back up at Sherlock’s face. “Truly ravishing. You’re extraordinary.”

Sherlock found that another “Thank you, sir.” was the only appropriate response.

“Perfect. Really,” John approved at once.

He stepped closer, careful not to touch Sherlock’s cock, but raising a hand to touch Sherlock’s face instead, placing his fingers over Sherlock’s slightly parted lips. This time, Sherlock had no inhibitions to place a kiss against them.

“Would you like me to take care of you?” John murmured. “Would you like to get off?”

“Please yes,” Sherlock implored immediately. “Please, sir.”

“Very good,” John conceded and finally, finally curled his free hand around Sherlock’s cock.

There was nothing to do but moan in pleasure. John’s fingers were rough and firm against Sherlock’s cock, forming a tight circle and rubbing expertly over the hot skin. John applied just the right amount of pressure, teasing the retracted foreskin with each stroke, smearing the drops of precum leaking from the tip.

Sherlock’s moans nearly turned into sobs. His behind burned pleasantly and this - well, this was so much better than doing it himself. A dom’s hand on his cock meant he’d been good and deserved it. The thought alone turned mere pleasure into something close to ecstasy.

Taking advantage of Sherlock’s parted lips, John eventually slipped two of his fingers into his mouth. Sherlock lapped and sucked at them at once, some part of him wishing it were John’s cock he’d been allowed to taste. It would feel so good, the dom’s erection penetrating Sherlock’s mouth, fucking it ruthlessly. John would take and use him as he pleased, even make him gag to show him his place, then praise him for being so pliant and willing, such a good sub. In the end, he might even reward Sherlock by coming right down his throat.

Ultimately, the mental pictures were too much. Moaning shamelessly around John’s fingers, Sherlock climaxed, semen spurting over John’s hand as he came.

Trembling, Sherlock realised through his haze of pure pleasure that he would not be able to keep upright any longer than a few more moments.

Luckily, John was by no means too distracted to read the signs. Slipping his wet fingers from Sherlock’s mouth, his arm quickly curled around Sherlock’s back, helping him keep upright as Sherlock trembled through the aftermath of his orgasm.

Eventually, John’s other hand uncurled from Sherlock’s softening cock and he guided Sherlock to the bed, inevitably smearing sticky come over Sherlock’s bare skin as he did so.

Sherlock didn’t even remotely care.

Instead, he felt thankful and so, so pleased when John guided him to curl against the dom and strong arms circled around him, pulling him close. Almost sitting in John’s lap, Sherlock buried his face into John’s shoulder and simply breathed.

“Brilliant,” John was murmuring into Sherlock’s hair. “Magnificent, Sherlock. You’re a marvel.”

Sherlock soaked up the praise as if he’d never heard a word of approval in his life. It didn’t feel like defeat now. Breathing in the smell that was John, Sherlock simply willed away the internal voice that wanted to call him pathetic, the voice that insisted that Sherlock was weak for clutching at John like this, pitiful for feeling grateful and blessed to have John reward him, disgusting to feel so very good.

He knew he was shaking a bit against the dom’s shoulders, but John showed no sign of annoyance. His arms were steady around Sherlock, and after a few moments, he even placed a few affectionate kisses into Sherlock’s hair between his murmurs of praise.

It was only when the trembles of pleasure and gratitude subsided that Sherlock succumbed to his own inner doubts. His backside was still tingling, a reminder of just what had reduced him to this state. Almost abruptly, he pulled away from John’s embrace and brought some distance between them as he moved to sit next to John as opposed to nearly on him.

If John was fazed or hurt by this sudden break-off, he certainly didn’t let it show. Instead, his face was warm and full of approval.

“Was that good?” he asked. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

Sherlock averted his gaze, suddenly feeling almost ashamed by his earlier abandon, but did reply: “Yes, sir.”

“Good. I’m glad. It was supposed to be a reward, after all.”

Intrigued by the tender tone of John’s voice, Sherlock looked back at John, eyeing him carefully. It took no consulting detective to see that John was aroused, even though holding Sherlock through his shaking aftermath certainly had to have put a damper on it. Yet he was showing nothing but affection, no sign that he was about to grab Sherlock by the wrist and tell him to reciprocate.

Nonetheless, Sherlock felt that it was John’s turn now. He had taken care of Sherlock’s needs after all.

Sherlock remembered how good John’s fingers had felt in his mouth only minutes before, but now, the thought of letting himself go like that was no longer alluring. He wasn’t the type of sub gagging for his dom’s cock, he simply was not. Begging to be used like that was more than pathetic, no matter what his dopamine-hazed brain had come up with earlier.

Getting him off less roughly, however, was manageable, if only not to alienate John. He had wielded the crop perfectly, after all, and deserved Sherlock showing his gratitude.

To Sherlock’s surprise, John forcefully batted away Sherlock’s hand when he reached for John’s fly.

“None of that,” he said nicely but firmly. “This was entirely about you.”

Sherlock only stared at him.

"I see no point in it,” John continued and smiled again. “Now, lie down for a bit, okay? I’ll go and find something to get you cleaned up.”

Sherlock did as he was told, curling in on himself a bit as he lay down on the bed. Breathing deeply, he noticed that he very much smelled of sex, but also a bit of John.

It was a rather nice combination, Sherlock found.

John went home some time in the early afternoon and Sherlock was left with an array of well-applied welts on his skin and two sets of very relaxed limbs.

He was currently draped over the couch, wrapped in his blue dressing gown and lost in thought. Of course, being who he was, he couldn’t help but reflect on what happened instead of drifting on a cloud of submissive and post-orgasmic bliss.

After the whipping, John had taken care of him far more than strictly necessary, cleaning him up, showering him with affection and making sure he would be okay for the day. He had even offered to do something about the welts, but Sherlock had asked him not to. He liked the reminder of what had been a more than a pleasant reward, liked shifting slightly to feel them tingle warmly once more, remembering John’s expert handling of the crop.

Still, one thing stuck out sharply against the blanket of otherwise comfortable thoughts: John’s refusal.

The dom had not wanted Sherlock to reciprocate and Sherlock could not fathom why. John had been aroused, so much was obvious. Sherlock could also recall at least five verbal and countless bodily clues John had given so far that clearly showed he was a. interested in having sex and b. not opposed to have it with Sherlock.

Yet he had refused to be touched, had outright batted Sherlock’s hand away, then had cleaned and pampered him as if Sherlock were the sweetest, most obedient sub on Earth.

Why would he refuse? Sherlock had not been unduly bragging when he had told John on the first day that he knew countless ways to get a dom off. Especially in his early relationships, Sherlock had often made a point of indulging his dom’s preferences no matter his personal tastes, gathering ample experience in the process.

He was over that phase now, but there had been a reason why he’d thought of sucking John off when he was squirming in his bed the night before. He enjoyed giving pleasure to his doms, like all subs did. It was in their nature, however infuriating that might be.

But John had refused, only played caretaker instead of insisting on his benefits as a dom. Did he think Sherlock was not good enough for him? Did Sherlock need to earn the right to please John sexually, somehow prove himself worthy of this kind of service?

Sherlock almost felt disgusted at the thought, but a spark of doubt was forming in spite of himself.

What if that was the reason? John had been an extraordinary dom so far, far better than the majority of Sherlock’s previous encounters. He seemed just right for Sherlock, so maybe Sherlock should indulge him in this. Perhaps he should grovel a bit, nuzzle John’s crotch with pleading eyes the next time he was on his knees for him, bat his eyelashes and beg for his cock in a husky tone of voice, promise him he’d be so good for him if only he could have a taste.

It wasn’t like it was an entirely unerotic concept. In another context, Sherlock might even find it arousing rather than degrading. He’d had no problem imagining gagging on John’s erection when the dom’s hand had been around Sherlock’s cock, after all.

What John might be waiting for, however, was pure humiliation. Sherlock could imagine nothing more degrading than begging for this without being asked to, without the situation meriting it, without any incentive but the thought that it would have to happen, if only to have John be happy and thus stick around.

But Sherlock was already playing with fire by refusing to make a commitment, more or less using the dom’s services without giving a promise of fidelity or permanence in return. God, he’d even refused to acknowledge him in public! Mycroft wasn’t paying John either, so what reasons would John have to stay in the long run?

Really, neglecting John’s sexual urges could very well bring this arrangement, which was working out wonderfully so far, to a quick and ugly end.

Folding his hands by his chin, Sherlock closed his eyes. He’d have to make a plan how to best go about satisfying John.

Lucky for him, he’d always rather been good at working things out.

Chapter Text

By the end of the next day, Sherlock had not only solved Lestrade’s case but also made a plan for just how to go about giving John exactly what he wanted.

Sherlock knew he would have to be careful. He could not let John know that he was more or less manipulating him instead of doing what had to be done because he truly wanted to do it. Neither could he seem too eager, making John believe he was hoping for something steady after all.

Sherlock was not craving John’s collar around his neck, was not looking for a proper relationship. Sherlock valued nothing more than his independence.

All he needed was somebody to take care of his submissive needs, no strings attached, and keeping that somebody around came with a price.

He would have to walk the fine line between showing desire to sexually submit to John, to please him, and making it clear that he was not planning to commit in spite of it.

It was a tricky business, but Sherlock was determined. He’d do this. He’d keep John around as long as it was possible without having to commit.

The first step, of course, was asking for John rather than waiting for him to announce his arrival. Nothing could show Sherlock’s desire more than him pleading for John to come over, rather than the dom initiating it himself.

He texted John on a quiet Saturday around noon, keeping his message just curt enough not to sound too obvious, but making it a clear plea for John’s company nonetheless.

Naturally, John showed up at once.

It had not passed Sherlock by that, apart from meeting up with Sherlock, there were not a lot of things happening in John Watson’s life. Sherlock had easily deduced that John went out for drinks with a couple of old friends on occasions, but was only working very short hours at a small surgery to boost his measly army pension and otherwise had no occupation whatsoever.

Yet, that didn’t mean Sherlock could rely on John keeping up their arrangement. Really, it only increased the risk of John realising that instead of wasting his time on a fruitless relationship and a poor job, he could much rather be pursuing more meaningful things in life.

John looked more tired than usual when he arrived, undoubtedly due to the nightmares he was suffering from ever since returning for Afghanistan. He seemed to be in a good mood, however, smiling brightly at Sherlock as he was let in by the sub himself.

Of course, Sherlock had planned every detail of today’s encounter, right down to the greeting.

Focusing on his task, Sherlock purposely lowered his eyes but raised his chin in a clear invitation for a kiss.

John took the hint at once, stepping up to Sherlock and roughly pressing his lips against the sub’s mouth, keeping it chaste but firm.

“Hello, sir,” Sherlock said after their kiss, keeping his voice just a bit quieter than usual. “Thank you for coming over so quickly.”

“It’s no bother at all,” John assured him at once. He approached the stairs and Sherlock went with him, walking just half a step behind the dom, enough to give the barest impression of submission. “You may always ask me to come over if you feel like you need it.”

Sherlock filed that statement away for later analysis.

Entering the living room, he at once made sure John was comfortable. He took John’s coat when he had shuffled out of it, then pointed at the still-tidy sofa and offered a cup of tea once John had settled down.

John accepted it all gladly, though Sherlock could tell he was not being lulled in by Sherlock’s demeanour. If anything, his eyes seemed even more assessing than usual. Sherlock could not underestimate the dom’s perceptiveness. John had proven before how well he could read a sub, even one like Sherlock.

Once John was settled with his tea, Sherlock kneeled down by his feet, but kept a bit of distance. It would not do to initiate anything sexual yet. Even a fool would be able to tell something was off, and John was far from foolish - at least where their arrangement was concerned.

“You could have made one for yourself,” John told him kindly, raising his cup to indicate what he was talking about. “I wouldn’t have minded you sitting with me, not when you’re polite about it.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Not thirsty, sir,” he replied. “Besides, I’d much rather be down here for now.”

John smiled down in his cup.

“I distinctly remember you being quite averse to this not three weeks ago,” he commented lightly.

“I distinctly remember you saying it was a right I had to earn, sir,” Sherlock retorted smartly.

John laughed.

“Quite right, yes. You have, of course, by now. More than earned it. I have never met a sub who made progress so quickly. But then, you’re also the most difficult sub I’ve ever taken on, so there is that.”

Sherlock let out a low chuckle.

“And how many subs have you taken on, sir?”

John’s smile was pure challenge.

“Why don’t you deduce it?”

Excited, Sherlock shifted on his knees, turning a bit to get a better look at John. Observing him, his brain spew facts at him in high speed as he took in John’s form as well as everything he had learned of him so far.

“Let’s see then,” he began. “You’re 41 years old, give or take a year. You were rather shy as a teenager, dom or not, and while you felt protective of the subs in your acquaintance, you did not have a proper relationship until you were 18. That makes 23 active years, but the army clipped at least 8 of those. There’s still not a lot of subs in the Forces and you’re far too professional to have a relationship interfere with your work anyway. So: 15 years. I am the first sub you’ve taken on after Afghanistan, and the first you chose because somebody asked you to. You were intrigued by the challenge, the novelty. You did it for the thrill and not because of the money, as clearly evidenced by your refusal to be paid. Usually, you’re much more traditional than this, taking your time to pick a partner and sticking with them. The average duration of a relationship between unweds in this city is two and a half years, but we’ll make it three for you and your careful choice of partner. Including time to recuperate after the break-ups as well as to pick a new sub, I’d say you’ve had four steady subs and not more than fifteen casual arrangements and one-night stands. Correct?”

John was gaping rather unattractively by the end of Sherlock’s deduction and Sherlock felt pleased. He got a thrill out of doing this, even more so with John, who was clearly surprised but not at all offended.

When the dom caught himself with his jaw hanging, he only grinned brightly, two hands curled steadily around his cup.

“Brilliant,” he said. “Absolutely brilliant.”

“Did I get it right, sir?” Sherlock asked eagerly.

“Four steady subs is correct,” John told him. “And no relationship when I was a soldier, either. Spot-on, all of it. You couldn’t have known about my wild phase at Uni, though. Double the second number, and you’re closer to the truth.”

He winked mischievously at Sherlock, who stared up at John in honest surprise.

“Really?” he asked. “A wild phase?”

“It’s always the quiet ones,” John told him and took an entirely too-pleased sip of tea.

“Only a fool would think you boring, sir,” Sherlock answered, ignoring the sting of a not-quite-perfect deduction.

“Quiet and boring are not quite the same, but thank you for the compliment. I’m sure there aren’t a lot of things you do not find boring.”

“No, sir. Not many at all.”

They shared a rather intense look and Sherlock felt this was the perfect moment to advance his plan. Shuffling closer to John’s legs, Sherlock tilted his head just so and John got the hint, freeing one of his hands to card his fingers through Sherlock’s hair instead.

For a few minutes, all Sherlock did was enjoy the sensation of John’s fingers in his hair as the dom drank his tea in comfortable silence. It felt good, intimate even. Sherlock had to be careful not to relax too much and forget about his plan.

He kept an eye on John’s tea and carefully plucked the empty cup from John’s fingers once he was done, placing it on the coffee table.

“So attentive today,” John commented with a smile, removing his hand from Sherlock’s head. “You seem much more comfortable today. Any reason in particular?”

“My reward, sir,” Sherlock replied in a carefully calculated tone, a mix of eagerness and uneasy hesitation. “I really enjoyed it.”

“I’m glad. How are the welts?”

“Healing well, sir,” Sherlock told him honestly. “Though they still sting a bit when I touch them.”

“And you like that?”

“Yes, sir. Very much.”

John looked more than happy at that.

“Good. Like I’ve said before: you deserved it. And I am sure you’ll earn another reward soon if you keep up your promising behaviour.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sherlock replied, offering a smile that looked just appreciative enough not to be out of character. He staged a pause of hesitation, then continued slowly: “It’s only...”

John rose to the bait at once. If there was one thing that would make him perk up, it was a sub having difficulty expressing their wishes and opinions, that much Sherlock had learned.

“What is it, Sherlock?” John asked with a trace of concern. “Would you rather I had done something differently?”

“Not really, sir. It was only... afterwards. After the reward, after I had, well, finished...”

He cleared his throat as if he were unhappy with the slightly wobbly sound of his voice.

“Yes?” John prodded gently.

“I wasn’t allowed to touch you,” Sherlock said, letting a pleading look bleed onto his face. “You didn’t let me reciprocate.”

When John didn’t say anything to that, Sherlock pushed a bit further.

“I would have liked to please you, sir,” he continued. “I would have liked to give something in return. I would still like to, in fact.”

John swallowed, clearly enticed by Sherlock’s offer, and Sherlock took the opportunity to slip one hand on John’s upper thigh.

“Would you let me, sir? Now?” he asked, forcing himself to speak more breathily. “Please, sir. I’d be so good for you. I’d use my mouth, if you’d let me. Your fingers felt so good in there, so demanding, I’m sure your cock would be even better. I would -”

“Stop!” John barked.

He shoved Sherlock’s hand off his leg and got up, stepping away from Sherlock’s kneeling form. Sherlock could not decide what to focus on: the prominent bulge in John’s trousers or the shocked look on his face.

“What is going on? What in bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” John exclaimed.

Curling his hands against his thighs, Sherlock stared up at John.

“I want to please you, sir,” he repeated, almost dumbly. “I thought it was obvious.”

“Oh, it was obvious all right. Obvious you were playacting. You don’t want to kneel there and beg for my cock. What on earth were you thinking?”

Suddenly feeling trapped, Sherlock did the only thing he could do: keep lying.

“I wasn’t playacting, sir,” he assured him. “I really wasn’t. I meant what I said. Please, sir, you have to believe me.”

“Stop it! Stop lying to me,” John snapped. “We might not have known each other for long, but I know what you look like when you truly want something. You’re conflicted. You hate wanting it and you don’t give into it like this, not until I guide you to. You’re the most insecure and most stubborn sub I have ever come across, Sherlock, and I doubt you’ve had a change of heart so suddenly. You do not kneel by my feet begging for my cock in that voice. You would lie to yourself, you’d deny enjoying it right up until you’ve come just from sucking me off.”

Sherlock was struck speechless. He had known John was perceptive, but this he hadn’t expected. Should he have acted more conflicted to fool the dom? But no, the point had been to seem eager. Hadn’t that been what Sherlock had deduced John wanted?

“Tell me. Tell me right now just what you were aiming at there,” John continued when Sherlock didn’t reply. “Now, Sherlock.”

“I wasn’t lying when I said I was trying to please you, sir,” Sherlock finally managed. “Really, I-”

“God damn it, Sherlock,” John snapped immediately, cutting Sherlock off and angrily crossing his arms. He took several deep breaths, then glared down at the sub. “Up. Up and on the couch. I won’t have you kneel if I am not sure you’re up for it. In fact, stop calling me sir until we’ve sorted this out.”

