Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sherlock suddenly jumped up from the couch, where he had been lying for hours poking at John’s laptop. “John, we’re going out,” he called, and sprinted for his room.

“Where?”

“Club.”

John put down his book and headed up the stairs. This was for the case, then - Sherlock despised nightclubs on principle, both for the volume of the music and (in his words) the “concentration of stupid in the air.” John’s wardrobe wasn’t particularly conducive to the current clubbing set - not to mention he was twice the age of some of the regulars - but he managed to dig out a pair of tan trousers and a navy button-down which was slightly too small but at least wouldn’t pop any buttons when he moved. Christ, this is pathetic. He wasn’t going to look twenty, no matter what he wore. Sherlock was a chameleon, could morph into any disguise, but John was just going to look like someone’s frumpy uncle no matter what . . .

“No no no, that won’t do at all,” Sherlock’s voice said from the doorway. “Here, wear this.” John turned - and gaped.

Sherlock was poured into the tightest pair of black leather pants John had ever seen. His top half was - John hesitated to use the word “covered” - by a sparkly black fishnet contraption which only highlighted the paleness of his bare skin underneath and the darker spots of his nipples. He had a gigantic sparkly earring dangling from one ear and an assortment of costume jewelry around his neck. And he was holding out a black leather collar.

“Sherlock - what sort of club is this, exactly?” John choked out.

“It’s called ‘Restraint’ - it’s a sex club catering to the BDSM community. It took me all evening to verify the connection, but all three victims were members there. That’s where they met the killer.”

John blinked. “And you want me to wear a collar.”

“It’s traditional. We’ll go in as a couple - as my submissive, you won’t be expected to initiate any sexual activity, and your presence will give me an excuse to look around and talk to people without being expected to participate in anything.”

“It won’t work.”

Sherlock frowned. “Of course it will work. Is it the idea of it being a sex club that bothers you?”

“No.” John huffed out a bit of a laugh and raked his fingers through his hair. “They’ll never buy that I’m collared. Everyone there knows me as a dom, and I don’t switch.”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to gape.

John turned back to his closet and dug through to the back, where he kept his fetish gear and outfits. “Not something we’ve ever particularly had a reason to discuss, I admit. Kinda surprised you didn’t know it already, actually - I assumed you’d have ignored reasonable boundaries between flatmates and gone rooting through my stash of toys.” He found what he was looking for and dragged the duffel bag out into the room. “So yeah. For what it’s worth, I didn’t recognize any of the victims, so they weren’t long-term members. But if you want us to go undercover as a gay couple, you’re going to have to be the one to wear the collar.”

Sherlock was still gaping.

John sighed. “Look. Do still want to do this? Because I’m willing, if you think it will help the case. But we’re going to have to talk through some things first.”

“You’ve been there before,” Sherlock repeated.

John dropped the bag and crossed over to stand directly in front of him. “I used to go pretty regularly when I was younger. Then I stopped in whenever I was on leave.” His throat tightened. “I was in a pretty bad place when I was invalided out, was convinced I’d never interest anyone else again, but Cindy - the blonde I was dating right after I moved in here? - was keen on trying it so we started going back. And I’ve been going sporadically ever since.” He held up the handful of clothes he’d dug