Sherlock obeyed, glad he could sit down on the sofa. He suddenly felt incredibly weak in the knees. He had calculated in the possibility of John’s refusal, of course he had. But not him picking up on Sherlock’s scheme so easily. Not him reacting this harshly.

“Listen to me, Sherlock. Right now, we are not dom and sub, we are two people talking. No sirs, not submissive glances, just talking. It is very important you understand this. Are you following me?”

Feeling oddly numb, Sherlock nodded.

He wasn’t to call John sir, he wasn’t to kneel, he wasn’t to do anything remotely submissive. They were back to square one. John was not acting as Sherlock’s dom.

Understood. Perfectly understood.

Sherlock hadn’t just failed with his plan, but single-handedly destroyed all the progress they had made with their arrangement. Instead of furthering and securing their working relationship, Sherlock had undermined it.

“Now, do you feel like telling me what it is that you were trying to do?” John demanded. ”I thought I had made it quite clear in the beginning how I feel about manipulation.”

“I was trying to please you,” Sherlock repeated once more. Suddenly, he yearned for adding a sir. How silly of him.

Sinking down next to Sherlock on the couch, John rubbed his eyes and sighed in exasperation.

“All right,” he relented. “Please me how?”

“Sexually, of course,” Sherlock said. Did he imagine it, or was his voice harsher than he intended it? “I wanted to get you off.”

“Why?”

“It wouldn’t do to leave you unsatisfied.” He was definitely sounding snappish now. Was he projecting anger he wasn’t aware of? He didn’t feel angry. He felt slow and mushy, almost numb. Yet, the tone of his voice spoke a different story. “I feared you’d be unhappy muddling along without getting anything in return.”

“Without getting...” John broke off, eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to explain, but was interrupted by his phone ringing loudly. Lestrade’s ringtone. Blinking, Sherlock slipped a hand in his trouser pocket.

“The police,” he said for John’s sake, answered the phone and listened to Lestrade’s latest case.

Sherlock didn’t feel or sound too enthusiastic as he promised the DI to come around at once, did not even ask for details, not like he usually did when Lestrade called with a murder case.

“I’m leaving,” he announced curtly once he had hung up, and got up from the couch.

In response, John ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated.

“Do you really feel like this is a good time to break this off?” he asked.

“There’s been a murder, I was called to help. I thought we had agreed on keeping this thing and my work separated for now?”

Sagging a bit, John nodded.

“Yes,” he replied. “But don’t you want-”

“No, John. We agreed not to let anything interfere with my work. If you don’t honour the rules we’ve established, I don’t think this will work out in the future.”

As soon as the words were out, Sherlock realised he hadn’t wanted to say it quite like that. Neither had he intended to sound this way. His voice had been harsh, bossy and unrelenting, probably the most repelling combination coming from a sub. It was clear John wasn’t trying to break the rules, he wanted to work things out.

But Sherlock didn’t. Sherlock didn’t want to talk about it. Talking might just mess it up for good.

All Sherlock wanted to do for now was leave and solve a case and not think about John Watson or their crumbling relationship.

“I’m sorry,” John said quietly. “Of course you can leave for work if you want to.”

Nodding tightly, Sherlock turned to get his scarf from his bedroom and fetched his keys. When he returned to the living room to put on his coat, John was already wearing his own jacket and watching him warily.

“I’ll go home, then,” the dom informed him. “You can call or text me anytime once your case is done, all right?”

“Fine,” Sherlock replied and rushed past him.

“We really need to talk!” John called after him, but Sherlock didn’t want to reply.

There was a murder to be solved. Nothing else mattered for now.

Lestrade could be all kinds of stupid, but he was still the most perceptive man at Scotland Yard as far as Sherlock was concerned. The DI could immediately tell that something was off.

“You all right?” he asked as soon as Sherlock had rushed past the barrier tape and up the stairs without sparing Donovan and the others so much as a glance. “You seem … worked-up.”

“I’m fine, Lestrade.”

“You sure about that?”

“I said I am fine. The body?”

“In the bedroom.”

The crime scene was a semidetached house in one of London’s nicer neighbourhoods. Typical domain for a domestic homicide. If Sherlock hadn’t been so keen to get his mind off things, he might have sneered at the dullness of it all and left again.

Approaching the bed, Sherlock found he was looking at a neatly arranged body. The dead woman, clearly a sub, was still kneeling on the bed, arms bound to either side of the bed frame with strong leather ties. She was slumped back against the headboard, but had clearly struggled to get out of her bonds beforehand, given the state of her wrists. It took Sherlock one quick look to see that the white leather collar around her neck was too tight for her. It had cut off her air supply.

“Do you really need me to tell you how she died?” Sherlock sneered and turned towards Lestrade. “I see Anderson isn’t on this case. Surely, any other halfway decent forensic expert could tell.”

“We know she choked, of course. We just don’t know about the circumstances. Her wife is in Dubai on business, so she’s got a pretty steady alibi.”

Keeping himself from listing the five different ways the wife could still be the murderer while residing on the other side of the world, Sherlock nodded sharply.

“Also,” Lestrade continued, “the back door was broken into and several valuable objects have been taken. There was a cracked money box and somebody clearly rummaged through the cutlery in hopes of silver. I’m sure the wife can identify more stolen-”

“It was her lover, obviously,” Sherlock cut him off, running out of patience. “He staged a break-in to mess with you lot, but her body speaks volumes. This was mutual sex, not a break-in gone rape.”

Lestrade blinked at him.

“A jilted lover? Really?”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock stooped to explain.

“Not jilted. Just look at her, Lestrade. Yes, she’s clearly struggled in her bonds, but her fingernails are perfectly fine. Had she tried to fend him off as he tied her down, some of them at least would show damage, yet her polish is impeccable. She only started struggling when she was choking. The burn marks on her legs are clearly from mutual, consensual fun: they’re clean and neat, so she held still like an obedient little sub. It was all very lovingly done.”

At that, Sherlock had to stop. He swallowed roughly against a sudden tight feeling in his throat. Somehow, this crime scene was getting to him, even though there was nothing personal about it.

Forcing himself to shake off his stupor, Sherlock continued.

“The penetration was very rough, but not unwanted, I’d say she even squeezed her thighs to increase the sensation. Now, look at how she is arranged. He didn’t move or mutilate her afterwards as he might have done if he secretly hated her and planned to kill her. Her hair - he must have stroked through it as he tried to talk to her, hoping for her to regain consciousness. Futile, of course, she was already dead by then.”

“So you’re saying...?”

“Erotic asphyxiation gone very, very wrong,” Sherlock concluded. “He must have got carried away during intercourse and forgot she couldn’t breathe. He accidently killed her, then panicked, so he staged a sloppy break-in to cover the tracks and ran off. You might even find the stolen objects in a rubbish bin nearby.”

Lestrade looked the body over one more time, then nodded in grim acceptance.

“Fine. Any idea where to find this dom?”

“He’s definitely taken her phone and she would have been smart enough not to have any names and numbers lie around the house, but try her email account. An online-dating site is likely to be the start of this affair, given the state of the computer in the living room.”

“I’ll give word to have somebody get into that, then,” Lestrade said, reaching for his own mobile.

“You won’t need a specialist. I’m sure her provider will be bookmarked and the passwords saved. I doubt the computer is protected. If it does need an access key, try the cat’s name: Minty.”

“All right.”

“Is that all?” Sherlock demanded.

“I- yes. But Sherlock-”

Turning around, Sherlock rushed from the room without a word of goodbye.

He had, however, miscalculated just how worried Lestrade had been about him earlier. He had hardly made it past the barrier tape and onto the pavement when the DI’s hand came to rest roughly on his shoulder, holding him back.

“Sherlock, wait,” he said, slightly out of breath.

Growling in annoyance, Sherlock turned to glare at him.

“What is it?” he snarled. “Was there another body hidden in the wardrobe?”

“Good god, Sherlock, there really is something going on with you. Are you okay? Has something happened?”

“Nothing has happened,” Sherlock insisted, shaking off Lestrade’s hand. He knew running off again would be futile for now. He would do best to make it obvious he was fine so the DI would stop bothering him about it.

“It’s clear something has, though. Is it the man from the last crime scene? The dom? Smallish, blonde hair?”

“No,” Sherlock snapped in response.

Lestrade hardly needed to be a genius to recognise Sherlock’s defensiveness for what it was.

“So it is about him. Is he your new dom? Is he giving you trouble? He seemed pretty angry last week, did he … do anything to you?”

“What are you trying to imply?” Sherlock replied heatedly.

Lestrade raised his hands in a gesture of conciliation.

“I’m not trying to imply anything, I am taking guesses because you won’t talk to me. The man - he is your dom?”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Sherlock retorted, frustrated.

“In that case I have to assume you’re in an abusive relationship and get that bloke in for questioning. Maybe even call your brother, if the evidence isn’t sufficient for that.”

“Don’t you dare!” Sherlock warned him at once, taking a menacing step towards Lestrade.

Lestrade seemed unimpressed.

“Look, Sherlock. I’m just worried. You don’t have to tell me the whole thing, but at least give me some reassurance that you’re not in a bad way because of your dom. You’re clearly on edge. I can tell something must have happened, more than just a harmless quarrel. You wouldn’t be this affected otherwise.”

When Sherlock didn’t give a reply, he added: “You know I’m a sub, too. If there’s a problem, I might understand.”

“I don’t think you will,” Sherlock told him, suddenly feeling too tired to keep up his defensive anger. His shoulders slumped.

“Try me,” Lestrade offered.

For a few moments, Sherlock merely watched Lestrade. Honest concern was evident on every square inch of his face, but that wasn’t what Sherlock was focusing on. Instead, he took in all the things Lestrade had done to conceal the fact that he was a sub.

It was no secret he was a submissive, but holding a leadership profession like Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard came with certain duties and expectations. Being a sub was more than a small disadvantage.

Dominant subordinates trying to manipulate you or disrespecting you outright. Struggling with interrogating violent and aggressive dom suspects. Dominant colleagues trying to undermine your authority. Fighting sub stereotypes on a daily basis.

It wouldn’t do to show outright that you were a sub.

Lestrade had never worn his collar to work, undoubtedly why his rather conservative wife had ultimately left him, for starters. Neither did he talk about his orientation, avoiding the subject as much as possible. His hair was clipped very short, which was more of a dominant fashion statement and he also made a point of standing and talking a certain way, sometimes imitating typical dominant gestures to come across as particularly strong and confident.

Maybe, he would understand. He knew what it was like to be tied down by submissive urges. Surely, there must have been days where Lestrade had wished he’d been born dominant, just like Sherlock often did.

“He’s not my dom,” Sherlock told him. “Not in the usual sense. He’s helping me, that’s all. No collars, no commitment, just a bit of guidance.”

“So it’s a casual thing. And you got in a fight?”

“It wasn’t a real fight. More of a ... misunderstanding.”

It was clear Lestrade was listening very carefully to Sherlock’s wording, but he kept his face neutral as he asked: “Has he pushed too far? Asked for something you didn’t want to give?”

“No. It was I who pushed,” Sherlock admitted. “I made assumptions about what he might expect from me and our arrangement.”

Lestrade did a poor job suppressing his smile.

“You tried to deduce his expectations of you?” he asked.

“It’s nothing I haven’t done before,” Sherlock confirmed, slightly insulted by Lestrade’s incredulity.

“You do realise a dom isn’t like a crime scene? There are no steady facts to which you only need to find the clues, and then you know the truth. He can change his mind, he can desire something he knows he cannot ask of you. The list goes on and on.”

“I realise now it was a bad idea,” Sherlock snapped, once more feeling defensive. “You’re right and I am wrong. Happy? I’m very sure it’s going to be over soon either way, so your advice is useless.”

“That bad?” Lestrade prodded.

“Yes.”

“Did you properly talk it over? Unless you tried something completely unethical, I’m sure you can work it out.”

Sherlock didn’t want to reply to that. Picking up on his reluctance, Lestrade shrugged.

“Look, I don’t know the man, so obviously I can only assume, but anybody who can deal with you being stroppy at a crime scene and forgetting about a date in favour of a murder seems like a keeper to me. It’s clear you’re upset, but you’ve stopped to talk it over with me so he means something to you, which frankly is a first with you. Go and talk to him. You’ll sort it out. If not - good riddance.”

Sherlock couldn’t find it in him to tell Lestrade that he did not want to say good riddance to John Watson. Not at all.

Sherlock knew where John lived, of course. It was one of the first things he had looked up after John had taken him on.

He had never been there, though. He knew from the address that it would not be very impressive, but he hadn’t expected what pretty much boiled down to a block of shoeboxes. The building looked old and slightly dirty from the outside, and while it certainly wasn’t a place for the poor, it was definitely far worse than Baker Street and quite likely horribly overpriced for the dubious state it was in.

John’s flat was on the fourth floor and the lift was broken, naturally. Sherlock took the steps in long strides, trying not work himself up again.

Both Lestrade and John had said that talking would do the trick, and Sherlock did not feel like asking for John to come over once more. If things went pear-shaped, he’d much rather be able to leave and retreat.

He rang the shrill bell, adorned with a crooked little paper sign stating J. Watson, and waited, listening for John’s footfall.

John opened the door fairly quickly and was clearly taken aback to see Sherlock standing in front of it.

“Sherlock,” he said, surprised. “I- did you send me a message that you were coming over?”

“No,” Sherlock replied simply. “It was a spontaneous decision.”

Without further ado, he walked past John and into the tiny flat. And realised John was not alone.

A pretty sub was sitting on one of the two chairs in the only proper room of the flat. She had long brown hair and delicate features, and her make-up and clothes were flirty and well-chosen for her type. From the way she sat comfortably in the room, Sherlock could tell she had been there before and was very familiar with the surroundings. Around her throat rested a thin but solid silver collar.

“Sorry, Sarah. This is Sherlock, I didn’t know he was coming over,” John said from behind Sherlock, clearly uncomfortable.

Sherlock turned around at once.

“I didn’t know you wouldn’t be alone,” he said tightly. “Sorry. Goodbye.”

With that, he pushed past John and out the door. He was already halfway down the first flight of stairs when John caught up with him. Apparently, this was a day to be chased down.

“Sherlock, hold on. Sherlock, please.”

“Why should I?” Sherlock said, but stopped at the landing. “It is clear you’ve already found a replacement for me. A long time ago, in fact, given her familiarity with you and your flat.”

“What? Oh, Sherlock, no, it’s not at all what you think-”

“Oh, isn’t it?” Sherlock snarled, turned and rounded on John, stopping mere inches from his face. “Let’s see, then - her hands and handbag clearly identify her as a doctor, so most likely a colleague you met at work. First name basis, your tone was very familiar, almost intimate. And then the way she instinctively turned her head towards your voice - I observe it all the time with subs that have become comfortable with their doms, a constant search for guidance. And of course, the collar. I didn’t take you for the silver kind of man, but there she sits with proof around her neck. Aren’t I correct?”

“No, Sherlock. Well, yes, some of it is true, but she’s not-”

“Why did you do it?” Sherlock interrupted him, anger boiling deep in his chest. “Why did you take me on if you already have a pliant, pretty thing at home? Do you like the thrill of having two subs do your bidding? Do you get off on it? I don’t know how you managed to fool me up to now, but I-”

“Sherlock, stop,” John interrupted his speech. “Sherlock, she’s not my sub.”

Taken aback, Sherlock stared at him. Why was he denying it? All the clues, all the signs - they had known each other for a while, she was comfortable in the flat, her make-up and dressy clothes - pointed at one thing.

“Look: we used to date, back in Uni,” John hurriedly explained, seizing the moment. “She was one of the four, I broke it off when I joined the army. We met up after I returned and she offered me a job at her surgery. We’ve stayed friends. Just friends, Sherlock. She’s happily engaged to her boyfriend of six years and the only sub I am currently involved with is you.”

“Oh,” was all Sherlock got out.

The anger vanished promptly, making space for shame. He had embarrassed himself with his pointless jealousy, hadn’t he? Even if this Sarah were John’s sub, it wouldn’t have been any of Sherlock’s business, as John and he weren’t in a proper relationship. Hell, he didn’t want to commit to John, so why had he felt so betrayed? And why was he feeling so relieved now?

“Come here then,” John said, and before Sherlock knew what was happening, John had pulled him into a hug.

It felt marvellous. Sherlock hadn’t know he needed this, but now, with John’s arms firmly around him, he felt like all the anger and tension of the day vanished. He breathed in deeply, enjoying John’s scent. If only he were on his knees, burying his face in John’s soft jumper, it would be perfect.

“Here’s what we will do,” John proposed softly, arm still curled firmly around the sub. “I’ll ask Sarah to leave and cancel our dinner for tonight. She’ll understand, I already told her I might receive an urgent call. When she’s gone, we can talk. Does that sound good to you?”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock replied, then stiffened. He hadn’t meant to tag on the sir, now that he was no longer allowed.

“You can call me sir if you like,” John told him at once, squeezing Sherlock’s back in reassurance before releasing him. Always so perceptive. “I just thought you’d be more comfortable talking on equal terms. Now, come with me.”

Like one might do with a child, John took Sherlock by the hand and lead him back upstairs. For some reason, Sherlock wasn’t bothered at all by the patronising gesture.

He only half-listened to John making his excuses to Sarah, who luckily did not make a fuss but left with a quick kiss for John’s cheek and a more than curious glance for Sherlock. Undoubtedly, she would call John for details later in the night.

As soon as she was gone, John had Sherlock strip off his coat and sit down on the small bed. Sherlock absently noticed that it wasn’t half as comfortable as his own.

“Now, before we talk, do you need anything?” John enquired. “A glass of water? Another cuddle?”

“I’m fine, sir,” Sherlock replied quietly, nearly returning John’s encouraging smile.

“If you’re sure.”

Sherlock could tell John hesitated, but he did sit down next to Sherlock on the bed rather than picking one of the chairs by the only table.

“All right then,” John started out. “What happened this afternoon, before you were called to your case?”

“A miscalculation, sir.”

“Mind expanding a bit on that?”

Sherlock couldn’t help but relax. John had adapted a light, encouraging tone, making Sherlock feel like he couldn’t go wrong, no matter what he said. Of course, there was no point in lying either way.

“I assumed that, in order to have you keep up our arrangement, I would have to make sure you are satisfied. Sexually, and otherwise. You didn’t let me reciprocate and I feared you’d refused because I hadn’t begged for it properly. That I didn’t deserve to do it, or some such thing.”

“And you know now that that wasn’t what I was expecting?” John asked carefully.

“Your reaction made it pretty obvious, sir,” Sherlock said.

“Can I ask - was it something I said? Or did? Did you feel like I was pressuring you into this?”

Sherlock could tell John was more than upset at the thought that he might have coerced Sherlock into it. How Sherlock could have ever thought John was manipulative or out to subdue Sherlock, he honestly couldn’t understand now.

“Not at all, sir. I had thought I could deduce your preferences, which was silly at best. I know that now.”

“The reason I refused wasn’t because I didn’t think you weren’t good enough,” John assured him placing a careful hand on Sherlock’s thigh. “I just wanted to go slow. You made it clear you didn’t want to commit, so I assumed you’d prefer to be taken care of rather than spending your time pleasuring me. I didn’t take you on so I could have somebody to shag, you know.”

“But that’s just it,” Sherlock spoke up, failing to hide his frustration. “You’re not getting anything out of this. I take and take, and all you’re allowed to do is order me around and reward me for a job well-done. You’re not getting anything in return, not even a collared sub to show off to others.”

“I’m getting plenty in return,” John replied fervently. He scooted closer until their shoulders were touching. “You wouldn’t say you got nothing out of it the first three times we met, would you? You didn’t get off then. All I had you do is follow orders and wind down, and you thought it was good. It’s the same for me. I don’t need you sucking me off to enjoy this. It makes me feel good to take care of you. It pleases me to see you go from tense and snarky to pliant and obedient. Do you even realise how good it was to have you in my arms after using the crop on you? You were soft and relaxed and for once not overthinking anything. I couldn’t have been more pleased.”

Sherlock couldn’t say anything to that. Of course, listening to John explain it like that, it made perfect sense.

“Your former relationships,” John asked. “They weren’t of the talking-and-cuddling variety, I take it? Much more sexual, maybe? ”

“Most of them exclusively,” Sherlock told him. “I didn’t like most of my doms, not as a person. All I wanted was to be held down and taken, told what to do, and so on. I needed the itch to go away. It distracts me from my work.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” John assured him. “I had a few flings that were much the same.”

They stayed quiet for a while and Sherlock leaned against John’s shoulder. It simply felt too nice to have him this close after all the drama of the day.

“Would you like to talk about your freak-out over Sarah?” John eventually enquired, so cautiously as if approaching a wild animal.

Sherlock fervently shook his head.

“Not really, sir,” he said, then thought to add: “Please.”

“Then we won’t,” John agreed at once. “Just one more thing: we can’t have this happen again, you making assumptions and it all ending in a fight and bouts of insecurity.”

“I’ll try to do better, sir,” Sherlock said, but John shook his head, smiling.

“No, you silly man. It’s as much my fault as yours. I should have seen you were unsure and I didn’t. Look, I don’t usually do this anymore, but maybe - a safeword?”

Sherlock stared at him. A safeword? Safewords were for inexperienced teenagers who didn’t know their limits, not for grown adults. Really, unless you were into rape scenarios, a simple no or stop was enough to make any partner stay back and make sure you were all right.

“Do you really think that necessary, sir?” Sherlock asked. “I’m sure you’d stop if I said so, really. I know that.”

“I just think it would help,” John replied. “You don’t want to be in a relationship, so a safeword might help you distinguish between the times I act as your dom and the times we’re talking like any regular people.”

“So it wouldn’t be for making you stop?”

“Well, if you say it during a session, of course I’ll stop. But I thought it would be handy for situations like today. I realise now that you were thrown off by me telling you to stop kneeling and calling me sir earlier. I never wanted to give you the feeling I was trying to get rid of you.”

Sherlock mulled that over.

“We can agree on one,” he finally said. “But I’d rather we didn’t use it unless it’s really absolutely necessary.”

“Pick one, then,” John told him.

Sherlock didn’t need to think over that for long.

“Microscope.”

John’s eyes crinkled with amusement.

“Very fitting. Microscope it is.”

They sat together for a while, John’s hand petting lightly over Sherlock’s thigh, Sherlock making a point of slumping against John’s side. Finally, John squeezed Sherlock’s leg tightly.

“Would you like to wind down a bit now?” he asked, voice deep. “It was such a stressful day, I’m sure you’d benefit from some downtime.”

Sherlock shivered. That did sound enticing.

“Yes, sir. I’d like that very much.”

“Stand and undress, then,” he ordered firmly, as if he’d flipped a switch.

Swallowing, Sherlock hurried to obey and got up to undress, making sure to neatly fold his clothes like he had been told before. Once he was done, he stood by the bed, expecting new orders.

“Kneel!”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock replied and kneeled down fluidly, completely nude.

“Put your hands behind your back,” John continued. “ And rise from your heels. I want to look at you properly for now.”

Sherlock straightened up at once until he was resting on his shins and feet only, his bare behind no longer resting on the balls of his feet.

John’s eyes unashamedly wandered right to Sherlock’s slowly flushing cock.

“Now, I want you to touch yourself, Sherlock. Right hand only, the other arm stays behind your back.”

Licking his lips, Sherlock slowly curled his right hand around his cock.

“Look at my face while you’re stroking yourself,” John ordered. He made brief eye contact to ensure Sherlock was doing as he was told, only to return his own eyes to Sherlock’s groin. “I want you to see how it arouses me, ordering you about, making you feel good.”

Breathing heavily through his nose, Sherlock watched every nuance of John’s face as he stroked his hardening cock.

John, clever as he was, knew that Sherlock would pick up on everything. He knew Sherlock saw the pleased twitch whenever Sherlock’s thumb brushed over the head, noticed the unconscious swipe of John’s tongue as he played with his foreskin, enjoyed the way John’s eyes moved along just the tiniest little bit as Sherlock’s hand moved up and down his erection.

John wanted Sherlock to know that he got plenty in return, even if he wasn’t being touched himself.

The thought alone made Sherlock speed up his strokes, moaning quietly at the increased friction. Soon, he felt a bit of moisture against his thumb, but he didn’t look away from John’s fascinated face.

“Very good, Sherlock,” John said breathlessly. “You look gorgeous like this. Kneeling on the floor touching yourself for me because I told you to. Tease your foreskin again, yes, just like that. God, you’re doing brilliantly.”

The praise felt unbelievably good, mingling with the heady sensation of tight fingers brushing over his erect cock. Sherlock knew this wouldn’t last much longer.

“Sir,” he managed, though it sounded close to a moan.

“You may come whenever you’re ready,” John said with a dirty sort of smile. “Don’t hold yourself back. Moan and gasp, shake and shiver. I want you to let yourself go.”

And Sherlock did. Tightening his hand and increasing the speed, Sherlock struggled not to close his eyes as he finally came, spilling semen on his hand as he orgasmed. Just like John had wished, he didn’t hold anything back: he moaned and sighed, breathing heavily through the shocks and trembles.

And John loved it. Sherlock could tell from the pleased smile, the widening eyes, the movement of John’s lips. John was so pleased merely to watch Sherlock find his release. It was wonderful.

Finally, Sherlock let himself fall back onto his heels, kneeling properly again as his face flushed with the pleasant glow of release. He closed his eyes, licking his lip as he stroked himself a few times more, enjoying the sensitivity.

Before he knew it, John was kneeling next to him, batting Sherlock’s hand away and cleaning him up with a soft flannel. When Sherlock blinked at him, John seized the moment and kissed him deeply, then murmured words of affection and praise as he brushed away sticky semen and sweat.

Finally, he let Sherlock slump against him, kissing him again and again as Sherlock went pliant in his arms.

Sherlock felt like he was floating, hardly reciprocating the kisses, letting John take his mouth as he pleased.

“Would you like to sleep for a while?” John finally asked him. Absently, Sherlock nodded, seeking out John’s mouth for another kiss.

Smiling, John finished the kissing with a quick peck, guided Sherlock up and onto the bed, arranging the cover and blanket neatly around him.

“Thank you, sir,” Sherlock remembered to say as he made himself comfortable, and received another kiss as a reward.

“Sleep,” John told him. “I won’t be going anywhere.”

Sherlock breathed in the scent of John’s bed as he dozed off, smiling to himself.

That night, Sherlock dreamed of wearing a collar, soft and black.

But it was tight, too tight, growing tighter with each second. It was choking him, stealing his air until he felt he might pass out.

Suddenly though, strong hands opened the buckle at the back, adjusting the collar until it was sitting comfortably. Looking up as he coughed and breathed, Sherlock saw John’s smiling face.

“You’re brilliant,” he said and smiled warmly.

Sherlock felt as proud as never before in his life, free from any voice that might have called him pathetic.

“Just brilliant,” John repeated. “Oh Sherlock. You’re extraordinary.”

Chapter Text

Things went smoothly, for a month or so, with Sherlock growing more and more comfortable with John's presence in his life.

That was, of course, until the next case drought.

Apparently, London’s criminals had taken a well-deserved break, and what little murdering happened on the side were dull domestics even Anderson could solve in his sleep.

Sherlock was slowly but surely going insane. Three weeks without a case and the boredom had reached a state of pure cruelty. To make things worse, John had taken on more hours at the surgery with one of his colleagues on sick leave, and hadn’t been around for nine days.

Sherlock was starting to feel that crawling itch again, the one that had ended up pushing him to beg Mycroft for help.

All in all, Sherlock was feeling horrid, and it was beginning to take its toll. He’d sworn off the drugs for good, he had, but he couldn’t help longing for the mindless bliss a dose of morphine had granted him back in the day.

Feeling restless and wired, Sherlock soon had made a mess of the flat, picking up books and journals only to drop them again when they couldn’t hold his interest for any extended amount of time. He didn’t bother getting dressed anymore either, but walked around in his dressing gown, only just finding the motivation to shower and shave as time passed dreadfully slowly and uneventfully.

It was inevitable that John would find him in less than flattering circumstances, and Sherlock was more than displeased when the dom showed up on Sherlock’s doorstep just when the sub was busy yelling at Mrs Hudson for binning something she had deemed rubbish, but had actually been an experiment.

“You always stress that you aren’t my housekeeper, and yet you take my things and throw them out,” he snapped at her.

Mrs Hudson looked at him unhappily, still standing on the threshold, clutching her own empty bin.

“I wouldn’t feel like having to do it if you kept your flat at least somewhat tidy, dear,” she argued, voice strained. “How was I to know that thing was something important? It had grown mold!”

“You don’t need to know, you simply need to not touch my things!” Sherlock bellowed.

Which was, of course, the moment John showed up in front of 221B.

“What is this, then?” he asked pleasantly, though his narrowed eyes did not bode well for Sherlock.

Mrs Hudson, years of living under the hard hand of her dom husband at the back of her mind, was quick to defend Sherlock, no matter how poorly he might have treated her before.

“Oh, it’s nothing, Dr Watson,” she said soothingly, even bowing her head a little bit like subs of older generations still tended to do. “Just a bit of a misunderstanding, don’t you worry.”

“Didn’t sound like nothing to me, Mrs Hudson,” John replied carefully. “Mind explaining why you were shouting at your landlady just a moment ago, Sherlock?”

“A misunderstanding,” Sherlock repeated stiffly, throwing Mrs Hudson a quick glance. “Sorry.”

Turning on the spot, he hurried up the steps, only to throw himself onto his couch upstairs. Of course, John would have decided to show up after all, just when he had lost it and treated Mrs Hudson so harshly. Of course, John would have a day off and decide to come over just when Sherlock had least expected it.

Uttering a colourful curse, Sherlock’s mood turned even fouler.

John was slow to follow Sherlock, clearly taking the time to chat with Mrs Hudson before coming upstairs. When he finally entered through the living room door, the look of annoyance he was wearing was instantly replaced by an expression of disbelief as he took in the state of the flat.

“Jesus,” he said, taking in the mess in the room first, then the rumpled form that was Sherlock curled up miserably on the sofa. “What is going on today? Are you sick?”

Not feeling much like explaining, Sherlock made a point of hiding his face in the cushion resting next to him. His head was throbbing from his efforts not to do or say anything he’d regret later.

He had not enjoyed John being too busy to make time for him, but now that he was here and already annoyed, Sherlock kind of wished he had not come.

He could hear the dom carefully make his way through the littered floor, but deducing which pile of stuff he was currently passing by was not enough to silence his starving brain. If anything, it only made things worse.

“Sherlock?” John repeated once he stood by the couch. “It’s clear you’re not doing well. What’s happening?”

Sherlock let out a sort of grunt, curling in on himself even further. He didn’t want John to see him like this. He just wanted a case, something to do, anything.

A hand settled lightly on his shoulder, seemingly igniting sparks on Sherlock’s skin. His brain set off at once, offering a cascade of useless information: the amount of pressure John had put into the touch, the estimated temperature of his hand, the exact slide of fabric as it was moved and slightly crumpled against his skin. Sherlock couldn’t bare it.

“Off!” he snarled into the pillow. “Off, get off me!”

Immediately, John removed his hand.

“What is the matter with you?” he asked, obviously flabbergasted at Sherlock’s hostility.

“Go away,” Sherlock said, voice muffled. “Leave me be.”

“I can’t leave until I know you’re all right,” John argued reasonably.

Frustrated, Sherlock threw the pillow onto the floor, glaring up at the dom.

“Not hurt, not sick. Now go away,” he snapped.

John’s face darkened considerably.

“If you’re fine, I don’t see any reason why you’d feel the need to be disrespectful to Mrs Hudson or me right now,” he said, voice dangerously quiet.

“Go away, sir,” Sherlock snarled, and knew right away it was a mistake.

No dom enjoyed being ridiculed, but John had a particular dislike for Sherlock using sir in a way that wasn’t heartfelt. It was the very first lesson John had taught him, and yet here he was, spitting it out like it meant nothing.

Sherlock regretted having thrown away the pillow. John looked thunderous and Sherlock very much felt like hiding again.

“Get up,” John ordered, voice clipped.

Unwilling to anger John any further, Sherlock got to his feet.

“I have no idea what has got into you,” John continued icily. “What is the meaning of this? You say you’re not sick, so what is it?”

Sherlock didn’t know how to explain it. Didn’t want to explain it. He was bored, he was going crazy, he felt trapped in his own brain. How could he make that clear to anyone that wasn’t him?

“Are you trying to provoke me?” John continued when no answer was forthcoming. “Is that why the flat is such a mess again?”

For some reason, those words made Sherlock incredibly furious, hot anger boiling up in his stomach.

“Not everything is about you, John,” he sneered viciously. “My life does not revolve around you, or have you spotted your collar around my throat lately?”

John grew very, very still. For a few seconds, his face went pale and entirely blank. Then, a look of cold fury distorted his features.

Sherlock felt goosebumps rise on his skin.

“You will go upstairs, into the spare room,” John finally said, and Sherlock swallowed heavily. He had never heard John sound this intense, this steely. “You will undress, then stand with your hands against the wall, legs shoulder-width apart, and wait for me. Is that understood?”

Struck speechless, Sherlock only nodded, though he really should know better by now. John’s eyes narrowed in a way that made Sherlock regret ever having provoked the man in the first place.

“I said: is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock whispered.

“Go!”

Sherlock’s hands were shaky as he left for the stairs, taking the steps on unsteady legs. He was no longer bored now, but feeling this shaken was even worse.

He really had done it now. He had been so busy making sure to keep John around that he had completely forgot about just what could happen if he pushed it too much and John felt proper punishment was in order.

Really, John had been incredibly lenient with him so far. Sherlock had never met a dom this patient, and yet, Sherlock had provoked him to a point that clearly meant severe consequences.

Trembling, Sherlock entered the spare room, void of anything but a few boxes of dusty books and an old cabinet. Carefully, he went about undressing, folding the dressing gown, pyjama bottoms, shirt and underpants as neatly as he could. The cabinet was covered in dust, so he dared placing the stack on the slightly cleaner floor.

Remembering John’s instructions as clearly as if they had been scratched into his brain, Sherlock leaned against the wall opposite the door and adjusted his legs until they were shoulder-width apart. Shuffling backwards, Sherlock moved until he felt stable in his stance.

He knew what this position implied. After all, John had never bothered to take home his cane.

The following minutes passed slowly. Soon, Sherlock was shivering in the barely heated room, but didn’t dare to move and keep himself warm.

He tried to keep himself occupied. Sherlock remembered the surge of excitement he had felt when he first thought John would cane him, but had him kneel for nearly an hour instead. Back then, he had still tried to work out what kind of dom John was, how he treated his subs. Back then, Sherlock might have even welcomed a caning, if only because it would have proved his point of John being dull and predictable after all.

Now, Sherlock was not thinking anything along those lines. Now, Sherlock was trembling and regretting his misconduct already.

He didn’t know precisely how long it took John to come upstairs, but it was much longer than he would have needed to merely fetch the cane. Clearly, he had taken his time to cool off, unwilling to risk getting carried away with his mind clouded with red anger.

When there finally was footfall on the stairs, Sherlock breathed deeply through his nose, bracing himself for what was to come.

Sherlock could not watch John enter, given his position, but his brain worked at high-speed, offering him mental pictures of what the dom had to look like, carrying the cane in his dominant left hand, eyeing Sherlock sharply, looking for any flaw in his position.

Sherlock tried not to tense up when he heard John close the door, clearly hoping to muffle the sounds that would undoubtedly fill this room in a minute.

The silence was thick, only interrupted by creaking floorboards as John moved around, taking in Sherlock’s naked form from different angles, the pile of folded clothes, Sherlock’s fingers splayed on the wall.

Finally, John spoke.

“I cannot begin to tell you how much you’ve disappointed me,” he said, and Sherlock had to close his eyes as if to shield himself. John sounded horrible: cold, full of disdain. “Messing up the flat against my explicit wishes, I can deal with. But shouting at Mrs Hudson? Disrespecting me? Talking about this arrangement as if it meant nothing to you?”

He paused, stepping closer.

“It is true we aren’t in a relationship. You are not wearing my collar, at your own choice. But right now, you are a sub under my protection as well as my guidance, commitment or not. And no sub of mine will behave like this.”

He sucked in a heavy breath, clearly making an effort to keep his voice calm and collected rather than to start shouting at Sherlock until he was well and truly cowed.

“I don’t know what is going on,” he eventually continued. “I will not ask you again, either. I gave you ample time to explain yourself, and all you did was spit in my face and ridicule me and my position. Instead, I will punish you. Whatever it is that has caused you to behave like this, it doesn’t matter. All that counts now is that you did and said things that are inexcusable. I will not put up with my sub behaving this way, and I will teach you that lesson right here, right now. Can you accept that?”

Sherlock heard the underlying message right there, in that simple question. John hadn’t only asked if things were clear or understood. He asked for acceptance, for a choice, and he gave him a clear way out. Sherlock could say stop now, use the safeword to be sure even, and John would walk away with no complaint.

But it would heavily undermine their arrangement. It would show that Sherlock did not respect John’s authority, not when it counted, not where things like discipline were concerned. It would, effectively, reduce their arrangement to meaningless kneeling, void orders and empty praise.

And Sherlock did respect John. He did know he deserved to stand here and take whatever John thought to be appropriate punishment. If he didn’t know that, if he couldn’t accept that, their arrangement would be entirely pointless. They might as well be two strangers happening to be in the same room.

“I accept, sir,” he stated shakily.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

John moved again, footfall heavy against the floorboards. He was now standing more on Sherlock’s right, clearly the position he would need to hit Sherlock’s backside properly.

“You have chosen the cane as a tool for punishment, am I right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I will administer twenty strokes with my walking stick. Five for treating Mrs Hudson so poorly, another five for the state of the flat, and ten for disrespecting me and my authority in our arrangement. You will count out loud. If you lose track, you may ask me politely for the right number.” He paused to let his words sink in, then added: “Repeat that for me, I want to make sure you know what is going to happen.”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock said.

His brain was beginning to calm now, no longer a mess of mingled and restless thoughts. Focusing on his task, Sherlock carefully repeated the rules to John.

“Very good,” the dom approved once Sherlock had finished. “Are you ready, Sherlock?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you to speak clearly and otherwise not move.”

The cane made a sharp sound as it cut through the air, snapping loudly as it hit bare skin. Sherlock instantly knew he’d be bawling by the end of this punishment.

Just like he had thought when he first touched it, the aluminium cane was a harsh tool. Sherlock had felt thick sticks of rattan and birch, but never an entirely unyielding cane like this. It hurt just as much, and vehemently reminded him why he hated a caning. Unlike the pleasant bite of the crop, a cane’s impact was mostly dull and heavy. Instead of thin, red welts, it would leave painful swelling and a fair amount of bruises. And John was definitely holding nothing back.

“One, sir,” Sherlock said once the worst of the pain had subsided.

The next stroke followed at once, then another and another, until they reached five. Apparently, John was very keen on making his point, because he stopped to ask: “Why did you receive these five strokes?”

“For treating Mrs Hudson poorly, sir,” Sherlock explained shakily.

“Precisely. Are you ready to continue?”

Even now, the active choice. Sherlock willed down a surge of emotion, as he managed another: “Yes, sir.”

The punishment continued, the impact of the cane heavy and unrelenting on his bare skin. By stroke eight, his backside was throbbing and his eyes tingling.

“Why did you receive these five strokes?” John asked at number ten.

“The state of the flat, sir,” Sherlock choked, eyes burning with yet unshed tears.

He would cry. It was inevitable. Weeks of fighting it, of willing himself not to, and this punishment would be his downfall. He would sob like a baby, if he was not careful.

“Are you ready to continue?”

Sherlock suddenly wished he did not care so much, could say no. He wished he did not respect John like he did, wished he could stop him now and look for somebody else, wished he could be independent and not tied down by his submissiveness. At the same time, Sherlock was awed by the fact that he had finally found a dom that could make him endure a punishment that he knew would humiliate him by making him weep.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

Stroke twelve brought the tears. They ran freely down his face as he continued to count and endure, and by stroke twenty, his nose was clogged and he was breathing harshly through his mouth, making it entirely clear that he was crying, even though John could not see his face properly.

“Why did you receive the last ten strokes?” John asked, unrelenting.

“Because I disrespected you, sir,” Sherlock said through his tears. God, he sounded a mess, sounded pathetic.

“And?” John prodded mercilessly.

“For questioning your authority in this arrangement, sir.”

“Exactly.”

Sniffling in spite of himself, Sherlock did not dare move until he was told otherwise. Ever the doctor, John stepped close, diligently looking over his own handiwork, making sure there were no permanent injuries. Where another dom might have been cruel and ended the inspection with a firm slap for the tender skin, John’s fingers only ghosted over the hot flesh, making sure he had not missed anything.

“Turn around and kneel,” John ordered in a hard voice once he had put the cane on top of the dusty cabinet. “Rest on your heels.”

Sherlock did as he was told, the balls of his feet digging painfully into his abused skin as he slipped into position on the hard floorboards. He made no move to brush away the fresh tears, though he would have dearly liked to do so. John hadn’t given him permission to hide, nor clean himself up. It was clear from his position that he was still being punished.

John took his time to look at him. Sherlock was sure it did not pass John by that he was not aroused in the slightest. Just like he had said, Sherlock got nothing out of a caning but pain and the feeling he was redeeming himself for poor behaviour.

“In a minute, I will let you get redressed and clean yourself up,” John finally informed him. “Then, we will go downstairs. You will apologise to Mrs Hudson properly. Agreed?”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock replied hoarsely, blinking away more tears.

Even now, John was asking him if he wasn’t taking things too far, waited for Sherlock to agree instead of expecting the sub to simply do as he was told.

“You’ve done exceptionally well so far,” John said, the tiniest bit of tenderness bleeding through, and Sherlock bit his lip as emotion clogged his throat. “Just a bit longer, now.”

Luckily, Sherlock did not need to respond this time. A Yes, sir might very well have come out as a sob instead.

When permission was finally given, John watched as Sherlock got up and redressed himself, then followed him into the upstairs bathroom. He observed as Sherlock carefully washed his face.

Sherlock looked at himself in the half-cloudy mirror as he took deep breaths to calm himself. Of course, it would still be obvious that he had cried. His eyes were red-rimmed, his nose flushed, and his thick voice would undoubtedly give away the rest of the game.

They went downstairs together, John making sure to stay close to Sherlock, half intimidation, half support. Knocking politely at her door, John asked Mrs Hudson to give them a minute of her time. Sherlock apologised sincerely, and Mrs Hudson, far too gentle wherever Sherlock was concerned, accepted it at once, even kissing his cheek in conciliation. Sherlock managed a weak smile in return.

Upstairs, John made his way through the mess that was the floor and settled down on the couch, allowing Sherlock to curl up against him.

Any position would remind him of the throbbing in his backside, but at least, the sofa was soft and allowed him to adjust his weight. In the end, Sherlock gave into his very nature and hid his face in John’s shoulder.

John draped a careful arm around Sherlock’s back, pulling him close.

“You’ve been very good,” he said calmly, no longer sounding angry or cold.

This was the side of the dom Sherlock had disdained so much in the beginning, John’s soft and caring side, the one that went so poorly with the kinds of glares he could throw into Sherlock’s direction. Sherlock no longer sneered at it. Instead, he only breathed against John, enjoying the dom’s warmth. His own mind had gone blissfully quiet as he soaked up the words of praise John offered freely, now that the punishment was over.

“I’m proud of you. You didn’t fight or refuse. You knew you’d done wrong and accepted the consequences. You were brilliant, Sherlock, simply brilliant.”

When Sherlock raised his head to seek out John’s lips, John’s kisses were firm but tender, one hand brushing gently down Sherlock’s cheek as he sucked at Sherlock’s lower lip and stroked his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth.

“Thank you, sir,” Sherlock finally said when he felt somewhat steady again and had pulled away.

John smiled.

“For the punishment?” he asked, slightly incredulous.

“For putting up with me,” Sherlock responded, surprising himself with his honesty.

John clearly couldn’t help it and pulled Sherlock close again, running a soft hand through his hair.

“You’re not a burden, Sherlock. Especially all pliant and apologetic like this,” John told him affectionately.

“Even so,” Sherlock murmured, but smiled into John’s embrace.

They stayed like this for a while and, for all that Sherlock hated the word, snuggled, until John carefully brought a bit of distance between them, clearly ready to abort the movement should Sherlock show any indication he needed some more time. As he was feeling fine again, Sherlock straightened up, careful not to move around too much and cause himself more pain.

“What has got into you, though?” the dom finally prodded, clearly unhappy to keep things unresolved. “I’d really like to know. I’ve not seen you like this before. You’re much too smart to provoke me like this anymore.”

“No cases, sir,” Sherlock explained curtly, looking away. “Nothing to do, nothing to focus on. My brain, it just gets - noisy.”

“And it is less noisy now?”

“Yes, sir. Much.”

John frowned.

“You do know you can ask for me any time you need me, don’t you?” he asked with honest concern. “I know I’ve been busy with work, but they would have understood when I told them I needed some time off. I could have come over and taken care of you, even just for an hour. You don’t need to wear my collar to call me if you need me. It wouldn’t have had to escalate like this, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shrugged, not feeling much like talking this over. Hearing it now, Sherlock couldn’t understand why he hadn’t even sent out a text to John instead of working himself up into a state until he was way past the point of no return.

“I know you don’t want to talk about this, but - why are you so unhappy?” John continued. “It’s no shame to be submissive, it’s natural. Needing a steady presence in your life, be it a dom or just a good friend, is a necessity. Just like a dom needs people to care for, romantically or not, or they will feel useless.”

“Useless, sir?” Sherlock snorted. “Why would a dom feel useless? They only need to go out and look for any willing sub that takes their fancy, and there they are again, taking care of somebody.”

“I don’t think you’re naive enough to honestly believe that, Sherlock.”

Sherlock was not, of course, not really. He knew dominants had fears and cravings, just like submissives, if of a slightly different nature. A dom was lost as much as a sub if they ended up alone and excluded for any extended amount of time.

Still, Sherlock couldn’t help but think they were better off than submissives could ever be. Centuries of oppression were ample proof of that, after all.

“I accept that I am submissive, sir,” Sherlock finally stated, tone purposefully curt in the hopes of putting an end to the matter. “But that’s because I know I can’t change it. I tried, believe me, no to avail. That doesn’t mean I have to like it, though.”

“Is it really that horrible?” John asked, looking oddly sad. “You do enjoy yourself if you let go of your doubts for a while and simply let yourself be lead, don’t you?”

With John hitting far too close to home, Sherlock stayed quiet, silently willing the dom to stop, to let it go. He didn’t want to answer these kind of questions, didn’t want to think about it.

“Sherlock?” John prodded.

And, when Sherlock said nothing still: “Come on, talk to me. I’d like to understand. An explanation? Anything at all?”

“Microscope.”

John actually jumped a bit, then made a point of sliding away from Sherlock, giving him space in case he felt trapped. He had obviously not even noticed that he had scooted very close again during his insistent questioning.

“Sorry,” he said fervently. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed, I should have seen you were uncomfortable. I’m sorry, I … I can leave, if you want?”

Sherlock watched him for a bit. There was a fair bit of upset on John’s face, but not because of Sherlock using the safeword, not precisely. Rather, he was upset at himself for not having stopped when Sherlock had shown clear signs of not wanting to talk about this.

Really, John didn’t deserve to feel like that. John did marvelously, most of the time. It was Sherlock who was the problem. Any other sub would simply talk and then curl up against their dom, revelling in the closeness. But Sherlock could not do that. Not now.

John, obviously interpreting Sherlock’s face wrong, spoke up again.

“Do you want me to leave? If it’s a matter of not wanting to be alone after what happened, I can ask Mrs Hudson to stay with you,” he proposed. It was touching how concerned he was. “Or maybe somebody else? Would you like me to call somebody, anyone at all? A friend? Family?”

“You don’t need to leave,” Sherlock replied, before John could suggest Mycroft of all people. “I don’t feel … threatened. I just wanted you to lay off. It’s not something I like to talk about, and you wouldn’t understand.”

John nodded, though it was clear he was not sure if Sherlock was entirely honest with himself.

“Do you want me to stick around, then? I can stay as your friend, you know. It doesn’t need to be the usual arrangement.”

That, Sherlock found, actually sounded rather nice.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’d like that.”

John smiled, eyes crinkling. Sherlock didn’t know why it felt so good to see him relax again, but it did. A content John was much more pleasant to look at than one that beat himself up over nothing.

John stayed until nightfall. They talked for a while, although John made a point not to mention the punishment, or the way Sherlock was wiggling about as the skin of his backside slowly started to show bruising. In the end, they simply sat in companionable silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

It was only after John had left that Sherlock realised that he felt as calm as if he’d just returned from a week-long-case. He slept very well that night.

Two weeks later, Sherlock asked John to join him on a case.

It was a spontaneous decision. Walking onto the crime scene, Sherlock had spotted Anderson and simply decided that, if he had to have some sort of doctor on the scene, it might as well be one that knew not to interfere.

He texted John the address, adding a Possibly dangerous. at the end.

Not twenty minutes later, John arrived in a cab, looking slightly out of breath. Sherlock smirked at that. It was nice to see that John would follow his call so quickly, even though he had made it clear in his message he was not hoping for a session.

“You again,” Sergeant Donovan exclaimed as John walked past the barrier tape, although she did nothing to stop him, clearly hoping for another round of Cowing Sherlock.

“Yes, hello,” John replied politely enough, then walked up to Sherlock.

Next to them, Lestrade looked curious, but didn’t comment on John’s presence, only gave a curt nod in greeting and briefly introduced himself. Clearly, he was remembering their talk, and was unwilling to breach a topic that was obviously a delicate one.

Sometimes, Sherlock was actually inclined to describe Lestrade as perceptive.

“John,” Sherlock said as way of greeting.

He was pleased to see that the dom was not at all bothered by the casual form of address. Clearly, he hadn’t forgot about the rules they had established: no sirs and obedience at a crime scene.

“Hello,” John replied, smiling. “You texted, here I am. Anything in particular?”

“A murder, of course,” Sherlock said and turned towards the space where the corpse lay, trusting John to follow him.

The crime scene was a multi-storey car park. The motors nearby were obviously expensive, a shiny row of BMWs and Bentleys, and the walls littered with security cameras. Yet, according to Lestrade, there was no recording of the murder. The body of a handsome young sub merely appeared on tape one second, as if of magic.

Which was, of course, utter nonsense.

“Obviously a drug-user, given the state of his arms,” John concluded once he had got over his initial uneasiness upon seeing a dead body and kneeled down to get a better look. “I’d say overdose, but if you look carefully, there’s a pin-prick mark at his neck. I’m not sure any casual user would stab themselves there, so it must have been foul play. You should probably consult a toxicologist, though, I won’t be of much use with this. I’m not an expert on these sort of substances, I’m afraid.”

“Not to worry, you’re doing just fine,” Sherlock said, throwing a look over his shoulder at Lestrade, who had supported Anderson in his conclusion that it was, in fact, a drug trip with a tragic ending and a tape recorder gone wonky. As if Sherlock couldn’t tell the difference.

Presenting John with a smile, he launched into his own observations about the body, making sure Lestrade was writing down anything of importance, then rushed off towards the surveillance room where the camera monitors were residing, shouting at John to come after him.

He stopped a few metres down, realising John was in fact not following. Groaning, but unwilling to leave him behind, Sherlock turned and approached John who was, of all possible things to derail him, talking to Sally.

“... speak to you like this?” she was saying incredulously.

“I don’t see how that is any of your business,” John retorted calmly, but with an edge to his voice.

It was obvious they were talking about Sherlock. He would have to nip this in the bud right then and there.

“John,” he repeated, but Donovan was not having it.

“I mean, I wondered about the lack of a collar,” she continued loudly, oblivious to John’s warning stance. “But he was so cowed the last time you were around, I thought it might be a sort of punishment. Him having to earn it back, maybe. But it’s clear it’s not that. You let him walk all over you! It’s no surprise he’s this unbearable, careless handling will do that to a sub, and Sherlock here? His sort needs more than just a heavy hand to know their place.”

“John,” Sherlock repeated, much more insistently, fingers twitching in an urge to shut Sally up with rather physical means.

It turned out, though, that he hadn’t needed to worry. Smiling his very best fake-pleasant smile, John was quick to give back his own speech.

“It is clear, Sergeant, that you have no idea how to deal with a submissive properly, let alone respectfully. Frankly, I am not only concerned for your subs, but also for the state of our police force. I’m surprised you still have a job, really, given your superior is a submissive as well. A prime example for the capabilities a submissive individual can bring to a leadership position, at that. If I were you, I’d tread more carefully. Now, if you'll excuse me, I am here to help my friend solve a murder case.”

With that, he stepped away, throwing Sherlock a significant look. Grinning, Sherlock lead the way, but not before he heard Sally make her embarrassed excuses to an exasperated sounding Lestrade.

“She’s perfectly respectful to other submissives,” he informed John as they made their way towards the surveillance room. “It's just I who rub her the wrong way.”

“All the more reason to give her a lecture then,” John replied easily.

“She sleeps with Anderson, did you know? I can tell from her deodorant. He’s a dominant, too, you understand.”

“And good luck to them,” John said. “Still no reason to be such a pain in the arse, though.”

Sherlock chuckled with genuine mirth, then stopped to ask: “It was that clear to you Lestrade was a submissive?”

John sent him a careful look.

“You’re much less guarded around him,” he said, clearly unsure if he was overstepping a boundary here. “It could just be him personally, but... well. From what I have seen so far, you’re much more defensive with dominants, but he’s no threat to you. You’re relaxed when you talk to him, almost comfortable really.”

Sherlock didn’t know whether to be delighted at John’s observational skills or annoyed at being so transparent. He decided to ignore the issue altogether in favour of walking right into the surveillance room uninvited after cracking the access code for the lock in two tries.

It turned out one of the rich car-owners had a preference for high and therefore defenseless subs and had gone looking for a rent boy with a heavy drug addiction, whom she then had injected with a drug of her choice. The sub, however, had died of the substance in her car before they could get up to anything. Panicking, the dom had bribed one of the security staff with a significant amount of money to destroy any recorded evidence and get rid of the body. Unfortunately for her the guard had only managed to do one of those two things before shift change.

Sherlock and John ended up chasing the bribed security guard through the better part of London, only to find that he had a very sick child at home who he had hoped to get into a special clinical study by using the money as yet another bribe. Promising they would talk to the police about his situation, the man gave them the right name and not two hours later, the dom in question had been caught and lead away by a relieved Lestrade.

Sherlock felt the heady rush of a case well-solved, and could tell John wasn’t any less excited. A healthy flush had crept onto his cheeks and he was grinning all the way back to 221B.

Getting out of the cab, Sherlock made a point of taking John by the hand and pulling him upstairs, past the living room and into his bedroom.

“You’re brilliant,” John was saying as he sat down on the bed, eyes sparkling. “You’re brilliant, and this case was brilliant, and I don’t think I’ve felt this way in quite some time. You’re a marvel, Sherlock, truly a marvel.”

Sherlock felt so exceptionally pleased that he slipped off his shoes and kneeled down in front of John without any second thoughts.

“Can we …?” he asked, although he didn’t know just what he was asking for. Anything, really. John close to him, John touching him, anything to treasure this moment. “I’d really like to …”

“Yes! Yes, of course,” was John’s pleased reply. Brimming with excitement, the dom told him to undress and take a thorough shower.

Not fifteen minutes later, Sherlock was lying face-down on his bed, completely naked. John was kneeling above him, legs placed on either side of Sherlock’s thighs, the fingers of his left hand slick with lube. He had got rid of his shirt, shoes and socks, but was still wearing his trousers.

“Describe to me exactly what it feels like,” he ordered as he slipped a finger in between Sherlock’s buttocks.

“God,” was the first thing out of Sherlock’s mouth when John’s finger breached the tight muscle.

“Flattering, but not what I was aiming at,” John joked, and Sherlock couldn’t help but chuckle along, no matter that he was naked and aroused and lying rather vulnerably underneath a dom.

“Sorry, sir,” he said, though they both knew it was a technicality. “It feels, mmh, it feels good, sir. A slight burn, but not uncomfortable. Now you’re - ah - you’re carefully twisting your finger, loosening me up and, gnh, pulling it out, pushing it in again, spreading the lubricant.”

“Would you like me to try two?” John asked, entirely too pleased with himself and this situation, not that Sherlock cared.

“Please, sir,” Sherlock replied, and John complied.

Quickly, Sherlock was giving up his descriptions in favour of moans and sighs as John was cleverly fucking him with three fingers. He had soon found a rhythm and angle that nearly drove Sherlock insane, made him wiggle and shift awkwardly, wanting more of it.

His cock was hard at his point, but simply pressed into the mattress, not getting nearly enough attention.

“Sir,” Sherlock eventually breathed, asking for a hand on his cock, a quicker pace, any sort of friction or release really.

“Hold onto the headboard,” John said, understanding what Sherlock had tried to say, never halting the repetitive movements of his fingers. “I want you to rub yourself off against the mattress. I want you to work for it and I want you eager, rutting the blankets like it’s the only thing that matters.”

“God, yes,” Sherlock moaned, fidgeting as he shifted his arms and curled his fingers around the headboard for support.

In any other situation, Sherlock would have been disgusted with himself. Why would he humiliate himself like this? Why would he hump the bed like an animal in heat, merely for a dom’s enjoyment.

But it wasn’t just for John’s enjoyment, was it? Sherlock loved this, wanted to give John a show, wanted to get off just the way his dom ordered him to.

Although the movement was awkward at first, Sherlock soon found a rhythm that allowed him to slide his cock roughly against the sheets, not remotely caring that he’d be tender later. John proved handy with his fingers, managing to keep fucking Sherlock as the sub rutted against the bed.

“You’re gorgeous,” John told him, bowing down to place a kiss against the space between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. “You’re bloody gorgeous.”

“Sir,” was all Sherlock could pant out in return, moaning loudly in between. “Sir.”

“God, the things you do to me, Sherlock.”

As if to prove his point, John shuffled back on his knees until he could press his clothed groin against the back of Sherlock’s right thigh, showing him just how aroused he was himself and pushing the sub further into the mattress with his weight in the process. He had to cease the movement of his fingers, but Sherlock moaned anyway.

For some reason, feeling John’s erection was what did it. Pressed into the mattress, John’s fingers all the way up inside him, Sherlock rutted once, twice more and came, spurting semen onto his sheets and his own flushed skin.

He clenched, tense for a few long moments, then relaxed entirely and simply melted against the bed, closing his eyes and enjoying the immense pleasure that was coursing through his body in waves.

Above him, John shifted into a more comfortable position. The dom very carefully removed his fingers, most likely giving them a rough cleaning against the bedspread, then carefully rolled Sherlock onto his side to be able to lie down next to him and pull him close to his bare chest.

Sherlock, floating on a post-orgasmic high, kissed the naked skin, licking at the slight film of sweat, tasting the other man.

“You enjoyed that?” John asked, though there really wasn’t much of a question about that.

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock said, emphasising it with a kiss to John’s left collarbone. “Immensely.”

Once he felt more like himself, Sherlock, slowly but determinedly, brushed his hand down John’s chest and stomach, and towards the fly of his jeans.

“May I, sir?” he asked, and John, thank God, nodded.

All it took, though Sherlock was hardly surprised about it, where a few firm strokes, and John came inside his pants with a very throaty sort of moan.

“Marvelous,” John said finally, Sherlock’s fingers still curled around his softening cock, and kissed him firmly on the mouth.

Feeling all kinds of giddy and pleased, Sherlock gladly leaned into it, slipping his hand from John’s cock as he was kissed. Soon, John rolled Sherlock onto his back, propped his lower body against Sherlock’s hips and curled his sticky hands around Sherlock’s wrists before starting to nip and lick at his mouth.

Sherlock firmly wished he could get hard again this quickly, it felt so good.

Eventually, they lay down again, feeling pliant and a nice sort of tired. John was lying half on top of Sherlock, murmuring affectionate praise into his hair. Sherlock only half-listened, too busy wondering about what had happened.

They had definitely been dom and sub, but it had been giddy and playful. None of the usual seriousness his former doms had been so careful to hold up, no doubts on Sherlock’s side. Sherlock hadn’t known it could be like this without it feeling wrong, like something was missing. Somehow, John had managed to dominate him without being a brute about it. John, who could still surprise him, even four months into their acquaintance.

John, who was currently tracing the line of Sherlock’s shoulder as if it were the most mesmerising of things, though his eyes were closed. His smile was small, but entirely happy.

Sherlock firmly told himself that he didn’t wish for John’s fingers to trail another line entirely, further up, close to his Adam’s apple. He didn’t quite succeed.

Had things continued like this, Sherlock would muse later, he might have asked John for his collar by the end of that very week, if only to make himself stop wondering what it would feel like.

But things did not tend to be easy in growing relationships, especially when Sherlock was involved.

And so, three days after the case of the drugged rent boy, Sherlock found a cheque in John’s coat pocket, written out by one Mycroft Holmes.

Chapter Text

John came over every single night after the case of the bribed guard. Sherlock was so pleased, he actually ended up having lunch and dinner two days in a row.

Weeks ago, he might have felt like he was being tied down by the dom, and his precious time was being wasted. Now, all he felt was warm contentment at the thought that John was willing to spend so much time with him. He seemed to actually enjoy Sherlock’s company, which was undoubtedly a first. Sherlock felt little surges of joy just thinking about it.

In addition, the dom managed to appease Sherlock’s submissive side without being too pushy, and was not just interested in having sex with Sherlock. In fact, he seemed perfectly happy to spend hours sitting in the living room with Sherlock kneeling by his feet or sitting by his side and telling him about some of his more exciting former cases.

Somehow, John’s interested and awed expression was more of a reward than verbal praise or an affectionate touch could ever be in the circumstances. Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time somebody was so honestly curious about his work and admired his deductive skills (at least not without getting offended afterwards).

At the same time, the dom had proved to be extremely talented at thinking up creative rewards and challenges for Sherlock.

The third night after their joint case, John showed up in the living room with a wicked sort of smile on his lips. Sherlock eyed him immediately, taking in as much information as he could, but not coming to a certain conclusion yet.

“Someone’s thinking,” John commented, voice amused as he hung up his coat by the door.

Sherlock relaxed his narrowed eyes.

“Just trying to work out what you have planned, sir,” he stated.

“How do you know I’ve got something planned?”

“Oh, please,” Sherlock replied smartly. “You’re clearly excited about something, and it’s sexual rather than something else, given the hue of your ear tips. They always flush when you’re just a step away from arousal, don’t think I haven’t noticed, sir.”

By now, Sherlock knew he could get away with a bit of cheek during his deductions. John only laughed and stepped closer, placing a firm kiss on Sherlock’s mouth by way of a greeting.

“Correct,” he said amiably. “Very impressive, as always.”

Sherlock smiled, satisfied with himself and the situation at large.

Willingly, he allowed John to curl warm fingers around his right wrist and let himself be lead into the bedroom. John playfully shoved him onto the bed and Sherlock felt his heart beat faster as his back roughly hit the mattress. As nice as it was to spend time talking with John or just being in his company, this was definitely what he craved as well.

John leered at him, then went to loom over him on the bed, one hand pulling Sherlock’s shirt from his trousers and slipping underneath to brush over the skin of his stomach. The other hand firmly grabbed Sherlock’s chin, holding his head in place.

Sherlock closed his eyes as John started to place kisses on his left jawline, nipping at the skin but not quite biting into it. He shuddered when John licked at his cheek, then willingly opened his mouth when John’s lips met his own.

John’s kisses always were firm and dominating. All Sherlock had to do was to let go and have John lead him, and it would feel fantastic. It was clear John not only enjoyed kissing, but had ample practice in making a sub feel owned by such a simple thing as a snog.

Sighing into the kiss, Sherlock enjoyed the brush of John’s fingertips on his stomach, a tingling heat building slowly in his stomach. He curled his fingers into the sheets, knowing by now that John never appreciated Sherlock pulling at the front of his jumpers, and relaxed.

Once Sherlock was deemed sufficiently breathless, John ceased his assault on the sub’s mouth and grinned down at him once more, completely unguarded. Sherlock seized the moment to observe John’s face in detail.

There were fine crow’s feet edged into the skin by his eyes, speaking of his age and frequent smiles. His hair had grown quite a bit since their first meeting, and a bit of floppy fringe was falling over John’s forehead. Exactly five freckles were scattered across his nose, nearly faded in the gloomy London weather. All in all, he looked rather incredibly handsome.

“Arms over your head,” John ordered with the playful sort of dominance Sherlock had never experienced with other doms, and Sherlock obliged. Running his tongue over his lips, John grabbed both of his wrists and pinned them into place.

The other hand ceased its exploration of Sherlock’s stomach and wandered downwards instead. Diligent fingers unzipped Sherlock’s trousers, then John’s hand slipped inside them. His hand stayed over his pants though, and only pressed lightly against the fabric of his underwear. The dom smirked when he felt that Sherlock was half-hard already. He hummed delightedly and gave Sherlock’s cock a light squeeze through the pants. Sherlock let out a shaky breath, nearly a laugh.

“Would you like to know what I’ve got planned for you?” John asked, rubbing ever so lightly over the bulge in Sherlock’s underwear.

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock replied, staring up at the dom with anticipation and trying to control his breathing.

“I’ll give you three hints. Once you have deduced it, I promise you we’ll have quite a bit of fun tonight.”

Thrilled, Sherlock smiled up at John. Deducing John’s plan? Oh, this was marvellous. John was marvellous. Hopefully, he wouldn’t make it too easy.

“I can tell you’re liking the idea,” John added, once more squeezing Sherlock’s warm length through the fabric.

“Yes, sir. Immensely.”

“Perfect. I knew you’d like a bit of a challenge. Now, here are the hints. One: silicone. Two: jewellery. Three: self-control.”

Silicone, Sherlock thought, his brain switching easily into deduction mode. Easy, incredibly easy, obviously some sort of sex toy. Size - any size, could have hidden it downstairs, left on the landing, hidden it in his coat. Inconclusive. Now: self-control, also easy - a toy that will challenge me in some way. Challenge. What kind of challenge? Pain? Too much pleasure? Premature orgasm? Inconclusive, next: jewellery. Jewellery? Earrings, bracelets, necklace... too literal. Pearls, stones, … beads!

“Anal beads,” Sherlock breathed, not eight seconds later.

John laughed, rewarding Sherlock with a firm squeeze for his cock, and Sherlock hummed with pleasure.

“Yes, that’s the toy,” John acknowledged. “But what will I do with it? What’s my plan?”

Self-control, Sherlock recited silently, trying to ignore John’s fingers brushing teasingly over his underpants, a lesson in self-control. John likes teasing me. Teasing, anal beads. Self-control. Lubricant? Will be used, but not relevant. Movement? Bowing down, shifting about. Anal beads might slip. Constant arousal and stimulation. Self-control… ha!

“You’ll have me move around,” Sherlock deduced out loud, enticing pictures clouding his mind and making his cheeks flush in anticipation. “You’ll have me wear them, then let me accomplish some sort of task. Organizing or fetching something, most likely, but the beads must stay inside, and I must not come until I’m allowed.”

“Precisely,” John approved and slipped his hands from Sherlock’s pants. “Would you like me to do that? Does that sound good?”

“Very good, sir,” Sherlock replied, voice brimming with excitement as much as arousal.

“Go and fetch them, genius. They’re in my coat pocket.”

John uncurled his fingers from Sherlock’s arms after another firm kiss and moved to the side. Trousers and shirt still undone, Sherlock rushed out of the bedroom as fast as he could without his trousers ending up around his knees or ankles.

A lesson in self-control, anticipation, carefully calculated moves, teasing comments. And in the end, if he had done well, John would praise him and let him find his release. God, this would be perfect.

He approached the coats hanging off the hooks on the wall and slipped a hand into the right pocket of John’s jacket. His fingers did not curl around a long piece of silicone, though. Instead, he felt a slip of folded paper, slightly thicker than any regular note or receipt would be.

Curious, he pulled it out and unfolded it.

Sherlock was hardly ever surprised, pleasantly or otherwise. People, situations, outcomes - they could all be deduced or at least predicted, and he was used to getting it right. Sherlock had never liked feeling surprised, not usually. Surprised meant he did not know about or notice something, and that thought alone was enough to make him uneasy. John had been one of the few people who had surprised him in a good way.

Staring at the guilloche paper, Sherlock’s stomach squeezed painfully as he realised just what he was holding in his hands. £5000 the cheque stated. Drawer: Mycroft Holmes. Pay: Dr. John Watson.

It was like Sherlock’s whole world was tilted sideways.

Taking a shaky breath and struggling to steady himself, Sherlock very carefully refolded the paper with trembling fingers and put the cheque back where he had found it.

His arousal had vanished almost instantly. He set his shirt to rights, then fastened his trousers, making himself look presentable. He turned, picking up his mobile phone from the coffee table as he passed it, then went back to his bedroom.

John was sitting on the bed, smiling slightly at Sherlock as he entered the room. He frowned when he saw that Sherlock had not brought back the desired object, holding his phone instead of the toy.

“Something the matter?” John asked, slightly confused.

Sherlock swallowed, very carefully choosing a calm sort of voice, a relaxed register.

“I’ve received a text,” he stated, lifting the mobile as if it were evidence. “A case, I’m afraid.”

“Oh,” John replied, sagging a bit. “Well, unusual job, unusual working hours.”

Sherlock inclined his head.

“Would you like me to come?” John asked, getting up from the bed. His gaze seemed hopeful.

“No,” Sherlock replied. He realised that had come out a bit harshly. “No, thank you,” he repeated, more softly. “I’ll do this one on my own.”

“All right,” John accepted. He looked a bit disappointed, but not angry. Of course he was not angry. He was getting paid whether they had sex or not, wasn’t he? “Another time, then?”

“Certainly.”

Sherlock stepped aside in an obvious hint for John to leave. Now. Quickly. Before Sherlock said something he would regret.

“So, I’ll be off then,” John said, though it sounded almost like a question. Sherlock nodded.

John seemed to sense that a kiss would not be welcome, so he only smiled at Sherlock as he passed him and went to grab his coat. Sherlock followed him, making sure that the dom would indeed leave.

With another look over his shoulder, watching Sherlock stand by the kitchen door, John finally left the flat.

“Bye,” he called from the stairs.

Once he heard the downstairs door click shut, Sherlock took a few shaky steps to the couch and sank down on it. His phone slipped from his fingers, landing somewhere underneath the coffee table, face-down. He didn’t care.

Breathing in shakily, he lay down with the back to the room, curling in on himself as he tended to do when he was frustrated or bored.

He was neither of those things now, though. He felt - numb. Entirely numb.

£5000, he thought. That is what I am worth to him. £5000. Four months, £5000 each, yes? A nice amount of money. Many people make far less in a year.

His chest hurt. Stupid. He was not physically ill, after all.

How ignorant of me to assume he would stick around because he enjoys my company, Sherlock chastised himself. Why would he put up with me if not for being paid? Why would he endure my sour moods? Why spend so many days not demanding any sexual service whatsoever? Why not make me wear a collar after all? Why the everlasting patience?

Trembling, he reached out for the pillow resting above his head, hiding his face in the soft fabric, shutting out any light, any sensation.

He felt sick, and numb, and awful. It was like coming down from a high with the harsh reality of life hitting him with full force. He was shaking, and trembling, and his skin was going clammy.

Sherlock pretended that he did not whimper into the pillow. His eyes, at least, stayed dry.

Mrs Hudson found him the next morning. Sherlock could not remember her ever having sounded this concerned about him.

“Sherlock, darling,” she was saying urgently, a hand curled firmly around Sherlock’s shoulder. She must have called him several times now, given the almost frantic tone of her voice. “Sherlock, you’re shivering, your skin is cold. Do you need a doctor, dear? Sherlock!”

“No doctors,” Sherlock croaked, thinking of John and hiding what was very likely a pained expression in the pillow still pressed against his face. Distantly, he wondered if he had been getting enough oxygen over night, if this was why he was feeling cold and dizzy.

“What is it then?” Mrs Hudson prodded softly, her hand never leaving his back. “Did Dr. Watson leave too early? You know you should call him if you feel bad afterwards, don’t you?”

Unable to say anything to that, Sherlock stayed quiet.

“Let me get you a blanket, at least,” she eventually said and removed her hand.

Sherlock felt a sense of loss at the lack of warm sensation. The touch had grounded him, at least somewhat. It had felt good to have someone close.

A couple of minutes later, soft fabric was draped over Sherlock’s form. It didn’t help much against the shivering.

A vibrating sound echoed through the flat. Mrs Hudson breathed a bit of a gasp in surprise, then Sherlock could hear her move as she bowed down to pick up Sherlock’s phone.

“I think you got one of those mobile texts,” she said. “It says John. I’m not sure how to read it to you, dear.”

“Not important,” Sherlock managed.

Sherlock heard her reluctantly place the phone on the coffee table. She stood next to the sofa for a few more minutes, clearly unsure what to do.

“Well,” she finally said, still sounding anxious. “You call me if you need anything, dear.”

Then Mrs Hudson left, leaving Sherlock to lie on the couch in the silence.

Focusing on breathing deeply and evenly, Sherlock considered getting up, but that might actually end up with him throwing up. He didn’t want to risk that.

Eventually, it was his unwillingness to soil himself that had him get up and use the loo. When he returned to the living room, he sat down on the sofa instead of curling up on it again, and stared at his phone.

There would be no explanation or apology in John’s message. He didn’t know Sherlock had found out yet, after all. He probably thought Sherlock was still busy solving the non-existent case or had just returned home.

Bracing himself against any misplaced sympathy, Sherlock grabbed the phone.


How is the case? Feel
free to call me when
you’re done.


Sherlock suppressed an urge to throw the phone against the nearest wall. The numbness was leaving now, making way for a low and burning anger.

Why had he done it? Why had he not been honest with Sherlock? Why not tell him from the beginning that he was being paid by Mycroft? Why act as if he were interested in Sherlock for Sherlock’s sake?

Maybe his plan was to make me vulnerable, Sherlock thought, remembering the last couple of days, his increasing urge to make this permanent, a commitment, a relationship.

Was that what John had planned? If so, the dom was more manipulative than Sherlock had ever thought him to be. If so, John was a genius when it came to emotional manipulation. In any other situation, Sherlock might even have admired him for it.

Clever. Very clever, indeed. He almost had Sherlock, too. Another week, at most, and Sherlock would have asked for his collar, believing he had found a dom that would put up with him, who genuinely liked him, who was inventive and smart, and liked chasing criminals as much as he did. John Watson would have fooled Sherlock into a relationship, would have outsmarted him, the prize a stubborn sub turned tame and tied down, a pliant toy for him to play with and control as he pleased.

If Sherlock had found out about the payments later, much later, with John’s collar resting firmly around his neck for months, he might not even have cared, dulled down by John’s careful manipulation, pleased with kneeling by his feet, an imbecile like any other sub in a committed relationship.

Sherlock felt nauseous at the very thought.

He should have become suspicious earlier. He should have realised something was going on. Why else would he wish for John to pet his throat rather than his shoulders? Why would he ever consider begging and sucking him off to make him stay around? That wasn’t like him. Not remotely like him. John had used subtle psychological tricks to make Sherlock do his bidding, and had succeeded too, to an astonishing degree even.

Fighting down a renewed urge to retch, Sherlock placed the phone roughly onto the table, warmth and colour quickly returning to his skin. He would end this now. Cut him off. The dom didn’t deserve an explanation. Really, a conversation face-to-face would only increase the risk that John would lull him back in, give him some heart-wrenching story about a sick mother or a debt unpaid.

Determined, Sherlock made his way downstairs, the blanket abandoned on the couch.

“Mrs Hudson,” he nearly bellowed. Seconds later, she stuck her head through the door, clearly surprised to see him up again so soon. “Mrs Hudson, you must promise me something. Do not, under any circumstances, let John Watson into this house.”

“Is everything all right?” she asked, opening her door fully and stepping into the hallway. “Did you two have a bit of a domestic?”

“Dr Watson and I have never been in a relationship. It was an arrangement, which I have now ended. Do not grant him access to his house, let alone my flat.”

“That’s fine,” Mrs Hudson said, though she was frowning at him. “But are you sure you wouldn’t much rather talk to him, dear? The doctor is such a lovely fellow, so polite and-”

“Very sure, Mrs Hudson, thank you. The doctor is not a ‘lovely fellow’, and he is to stay away.”

With that, Sherlock turned and went back upstairs in determined strides, taking two steps at once.

Having returned to his own flat, the first he thing he did was hunt down John’s cane. It was still lying in the upstairs bedroom, gathering dust. The dom hadn’t deemed another caning appropriate so far. Scowling, Sherlock took the hideous thing and carried it downstairs.

It was unbelievable he had ever accepted punishment from his man, had wept after he had redeemed himself. Sherlock’s skin crawled just from remembering it.

Rummaging through several boxes and shelves, he finally spotted the hacksaw he had needed for that case of the mysteriously-cut handcuffs over a year ago. The blade was especially stable.

Smirking in triumph, Sherlock hurried into the kitchen and slapped the cane onto the table, uncaring that he shoved a couple of beakers and dishes onto the floor in the process. One or two items burst on the kitchen tiles.

Pushing down on the aluminium stick with all his weight, Sherlock started to saw off the end of the cane protruding from the table.

It was a fair bit of work and Sherlock was almost sweating by the end, but he did manage to cut the thing into five even pieces. Letting out a triumphant breath, Sherlock took the utmost pleasure out of opening the window and throwing the destroyed walking stick down onto Mrs Hudson’s bins. The pieces landed with a satisfyingly hollow sound, clattering onto the paved alley ground.

Tossing the saw into a corner and firmly shutting the window, Sherlock finally fell back onto the couch, interlacing his fingers and taking a couple of deep breaths.

He would get over this. Really, it was good to have been reminded that he was never safe, that there were still people out there who could outsmart him. He’d have to be more careful in the future, much more careful.

When the itch returned (and it always did), he would have to find somebody else. Why not pay them himself? Surely, one of his homeless network would gladly accept the money for taking a go on Sherlock with the riding crop. There wasn’t much to it. It would suffice, surely.

Sherlock didn’t need a steady dom. Especially not John Watson.

I took two weeks and 34 unanswered text messages for John to come around and ring. Sherlock was on his laptop, updating his website with his test results on the different types of clay soils to be found in Greater London, when he heard John’s voice floating up the stairs.

He couldn’t hear the exact words, but it was unmistakable that Mrs Hudson was making her excuses, sounding sorry, while John was agitated.

Sherlock scowled at his screen, too tense to keep on typing as long as he knew John to be downstairs, far closer to him than he was comfortable with.

It had been a horrible couple of weeks. While his mind had known why he could no longer have a dom around and Sherlock had kept himself busy and occupied otherwise, his body hadn’t caught on yet. The insistent itch in the back of his head was his constant companion these days and was even more intense than pre-John. Sherlock had had to realise that the almost daily sessions towards the end had severely damaged his ability to block out his submissive needs for any extended amount of time.

He had forbidden himself to seek any sort of assistance though, going cold turkey, so to speak. He couldn’t afford going back to a place in his mind where he would feel vulnerable enough to end up phoning John in the middle of the night, begging him to come over, betrayal or not.

Thus, Sherlock had tried to keep himself busy, had done one experiment after another and mostly ignored his phone, deleting John’s messages unread if necessary.

When he heard the door fall shut and nothing but Mrs Hudson retreating to her own flat, he relaxed again. Annoyed, he realised he had started sweating with the effort not to do or say anything about John’s presence, not to hurry downstairs and talk to the dom. Scowling, Sherlock used the sleeve of his dress shirt to dab away the wet pearls on his forehead.

He knew what was happening, of course. Going from a more or less steady arrangement with a dom to nothing was pure cruelty for any submissive. Any other sub, though, had other dominants in their life - friends or parents - who could help them along. Just as doms had submissives in their inner circle they could be around for a bit if they felt lost. It was important to be around people after a break-up.

Relationship or no, Sherlock was suffering through a break-up. His physical reactions - and the sorts of wrecking nightmares he had had - were perfectly natural, given the abrupt ending of the arrangement and lack of immediate support.

Of course, it wouldn’t do to call Mycroft, or even just Mrs Hudson. Sherlock needed to get back to that place where he could at least deal with a few months without a dom in his life, where he could function without support. It was feasible. All it would need was time and patience.

He finished updating his website, then shut his laptop down, picking up his phone on his way to the kitchen. He hadn’t eaten in three days - maybe it was time for a couple of biscuits at least. Reaching for the cupboard door with his free hand, Sherlock scrolled through his list of missed calls and unread messages. John Watson, John Watson, John Watson. No Lestrade in sight.

Frustrated, Sherlock placed the phone on the kitchen counter, angrily biting into one of the salty biscuits. He managed four and a glass of tap water before he felt unpleasantly full and threw the package back into the cupboard.

Walking back into the living room, Sherlock startled when a dark shape moved in the hallway. Seconds later, Mycroft stepped inside the room.

That meddling bastard! Of course, Mycroft had kept careful watch on John's movements, ready to intervene when he would try to come and see Sherlock and Sherlock refused. Of course he had.

“Fuck off,” Sherlock barked at once, taking a menacing step towards his elder brother.

Mycroft was unimpressed.

“My, my, that bad still, is it? Very touchy. A common sign of withdrawal, of course.”

“Shut up and piss off,” Sherlock snarled, feeling very much like pushing his brother, preferably down the stairs he had come from.

“Is that all you can come up with at the moment, brother? Crude language? How pathetic.”

He smirked, then sat down on one of the armchairs uninvited.

“Get out!” Sherlock repeated heatedly. “I don’t want you anywhere near my flat, you bastard!”

“Are you quite done?” Mycroft replied, voice oozing with disapproval. “It is clear from my sitting down that I am not intending to go anywhere soon. Can’t you read the simplest of clues any more?”

Sherlock only scowled, crossing his arms, his nostrils flaring.

“Calm down and take a seat,” Mycroft added. “I’d much rather have a civil conversation than having to force you to hear me out.”

With narrowed eyes, Sherlock observed his brother. His position in the armchair was obviously relaxed, the trademark umbrella leaned casually against the side of the piece of furniture. Apparently, Mycroft really was going nowhere. Sherlock had no doubt either that he would force Sherlock to listen if he continued to refuse. Snarling, Sherlock threw himself into the opposite armchair, glaring at his brother.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said. “Now, the reason for my visit must be quite clear to you, so let me come right to the point: why are you refusing to let John Watson see you?”

“You know bloody well why,” Sherlock snapped.

“Ah,” Mycroft said, eyes assessing. “You’ve seen the cheque then, I assume? Obviously, John has no idea what is happening, given his plain confusion and worry.”

“I don’t give one damn about his confusion,” Sherlock snarled. “He was your little spy all along, he’ll work it out eventually if you won’t tell him.”

“Why are you so upset, brother? You knew from the start why he was here, and who had sent him. You begged me to help you, if you recall. I don’t see why you’d be so shocked now.”

“Piss. Off.”

This would lead nowhere. Mycroft was merely here to rile him up. Possibly to take advantage of Sherlock’s state, too. He wouldn’t be surprised if Mycroft would go dominant on him in a moment, all things considered.

Ignoring Sherlock’s cursing, Mycroft calmly continued: “It’s important to ask yourself that question, Sherlock. Why are you upset?”

Why was he upset? What a stupid, brainless, idiotic question to ask. John had manipulated him, had turned his head around, had betrayed him. How could he not be angry? How could he not?

“Was there a point to this visit other than to ask me stupid questions?” Sherlock hissed.

“They are not stupid, especially considering what I will tell you in a second.”

“Oh, and what would that be?” Sherlock snapped. “How John desperately needed the money? A cousin in dire need? A pricy rehab clinic for his alcoholic sister?”

“Clearly, you’ve given this no thought at all,” Mycroft observed.

Scowling, Sherlock only huffed out an annoyed breath, unwilling to give Mycroft any more ammunition for sarcastic remarks.

“You want this to be a misunderstanding, don’t you?” Mycroft prodded further. “No matter how much you enjoy your self-righteous anger, deep down you are hoping this was all a terrible mistake, isn’t that correct?”

“Shut up,” Sherlock barked.

“Why do you think that is, Sherlock?”

“Are you a bloody therapist now?”

“No,” Mycroft said calmly. “Only a worried brother. I care about you, Sherlock, and I truly believe you need to admit to yourself just why you are feeling this way. Clearly, you are unhappy with having received no explanation from John. You crave knowing the explanation for his supposed misdeeds. Yet, you refuse to talk to him, scared of what the answer might entail, what it might say about you.”

“Incorrect,” Sherlock spat. “I was well ready to accept John in my life before this happened. This has nothing to do with me denying that.”

“Doesn’t it, though?” Mycroft prodded. “Would you really have submitted to John entirely? No questions asked? No doubt lingering? Would you have simply accepted that you were wrong about yourself all along and wanted a partner after all? Are you sure this wasn’t what you had secretly been hoping for? A reason to pull the rip line, so to speak?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock retorted, unwilling to think this over. “Unless you’ve brought along some sob story to convince me otherwise, it’s a fruitless thought to pursue.”

“I haven’t brought a sob story,” Mycroft admitted. “It’s far simpler than that - John has never been paid by me at all.”

“Right,” Sherlock scoffed. “He just happened to carry about a cheque written out by you, did he?”

“Yes, in fact. He never intended to cash it. As you might recall, it was folded and tucked carelessly away, then forgotten about.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Sherlock replied harshly.

“Please, you know better than that. If he had really wanted that money, he would have at least placed the cheque in his wallet and kept it safe.”

“Don't play dumb, Mycroft, clearly it wasn't his first payment. It was dated to the first of the month, just like a proper pay cheque, and he's been playing dom for me for months. Which means he’s already got, what, £15000 in the bank? I’m sure he can risk losing it.”

“He refused any kind of payment so far, Sherlock,” Mycroft retorted. “In fact, this was the first time he even agreed to talk to me in months, and that only because I suggested that I could force him to listen if I had to. He made it quite clear after taking you on that he had no desire to inform me about anything concerning you or your arrangement, let alone accept any kind of monetary reward for it.”

“This is a disgusting and obvious attempt to lure me back in,” Sherlock hissed. “Do you think me that stupid? I can see right through your little game. You’ve always liked to see me collared! You’ve dreamed of the day your loud-mouthed, know-it-all brother would finally be muzzled for good and with John Watson, you’ve found the one person capable of caging me.”

Sherlock refused to acknowledge the stark clues telling him that Mycroft looked honestly saddened by that announcement. Clearly, Mycroft was just trying to manipulate him still.

“No,” the man said quietly. “Not at all. I only ever wanted you to be happy.”

“Happy,” Sherlock repeated with contempt. “Of course.”

The silence was almost unbearable. Mycroft only looked at him, concern mingled with careful observation, looking foreign on his brother’s usually controlled face. Eventually, Sherlock had to look away.

“Please leave,” he said, cringing at his own patheticness.

To his surprise, Mycroft actually obliged. He briefly closed his eyes, then resumed his bland everyday facade as he got up from the chair.

“As you wish,” he said and buttoned his suit jacket, then picked up his umbrella.

“Do consider talking to him, at least,” he added. “He’s obviously sick with worry and thinks he’s done something horrible to drive you away.”

Sherlock just kept himself from snapping out a But he has!

Once Mycroft was gone, Sherlock retreated back onto his laptop. He started it up, then looked at the screen indecisively.

He could easily hack into John’s bank account with a bit of time and patience, but surely, Mycroft could have hidden any trace of the money to make his story more convincing.

He could try and retrieve information on John in general, information he hadn’t know to look for the last time, a larger background in psychology than he might have acquired as a mere surgeon. Again, though, Mycroft might have stripped the internet and national databases of any useful data.

His brother was nothing if not thorough.

Frustrated, Sherlock forcefully shut the lid of his laptop, curling a fist against the plastic. There was nothing he could do but talk to him, but talking to him would severely risk another stab at manipulation on the dom’s part.

Undoubtedly, though, Mycroft would keep on bullying him until he did give in. He could talk to John, truly bracing himself beforehand, and Mycroft would have to be satisfied. John could not force Sherlock into submission, not if he knew what was happening, could he now?

Pressing his lips tightly together, Sherlock retrieved his phone and carefully typed out a text to John:


You may come over
tomorrow at noon.
Until then, lay off.
SH

“Hello.”

John managed to convey both insecurity and determination in one single word of greeting as he stood outside 221B. Sherlock only inclined his head, carefully observing the dom’s each and every movement as Sherlock stepped aside to let him in.

There were rings under John’s eyes, meaning he hadn’t slept well in the past days, and while he had clearly shaved this morning, it hadn’t been very thorough, as evidenced by the bits of stubble on his chin and right jawline.

All of that could be careful planning, though. No proof that John was genuinely upset over what had happened.

“You may follow me upstairs,” Sherlock informed him curtly and walked ahead, eerily reminded of the first time John had come over after their initial meeting.

It did not pass Sherlock by that John seemed to be limping a bit as he mounted the stairs. Too bad, his cane was gone for good.

Upstairs, Sherlock had made the room look somewhat presentable, although it was far from John’s usual standards. Sherlock couldn’t risk making John believe that he was still under his influence, or following any of his standing orders.

John hesitated at the door until Sherlock jerkily pointed at one of the armchairs before sitting down in the other himself, crossing his legs and lacing his fingers together by his mouth in what was his typical thinking pose. This had the benefit of hiding part of his face as well, making it difficult for John to see and analyse his reactions.

The dom sank down in the chair with a sort of weary heaviness in his limbs and seemed to sink right into the furniture. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Either John was a phenomenal actor or … no. Best not pursue that line of thinking.

“So,” John finally started when Sherlock said nothing and only watched the dom with scrutinizing eyes.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. John cleared his throat.

“I take it you’re … angry with me?” the dom ventured a guess.

Sherlock inclined his head.

“Right,” John said. “You’re angry. I’ve done something to anger you. Okay.” He hesitated. “What did I do, if I may ask?”

Staying silent had worked well for him so far, so Sherlock still said nothing. Besides, it would be much more interesting to see if John would pursue his act of ignorance or give himself away. Surely he would have had to figure out what was going on by now. He definitely was far from stupid, after all.

“I may not ask,” John finally concluded.

For a moment, he too stayed silent, his head bowed. He rubbed a hand roughly over his face, then the back of his neck, signs that he was worked up and at the end of his wits.

“Look,” he eventually said. “I have no idea what is going on. All I know is that things were going great, you were loosening up and starting to enjoy yourself and relax, and then you suddenly block me, push me out of your life without so much as a hint of an explanation. And I’m not saying it’s not your right to end this whenever you feel it’s necessary, but …”

He stopped, throat working with an obvious attempt to calm himself, to fight some sort of emotional rush.

“Sherlock, I would just like an explanation. If you feel this is going nowhere, or you feel uncomfortable, just tell me. I can leave any time you want me to, we can stop this at once if you so much as mention it, but I’d like you to talk to me first. I’m worried about you. Please say something, Sherlock, anything. Tell me you’re all right, tell me you don’t want me around any more or anything, but - talk to me? Please.”

Interesting, Sherlock thought. This, he had not expected. He had been sure John would prod mercilessly, maybe even try and use his dominance to get Sherlock to talk, but instead he was - pleading?

It felt odd to describe a dom’s action that way, but it was undoubtedly what he was doing. He was asking, pleading, begging for an explanation. Was he truly, honestly upset? Did he really not know what had happened? Had Mycroft even …?

No. No. John had never been predictable, of course he would not be in this either. This was him manipulating him yet again. Sherlock could not let himself be fooled once more.

“Stop your act,” Sherlock said roughly. “Mycroft must have talked to you by now, and if he hasn’t, you are far from an idiot. You know why I am angry, and the only one here that has to offer explanations is you.”

“My act?” John repeated. God, he had the dumbfounded look down well, undoubtedly. Very convincing, especially with that tone of voice. “Sherlock, I don’t understand.”

“I said, stop it,” Sherlock repeated, telling himself not to get angry, but his voice sounded funny, undoubtedly giving away his agitation. “Come clean now, so we can leave this terrible business behind us and move on with our lives. The only reason I have even considered speaking with you is my meddling bastard of a brother, who will not shut up about it until I have at least heard you out. So: talk, and no more lies.”

John’s eyes seemed very blue just then. He was openly staring at Sherlock now, face entirely slack. He looked - worried, and sad, and utterly at loss.

Then, his whole expression changed. It hardened, wrinkles and creases etching into the skin, painting a different picture. He looked like a proper soldier now, bracing himself for what was to come. Sitting up, John slipped a hand inside his trouser pocket.

Sherlock tensed. Would he retrieve the cheque? Or some sort of proof he hadn’t accepted the money? Surely, a weapon wouldn’t fit in there, there was no obvious bulge to show for it, that much was obvious.

When John retrieved and uncurled his hand, a flat metal key lay on his open palm. John put it on the little table between them with steady hands.

“Your brother gave this to me after we first met, but I haven’t really used it so far, so I’m not sure you’re aware. It’s a key for the front door.”

Sherlock only watched, fighting a wave of honest confusion.

“I - I don’t know, it’s obvious you believe me to be some sort of … liar? Imposter? And I don’t think you’re ready to talk, maybe not for a long time, so I am leaving this here with you, and I won’t text you or bother you any more unless you want it. I’ll make sure to let your brother know as well.”

To Sherlock’s surprise, John stood up.

“I really enjoyed our arrangement. I’m not sure what’s happened to end it so suddenly, but I know I was pleased with it. You were far from easy, but then I’m not everyone’s favourite person either, what with the nightmares and my temper, and I thought we fit, in a strange sort of way. I really thought we worked, even with the murders and misunderstandings, and I don’t know where I went wrong.”

He shook his head, smiling with self-depreciation.

“Sorry for rambling. I’ll go now. Feel free to contact me if you want to, but you’re really not obliged to do anything, I want you to know that. Goodbye, Sherlock.”

With that, the dom turned and walked towards the door. Sherlock was out of his chair before he knew it.

“What in the world are you on about?” he exclaimed. “What is this, a ruse to make me feel sorry for you? Another mind game?”

John turned around, frowning.

“Another mind game?" he repeated. “Sherlock, I don’t-”

“Stop saying you don’t understand, you don’t know!” Sherlock snapped, balling his fists. “I saw the cheque. I found it in your coat pocket, I saw it. Mycroft says you haven’t been taking money, but I know better. You must have been paid all this time, you must have. You were so patient and so clever about everything, the punishments, the rewards - I should have seen from the start something was wrong!”

“Sherlock, wait,” John only said, raising both hands in an appeasing sort of motion.

“No!” Sherlock continued. “Stop it. Just answer me: why did you never tell me you were being paid for playing my dom? Why pretend you honestly cared about me instead? Why?”

John shut his gaping mouth. Finally, understanding showed on his face.

“You think I’ve been taking money from Mycroft,” he said, incredulous. “That is what this is all about?”

“Stop pretending you didn’t know!”

“But I didn’t!”

And now, John was close to shouting. Sherlock took a step backwards.

“I didn’t know! And honestly, I still don’t entirely understand, because you won’t talk to me. I’ve been thinking I’ve done something horrible, pushed you into doing something you weren’t comfortable with, forced you into submission. And this is all - what, you having a complex?”

“A complex?” Sherlock snapped back, though he felt unsteady on his feet. “I don’t have a complex, you betrayed me!”

“I did not betray you!” John retorted heatedly. “I never took the money, you daft git. All I did was tell your brother to fuck off and forgot to throw the damn cheque into his smug face while I was at it!”

“Stop lying!”

“Why in hell should I be lying when it’s clear you have your bloody mind set on what you believe is the truth? You pride yourself on being the clever detective, so high above everybody, but in this, you’re the most ignorant, stupid and insecure sub I have ever come across!”

Sherlock’s mouth snapped shut. John’s voice had gone extremely loud and angry there in the end, and no matter the circumstances, Sherlock could not fight his instincts like this, especially not with the way he had been feeling lately.

Swaying, Sherlock took another step backward, clutching the backrest of the nearest armchair to keep himself upright. He knew he must have gone pale in the face. He suddenly felt weak, couldn’t even find it in him to call himself pathetic for it. There was only so much a sub could endure, and denying himself comfort for weeks only to be called stupid and ignorant by the very dom he had once trusted was apparently way past Sherlock’s limit.

John was by his side almost immediately.

“Shh, shh, it’s fine,” he cooed, all anger vanished as he talked to the sub like a child. “Sherlock? Sherlock, just hold onto me. Come on, sit down, there we go.”

Sherlock found himself sitting in the chair John had occupied earlier, breathing shallowly and grabbing John’s hands for support.

“All is well. We were arguing, there was a lot of anger and accusation, but all is well now,” he was saying.

It was, of course, utter nonsense. Nothing was well. Nothing. Yet, a part of Sherlock simply wanted to trust the dom, wanted to latch onto the words, curl up against him and feel safe and protected, and forget about everything else.

For a few minutes, he simply sat in the chair, John crouching in front of him, holding on to both of Sherlock’s hands.

Eventually, Sherlock could focus again. He looked at John who smiled up at him, kissing Sherlock’s hands with warm affection.

Sherlock’s throat felt suddenly very clogged.

It had been a mistake to wait before talking to John. It only had him made more vulnerable, much more vulnerable than he had ever been before.

“Now, listen to me,” John said. “I have not been taking money from Mycroft. I care for you, and if you would have let me, I’d have agreed to be your proper dom for weeks, if not months. You’re brilliant, you know. If anything, Mycroft would have to offer me money to leave you.”

Manipulation, one part of Sherlock’s mind screamed. He’s got you in front of him, vulnerable and scared, and he’s using that against you.

But Sherlock also remembered the past months. John being affectionate and warm, John being unrelenting in his punishments, John joking with him, John coming along during a case, perfectly fine with Sherlock being independent. John talking to Sally Donovan. John being the first dom not to make him feel trapped. Surely, nobody could fake all that, could he? John might have surprised him, but had he ever manipulated him? Lied to him? Used his power or influence to his advantage?

Somehow, against his own rational logic, against his own doubts, Sherlock believed him.

“You didn’t take any money,” he repeated.

“No, I did not,” John affirmed, and squeezed Sherlock’s hands.

“Could you … stand up?” Sherlock asked roughly.

John obliged at once, Sherlock’s hands slipping from his hold. Seconds later, Sherlock had wrapped his arms around John’s midriff, pulling him close and burying his face in his stomach. John immediately started carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, cupping his head with his right hand. It felt good. It felt like being home.

Sherlock closed his eyes and simply breathed.

Chapter Text

A few hours later, Sherlock found himself slowly blinking awake. It took him an embarrassing whole of ten seconds to remember that, after some more talking and soothing murmurs on John’s part, they had migrated to the sofa. Sherlock must have fallen asleep in John’s lap, if the soft jean fabric against his cheek was anything to go by.

Feeling slightly awkward, Sherlock carefully raised his head and turned to look upwards. John’s head had fallen against the backrest and he was breathing almost silently through an open mouth as he dozed.

Careful not to wake him, Sherlock extracted himself from John’s loose hold and got off the couch, stiffening when John moved. However, he only found a more comfortable position for his head before growing still again.

Sherlock looked at him for a few minutes, not moving.

Like this, John looked soft and peaceful, almost vulnerable. Not remotely manipulative, or scary, or dominant. Sherlock had to fight a strange urge to run a finger over John’s slack cheeks.

Pressing his own lips firmly together, Sherlock turned and sat down on the armchair nearby, drawing in his legs and hugging them against his chest, eyes returning to John’s frame.

Replaying the escalated talk, Sherlock found that, in spite of his earlier logic, he still believed John. Before he had found the cheque, John had never given him a hint of a clue that he might be manipulating him. In fact, he had always given Sherlock a choice, always offered to stop or leave when things went uncomfortable or tricky, even suggested calling somebody else for support. And the few times Sherlock had suspected him of playing mind-games, like the first time he had come over, John had not only proven him wrong but shown what an infuriatingly perceptive dom he could be.

Maybe, Sherlock had been scared and insecure, just like John had reproached him with. Maybe, Sherlock had simply tried to explain away the fact that somebody might honestly care about him.

Huffing, Sherlock looked away from John’s sleeping form. Whatever had been the cause of him doubting John, it had resulted in once more undermining their relationship. Sherlock had single-handedly managed to throw away all the progress they had made over the past months. Of course, Mycroft had had part in it, but if Sherlock had simply talked to John --

Well. It was too late now and regrets would get him nowhere. Things had already gone awry, that much was clear.

Curling his hands into fists, Sherlock shook his head. He couldn’t bear the thought of letting John go, but neither did it seem possible for them to simply ignore what had happened and continue. John had been hurt by Sherlock’s refusal to talk, he’d been scared and worried. Sherlock would be lucky if the dom wanted to stick around any longer, really.

I care for you, and if you would have let me, I’d have agreed to be your proper dom for weeks, if not months. That was what John had said earlier. But had he meant it? Could he really have meant it?

Sherlock pressed his forehead against his knees, his fingers curling roughly against his scalp. If only this was as straightforward as case-solving. This situation - he could analyse it, but he couldn’t solve it. This was why he hated emotions, and relationships, and all the terrible, idiotic things that made people scream at each other, made them weep, and sometimes drove them to murder. How did they do it? How did all those people not shut themselves out completely? Why did they willingly put themselves out there when it made them this vulnerable?

Damn it all. This whole situation was one, giant mess. Sherlock had buggered it all up.

When had things become so complicated in the first place? When had he stopped relying on meaningless sessions and rough sex and started to crave a steady, reliable presence in his life? When had John managed to sneak into Sherlock’s existence and make himself irreplaceable? When had he become so important, so quintessential?

“Sherlock?”

The sub jumped on his armchair before raising his head. John, one hand rubbing over his face, looked over at him.

“You okay?” he added.

Sherlock stared at the dom. John’s hair was sticking up a bit - hadn’t had a haircut in a while - and there were red lines on his left cheek where the upholstery had pressed into the skin. He looked so harmless, so soft. Sherlock swallowed.

“Fine,” he murmured into his knees, and wondered if sir would be an option again.

“You look worried,” John told him as he ran a hand down his crumpled shirt. “Anything bothering you?”

Sherlock shrugged, looking away.

“I thought we had well established that not talking about things usually doesn’t end well with us,” John said calmly.

Sherlock sighed a bit. “I’m not the talk-it-over-type.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that much. But any sort of relationship - it’s based on communication, you know? I’m not a mind-reader, and you’re not either, no matter how bloody close you might come sometimes.”

Sherlock looked up and caught a small smile on John’s rumpled face. He twitched his lips in return.

“I’m wondering what this means for us,” Sherlock managed after a moment of silence.

“This? The fight, you mean?”

Sherlock nodded. God, he hated this. Did people do this all the time, voicing their troubles, bothering each other with their emotions? Sheer madness. And people called Sherlock a lunatic.

“It means nothing more than we choose it to mean. For me, it was an obvious sign that you don’t quite trust me yet, and that’s fine.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. Twice.

“I do trust you,” he said.

“You do?”

Sherlock could hear the badly suppressed hope in the dom’s voice, mingled with surprise. So much emotion involved. How did people do this?

“I trust you, yes,” Sherlock forced himself to continue. “I trust that you are a decent person. You like a bit of danger and excitement, but you care about people and you want to make sure they are fine. I know all of that, I’m sure of it, I trust you to be that kind of person.”

“But then...” John hesitated. “Why believe I betrayed you?”

Sherlock forced himself to look at John. His eyes were focused on Sherlock, his expression anxious.

“I trust you, but not this,” Sherlock said, gesturing between the two of them. “Our arrangement was supposed to be casual, and I could, I suppose, work with that. But when we started to go past that, I... I didn’t know what to do, what to feel. So I told myself that you were a manipulative bastard so I could have a reason to break it off. I don’t do emotional relationships, John. I’m married to my work for good reason. ”

“I think that’s bullshit.”

Sherlock stared at him, and John let out a short laugh.

“You already have emotional relationships, you’ve had them way before I showed up. It’s clear you care for Mrs Hudson, you seem rather friendly with that detective inspector, and you sure have a very odd, granted, but deep connection to your brother.”

“I don’t have a connection with Mycroft other than sharing a regrettably large amount of his genetic make-up,” Sherlock said, feeling slightly insulted.

“Yeah, right,” John replied, obviously not believing that in the slightest. “My point is: this isn’t new to you, and you’ve been doing fine. Besides, I’ve got to know you the way you are, and I care for you the way you are. I like you stroppy and a bit mad.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

“Well, I prefer you pliant and obedient,” John admitted with a sheepish smile. “But I accept all of you. The wonky bits and the bits where you snuggle up in my lap after an order well followed and the bits in between, too.”

Ignoring that he was feeling warm and weirdly pleased at that pronouncement, Sherlock nodded once.

“Now, what to do next is easy.”

“Easy?” Sherlock repeated. He didn’t see how any of this was easy.

“Yes. Sherlock, are you still interested in pursuing this relationship?”

The question had been asked boldly, bravely. John was looking at him openly, ready to accept whatever Sherlock’s response might be, but clearly, he was bracing himself for refusal. How anybody was willing to put themselves out there like this, so vulnerable, so easy to be hurt by rejection, was beyond Sherlock. A little word, two letters, would be enough to crush John Watson’s heart. He’d be brave about it, a soldier, but Sherlock would be able to tell when he looked at John’s mouth, the lines of his eyes, the movements of his brow.

John wanted him to agree, wanted him to try. John wanted Sherlock.

“Yes,” Sherlock finally answered, voice rough.

“Good!” John smiled broadly at him, tension disappearing from his shoulders, his eyes. “Good, that’s - that’s great, actually, just great. So am I.”

Sherlock looked at him.

“You are?” he asked, before he could stop himself. Stupid. What a stupid question. It was clear, wasn’t it. He’d said it already.

“Of course, you daft man,” John confirmed again and got up, walking over to Sherlock’s armchair. Once he had stepped up to him, he bowed down and placed a firm kiss on Sherlock’s forehead.

Sherlock blinked up at him, feeling slightly overwhelmed.

“We’ll work it out,” John said to him. “I’m sure it won’t be a smooth ride, but we will make it work. I promise you that, all right?”

It was surprisingly easy to believe him, Sherlock found. Bracing himself for a rebuttal, he clearly replied: “Yes, sir.”

John’s answering smile was very bright.

For the next two weeks, John worked a lot, but made a point of coming to 221B every opportunity he had. It was clear he was keen on making Sherlock understand that he cared, that he was there for him, that they would work this out.

Yet, the minute John left for his own flat or another engagement, Sherlock found himself worrying the dom might not return. He tried to distract himself with cold cases courtesy of Lestrade, even stooped to look through some files for Mycroft and find an embezzler to get his mind off his worries. Nonetheless, Sherlock found himself checking his mobile phone for a message from John at odd times, even had to keep himself from going out in the middle of the night to seek John out at home to reassure him that things were still going well.

It was stupid. They were past a mere arrangement now, that was clear. They were a couple, so to speak. An item. In a proper relationship. That alone was more than Sherlock had had (and wanted) in years.

But it wasn’t enough. No matter how often John allowed Sherlock to curl up against him, or praised him for following an order, Sherlock still felt like something was missing.

“You’re quiet tonight,” John observed on a Saturday night, over a fortnight past the cheque debacle.

Sherlock was kneeling on the floor in front of John, who was sitting in what had slowly become his armchair. Sherlock wasn’t wearing a shirt and had slipped into his pants and pajama bottoms only, by request of his dom.

John’s hands were resting on the nape of Sherlock’s neck, brushing his fingers over the knobs of Sherlock’s upper spine.

“Sorry, sir,” Sherlock said, though he wasn’t really feeling sorry. He felt - uncomfortable. Like something wasn’t right. He shifted a bit, feeling John’s hand slip a bit before he got a hold of Sherlock’s neck again.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” John stated. “Unless you’re doing it on purpose to throw me off.”

“I’m not, sir.”

“Didn’t really think you were.”

The following silence was slightly awkward, although John continued his caresses on Sherlock’s bare skin.

Finally, the dom squeezed Sherlock’s neck before letting go.

“Stand up,” he ordered and Sherlock followed suit. “I want you to go to your bedroom, undress and lie down on your bed. Lie on your back, spread your arms and legs as far as you can. Pretend you’re tied to the four corners. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Doing as he was told, Sherlock left John and made his way to his bedroom. He undressed, neatly folding and placing his clothes on a chair and spread himself out on the bed.

His limbs were long enough that he could touch the headboard with his fingers while his toes still brushed the bottom of the bed, though he couldn’t hold on to any side. He was just lying there, stretching his muscles, completely exposed.

Sighing to himself, Sherlock closed his eyes. This felt good, the position itself, following John’s orders. He could admit that much to himself, these days. Making John pleased and happy with him was something to aspire to.

As usual, John took his time to join Sherlock. He liked building tension and anticipation, but never so long as to be unnecessarily cruel. When he stepped into the room, the striped jumper he had been wearing was already off, as were his shoes and socks.

“You look stunning,” he said, his eyes taking in the whole of Sherlock’s stretched body after a quick glance at Sherlock’s folded clothes. “You’re like a marble statue, all that smooth, pale skin.”

He smiled, and Sherlock found himself smiling back. It wasn’t like John was praising him for something he had much of an influence on, but John’s kind words regarding him made him feel warm.

“Thank you, sir,” he murmured and John winked at him playfully, closing the bedroom door.

He stepped up to the bed, running two light fingers over the side of Sherlock’s ribcage, making the sub shiver, but not curl away.

“Very nice,” John commented and climbed onto the bed.

He chose to straddle Sherlock’s hips, placing his knees on either side of his midriff, and loomed over him, hands pressing into mattress close to Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock stared up at him, wetting his lips in anticipation.

“Tease,” John remarked at once and bowed down to claim Sherlock’s mouth.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock let himself enjoy the rough kiss. He felt the fabric of John’s jeans rub against the skin of his stomach as John moved a bit. It felt good, part of John’s weight pressing him into the mattress. Slowly, heat started to build in his groin as John nipped at his lips and licked into his mouth.

“You look debauched,” John announced when he finally stopped, lifting one hand to rub at Sherlock’s undoubtedly reddened lips.

Sherlock smirked and shifted his hips ever so slightly, almost bucking up as if to try and get friction if it wasn’t for John’s weight pressing him down. John chuckled.

“Cheeky thing,” he rebuked him mildly. “Impatient subs make doms want to draw things out even longer, you do know that?”

Sherlock didn’t voice the thought that the longer things were drawn out, the longer John would be around today. Instead, he carefully licked at John’s thumb which was still resting on his mouth.

“Hmmm,” John hummed and grinned. “Ready for that, are you?”

“If you’d like, sir,” Sherlock replied against John’s hand, anticipation curling in his stomach.

“Another time,” John told him firmly, an exciting edge in his voice. “When I take that gorgeous mouth, I want you on your knees in front of me, naked and wanting. I want you abandoning all thoughts and worries and simply enjoying it. Your mouth will be pliant, my cock will brush past your lips without any resistance. You’ll have your eyes on me, looking up at me, showing me how much you love tasting me and it’ll be marvelous. You’ll be so good for me, so accepting, and you’ll earn all the praise I can give.”

Sherlock swallowed harshly as he stared up at John, unable to form a coherent response as John filled his mind with enticing pictures. God, this was more than arousing. John was perfect at this, making him want things he’d denied so firmly in the past.

“You can practise, of course,” John amended and pushed two fingers into Sherlock’s mouth.

Moaning against them, Sherlock made a point of curling his tongue as John worked his hand, brushing in and out of his sub’s mouth. John smiled approvingly as Sherlock sucked at them but kept his mouth as soft as possible, just as John had described it.

“A natural,” John finally said and removed his fingers, bowing down to place a quick kiss against Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock felt himself lift his head when John moved away, chasing his lips. With a chuckle, John bowed back down, kissing Sherlock more firmly before pulling away again.

“I like you this affectionate,” he said softly, running a hand through Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock made a point of leaning his head into the touch. John hummed appreciatively, taking a minute or two to simply pet Sherlock’s hair, fingertips scratching slightly over Sherlock’s scalp.

Finally, John moved off Sherlock to get rid of the rest of his clothes. Sherlock made no attempt hiding his interested gaze for John’s cock. While not fully erect, John’s cock was definitely on his way there, the foreskin already starting to retract, slowly exposing the shiny head. Sherlock had to remind himself to remain in his outstretched position instead of curling towards John.

Watching Sherlock’s face, John curled his left hand around his own cock, stroking it once, twice, clearly interested in his sub’s response. Sherlock’s tongue showed for a second, wetting his upper lip, and John chuckled.

“Not today,” he reminded him and climbed back on top of Sherlock, this time putting his weight into his legs rather than pushing Sherlock into the bed with it.

His cock brushed lightly against Sherlock’s stomach and Sherlock shivered.

“Here’s what I want to do,” John told him, once more looming over Sherlock. “I’ll get the lube from the drawer and slick up your thighs. You’ll press your legs together, creating just the friction I want. If you do really well and I enjoy myself, I’ll make you come afterwards.”

“Intercrural sex,” Sherlock rumbled, alit with interest.

“Always the scientist,” John joked and moved to grab the tube from the drawer.

With a tap to his right thigh, John signaled that Sherlock should close his legs a bit, making it possible for John to kneel on either side of them. Sherlock bit his lips as John slicked his hands with lube and brushed them teasingly up and down Sherlock’s inner thigh, never touching his cock or balls, only brushing past the pubic hair. Sherlock forced himself not to buck his hips, instead enjoying the fact that John was touching him, rubbing his skin.

“You’re doing well,” John told him as he stroke Sherlock’s leg. “I’m sure you’ll be very good for me tonight, won’t you? Move your legs together, squeeze those thighs for me.”

Sherlock obliged, squeezing against John’s hand resting between his legs. John hummed in appreciation.

“Very nice,” he said and smiled. “Now, let’s see if you can keep this up. You’ll try your best for me, Sherlock, won’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock replied.

“Good. Hands and knees, Sherlock.”

John moved off him and aside, allowing Sherlock to assume his new position. Sherlock realised this could become exhausting really quickly. With this legs squeezed together, most of his own weight would be on his arms and hands. Clearly a further incentive to make this good for his dom.

Biting his lower lip, Sherlock assumed the proper position, moving his legs together and facing the headboard. He could feel the slick skin of his thighs, the stickiness of the lubricant. Patiently, he waited until John had grabbed Sherlock’s hips to steady himself and moved into position.

John’s cock slipped in between Sherlock’s thighs, slick skin easing the way, and Sherlock squeezed his thighs, offering friction. John moaned in appreciation, curling his fingers harshly into Sherlock’s skin as he started slowly fucking the space between Sherlock’s legs.

Of course, Sherlock got next to no physical enjoyment from this, only occasionally feeling John brush against his balls. It was the entire point of this particular kind of position. Putting John’s pleasure first, working for his enjoyment, and thus earning his own later release.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock focused on John’s moans, observing what squeeze and movement he liked best and acting accordingly.

“Fantastic,” John gasped as he moved his hips. “God, this feels good.”

Loving the way John was sounding more and more breathless, Sherlock ignored the strain on his upper arms, offering John all the friction he could provide. He was still hard himself, though whether or not it was the fact that John was using him almost as a fucktoy or John’s very vocal enjoyment, he wasn’t quite sure.

When John came, it was with Sherlock’s name on his lips. Sherlock let out his own little groan when he felt John’s semen drip onto his skin.

The dom let his weight rest against Sherlock until Sherlock understood and shifted onto his belly, letting John press him fully into the mattress.

Although John was sticky and heavy on top of him, it felt oddly good. His own cock was now trapped against the mattress, strangely reminiscent of the first time John fucked him with his fingers, had made him hump the bed like a dog in heat.

“Brilliant,” John finally said, taking some of his weight off Sherlock and placing a messy kiss into Sherlock’s hair. “You’re perfect, Sherlock, do you know that?”

“Thank you, sir,” Sherlock murmured, cheek pressed into the bed.

After a minute of John catching his breath, he had Sherlock turn around. He ran a hand over the sticky, slick mess that was Sherlock’s thighs, then curled it around Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock moaned as John stroked his cock firmly, the tight circle of his hand sending sparks of pleasure up Sherlock’s spine.

“You’ve done so well,” John told him as he moved his hand. “Putting me first, squeezing your thighs, keeping yourself upright. It was perfect.”

John increased the speed of his movements, squeezing his fingers tightly together. Ten strokes, eleven, and with a moan, Sherlock climaxed, slightly arching off the mattress in the process.

As he blinked and breathed through the haze of his orgasm, John moved to lie down next to Sherlock and pull him against his chest, circling his arms around him. Closing his eyes, Sherlock curled against him, not caring that they were both sticky and smelled clearly of sweat and sex.

“Thank you, sir,” he finally managed after a minute or two.

John kissed the top of his head in response. Feeling like it, Sherlock tried to move even closer to John until he was fully pressed up against him. John didn’t protest, only tightened his hold on him.

“Cuddly,” John murmured gently.

Sherlock didn’t comment, simply enjoying John’s closeness. Already, he was imagining John leaving tonight, returning to his own flat. Even if he stayed for the night, he would leave in the morning, and Sherlock would be stuck wondering what he was doing and who he was talking to. He would be counting the hours until he returned, hoping for a case and maybe even John coming along, if he found the time.

For long, blissful minutes, all they did was keep close to each other. Then, John started to shift. Reluctantly, Sherlock loosened his hold on his dom.

“We should take a shower,” John was saying. “As much fun as this was, the lube is pretty sticky, and I for one won’t sleep in it.”

Sherlock hid his excitement at the fact that John was clearly planning to stay for the night. He let himself be led into the shower, enjoying the fact that John took his time washing Sherlock, batting away his hands when he tried to help.

Afterwards, when John had changed the soiled sheets whilst telling Sherlock to sit aside and relax, they curled back up in bed. John had returned to petting Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock saw no point in hiding that he enjoyed it.

“You are affectionate today,” John finally breached the silence. “I am not complaining, mind you, but it makes me wonder. Is anything the matter, Sherlock? You know I told you to speak up if something bothered you.”

“Nothing is the matter, sir,” Sherlock murmured, eyes closed.

“I don’t believe that,” John replied firmly. “I know you. You’re not the snuggly type.”

Suppressing a sigh, Sherlock opened his eyes and met John’s worried gaze.

“You can tell me anything,” John said. “You know that, right?”

Sherlock stared up at him. John’s eyes were crinkled with worry, his mouth tighter than usual. So worried, so caring, so obviously concerned for Sherlock’s well-being. Before John had come around, Sherlock hadn’t even known a dom could look like this too, not just firm and dominant and demanding.

He wanted this every day. He wanted that look after an exciting case with John making sure Sherlock ate, he wanted it in the kitchen with John pushing a cup of tea into his hand, telling him he needed to drink something, he wanted it even if he was stroppy and annoyed that the dom was meddling so much with his life.

“I wish you lived here,” Sherlock blurted, only to bite his lips as John stared at him.

John looked slightly shocked, mouth gone slack. Definitely not much enthusiasm there. Trying to quickly save the situation, Sherlock hurriedly tagged on an explanation.

“It would only make sense, sir,” he rushed to expand. “There’s the spare room upstairs, so you won’t have to keep up with my sleeping schedule, but you’ll always be here if there’s a case, and I’ll know when you’re at work. You can foist all that food at me that you always tell me to eat, and you’d save rent, too! Mrs Hudson is giving me a splendid deal, I am sure you’d save plenty of money. Look at it like a flatshare, it’d be practical, it would be logical, sir, wouldn’t it?”

John blinked at him.

“Logical,” he repeated.

“Yes!” Sherlock stressed. “The smart thing to do.”

John blinked once more, then suddenly laughed out loud.

“Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to be unable to simply ask outright if his dom wants to move in with him,” he said, clearly amused.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Sherlock replied, incredulous.

“It’s a yes, I’ll move here, you moron,” he said and kissed Sherlock firmly on the mouth. “I’d love to, you git. Everything is complicated with you, isn’t it?”

Caught between excitement and sudden anxiety, Sherlock only let out a dubious murmur.

“This is what you want, right?” John pressed.

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock said, definitely clear on that part, and John smiled.

“Same rules can apply, if you’d like,” he continued. “No orders during cases, and if you need some space, tell me to bugger off upstairs, and I will do. Okay?”

That sounded reasonable, though Sherlock was too overwhelmed at what had just happened that he couldn't say anything else but, “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Very good.”

Clearly rather overwhelmed himself, John squeezed his arms around Sherlock, hugging him close. To Sherlock, it felt rather like John hadn’t liked to leave him all those times, either.

Slowly starting to smile himself, Sherlock closed his eyes, his sudden anxiety slowly slipping away.

This really could work.

Mrs Hudson was overjoyed when they brought her their news the next day. She hugged John close and kissed his cheek, telling him how wonderful it was for Sherlock to finally settle down with someone, and such a nice, gentle dom, too.

“People think they need to be so strict with him, but he’s really rather eager to please if you get to know him, I’ve always seen that in him,” she chattered on.

John smiled at her, throwing Sherlock’s an amused look as Mrs Hudson praised Sherlock’s submissive streak, sounding a bit like a professional matchmaker. Sherlock loudly cleared his throat, trying to cut his landlady off with a firm, “Thank you, Mrs Hudson.”

“I’m just so happy,” she continued joyfully, talking right over him. “I can’t remember the last time I saw Sherlock wear a collar, he deserves to feel safe with somebody, he really does.”

Stiffening on the spot, Sherlock threw a glance at John. They hadn’t really broached that subject yet, had they? As John settled a hand on Mrs Hudson’s shoulder, gently but firmly calming her down, Sherlock watched him warily, thinking.

They were in a relationship now, and John was moving in. Of course, that would mean Sherlock would eventually wear John’s collar. It wouldn’t be the first time either. He’d had a fair few of doms who wouldn’t have him without it from the start, he’d worn Victor’s for a fair while as well, but he’d gone without it for so long now that it seemed odd.

Besides, he hadn’t forgotten the snarky comment that had driven John to give Sherlock the harshest punishment yet. My life does not revolve around you, or have you spotted your collar around my throat lately?

Swallowing, Sherlock quietly followed John back upstairs when Mrs Hudson finally retreated back into her own flat, humming happily to herself. A collar. Had John even thought of it, or had he concluded that Sherlock would not appreciate it?

“Didn’t think she’d be this enthusiastic, but ta, it’s a bit of a compliment,” John said as he walked into the kitchen, clearly to make tea.

Sherlock followed him, sat down by his microscope as watched his dom be so at ease with the surroundings of 221B.

“Black, or some of this odd green type I got?” John asked as he opened the tin with the tea bags.

“Either one’s fine, sir,” Sherlock replied absently, watching John fish through the bags and settle for the more traditional dark type.

When John set down the mug in front of Sherlock (two sugars, no milk, of course he knew by now) and settled down across from him, Sherlock thanked him, then watched the dom carefully take a sip of his own hot tea.

As John caught Sherlock watching him, he smiled at him, his forehead creasing as he raised his eyebrows.

“Anything on your mind?” he asked pleasantly, clearly not bothered by Sherlock’s scrutinizing gaze.

“People who don’t always have something on their minds are not the type of persons I aspire to imitate,” Sherlock replied, sounding haughty even to his own ears.

John only chuckled and took another sip of tea.

The dom was so easy-going, Sherlock thought. Oh, he could be strict and was very particular about certain rules, like tidiness in the living room and Sherlock folding his clothes, but he wasn’t a tight stickler to protocol. Sherlock could forego the sir when they were talking more casually, definitely did not have to let John walk into a room first and was not expected to constantly wait on him, either. Sherlock had met and quickly dismissed the kinds of doms who wished to use their sub as what could only be called a servant or a slave, but John seemed to be happy with Sherlock being generally respectful to him and the people around them. Constantly kneeling by his side or dropping his gaze did not seem to be things John looked for in his sub.

Overall, he was domineering, but not controlling, and he could tell when Sherlock needed space or some time of his own. Really, living with him should be much more pleasant than restricting.

Would a collar really make much of a difference? Sherlock had an inkling that John would even understand if he put it off for cases or on days he felt like it was suffocating him. Really, Mrs Hudson mentioning it shouldn’t have him thinking so much about it.

“Your tea is getting cold,” John urged him gently, already finishing his own cup.

Almost automatically, Sherlock raised his own mug and downed it in one go, realizing the drink had in fact gone rather lukewarm. How long had they been sitting here in silence, with Sherlock staring at John?

Grimacing as he hit the sugar at the bottom, Sherlock put down the cup, only to have John pick it up immediately and carry it to the sink.

“I was thinking the fifteenth for moving day,” John said as he rinsed the mugs. “I have to speak to my landlord, of course, but it seems the area is immensely popular and a flat like mine easy to find a new tenant for. I don’t think moving so soon would be much of a problem.”

Sherlock only nodded, silently counting the days. Not even a fortnight, and John would be living with him.

“I don’t have much stuff, most of it was already there, like the kitchen and my bed. We’d have to get a new frame for upstairs.”

Sherlock only nodded and muttered his approval as John talked him through the things that would have to be done. He didn’t really care, John would work it out on his own.

Letting John’s pleasant tenor wash over him, Sherlock subtly raised a hand and stroke it over his bare neck, wondering.

“If I’d known your brother would send people, I wouldn't have taken the day off at the surgery,” John said, amused, as a pair of men in grey overalls carried John’s marked boxes into the living room.

“He just so loves meddling,” Sherlock snorted derisively from his lookout, the sofa. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he ended up slipping some new clothes into your wardrobe, and a bugging device, too.”

“Just put those down in the kitchen, I’ll sort it out,” John said to one of the men looking around for a fitting spot for a box labeled clutter, before turning back to Sherlock. “I wouldn’t mind a good suit, to be honest,” he joked.

“Don’t give him ideas,” Sherlock warned him, groaning a bit.

John laughed and sat down next to Sherlock, running a hand over his thigh.

“You’re ok?” he asked gently. “It must be a change, me moving in.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock stressed, slightly exasperated. “If not, I’d have safeworded you right out of the flat, sir.”

“You would only have to say you wanted me gone,” John said firmly. “No need for the safeword.”

Sensing something, Sherlock threw his dom a scrutinizing look.

“Do you want to drop it?” he asked. “The safeword? Now that we’re in a relationship--”

“No,” John said at once. “No, we’ll keep it, if it makes you feel better. It can still come in handy on cases and such. But as a general rule, no simply means no, all right?”

Sherlock nodded and, following a sudden urge to do so, placed a quick kiss on John’s mouth. When he pulled away, John beamed at him, then grabbed Sherlock’s face and pulled him back in, kissing him roughly as he pushed him down onto the sofa.

“Mycroft’s men are still around, sir,” Sherlock interjected between two kisses.

“I’m a bit of a exhibitionist,” John quipped, placing another kiss on Sherlock’s mouth before letting go of him.

Feeling slightly flustered, Sherlock straightened up again, running a hand over his jacket to smooth out the wrinkles.

“That’s everything,” one of the movers told John and the dom thanked them, getting up to retrieve his wallet. When he tried to offer a tip, though, the movers only shook their heads and disappeared.

“Just as well,” John mused as he stood by the door and watched them retreat. “Probably would have laughed at it anyway, Mycroft seems rather generous with his money.”

They went to unpack the boxes, John making a point of ordering Sherlock about, telling him where to put the things he pulled out of them. Sherlock was caught somewhere between muted arousal and annoyance at the mundane task, but succumbed to an endless litany of Yes, sirs.

When they were done, nearly two hours later John pushed Sherlock roughly into the nearest wall.

“Arms together and over your head,” he ordered and Sherlock, suddenly much more than just slightly aroused, hastily did as he was told. “No movement, no bucking, is that clear? All I want is to hear your moans and you thanking me.”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock breathed and John unzipped his fly.

It was a quick, messy handjob, with Sherlock trying his hardest not to move his hips or arms. John growled into his ear, an impressive mix of endearments and dirty mutters as he stroked the sub to completion. Sherlock came into his pants like a horny teenager.

“I should have you walk around soiled for the rest of the day,” John told him with a smirk as he removed his sticky hand. “But it was supposed to be a reward.”

Sherlock shakily walked into the bathroom, cleaned himself up and went to look for new underwear.

When he returned, John had washed his hands and was sitting comfortably in his armchair. As Sherlock walked closer to join him, he immediately noticed the flat, square case on the coffee table.

It was unmistakable what the contents of the velvet box were. Society praised the thing as one of the most desirable sights in a sub’s life, after all.

Very, very slowly, Sherlock went and kneeled by John’s side.

“We don’t have to do it now,” John spoke up at once, clearly having watched Sherlock’s rather dubious reaction to the box. “It was more of an impulse. You may think about it for a bit, as long as you want, really. It’s perfectly fine if you don’t feel ready yet.”

Sherlock threw another long glance at the box, then looked up at John.

“When would you have me wear it,” he asked calmly, observing John’s face.

“That’s entirely up to you,” John replied honestly, smiling down at him. “I know you need your space during cases, so I’m not asking that. The bedroom would be nice. At home, too, if you felt like it.”

Sherlock nodded carefully.

“In public?” he asked.

“Not if you’re not comfortable with it.”

Sherlock nodded. Taking a deep breath, he reached out for the box. For a few moments, all he did was stroke the velvet of the box, thinking, wondering, recalling the past months. He swallowed heavily, then carefully opened the case.

The collar was made of finest black leather, the material not even a centimetre thick. Two smooth silver rings formed the clasp, another two silver loops adorned the leather in the front. All in all, it was rather simple, elegant and tasteful. Certainly something Sherlock would have picked, if he ever had the choice.

For long minutes, Sherlock only looked at it, asking himself if he was ready for this.

Then, he finally shifted, bowing his head and presenting John with the box, for once sticking to tradition. Sherlock could practically feel John beam at him as he took the box from him.

Unable to see, Sherlock merely listened as John took out the collar, opened the clasp and set the case aside.

His fingers were soft against Sherlock’s skin as he adjusted his sub’s head and carefully placed the collar around Sherlock’s neck. A shiver ran down Sherlock’s spine when he felt the clasp close at the nape of his neck, the collar firm but not heavy against his throat.

He waited until John gently touched Sherlock’s chin, signaling him to look up again. Doing so, Sherlock nearly averted his gaze again at the sheer tumult of emotion that was John’s face.

There was pride there, definitely, and clearly some sort of struggle not to grab Sherlock and hold him close until the end of time. He seemed both touched and overwhelmed, but he was smiling wildly, too, clearly happy Sherlock had taken this final step. Entirely missing was a glimpse of triumph, not a hint of John feeling like he had finally tamed Sherlock.

Working his throat and feeling the collar move slightly against it, Sherlock managed a, “Thank you, sir.”

It sounded embarrassingly rough.

Very gently, as if afraid to ruin the moment, John guided Sherlock’s head to his left thigh. Closing his eyes, Sherlock rested there, John’s fingers lightly carding through his hair.

“Thank you,” John said, very quietly.

Sherlock smiled against John’s leg.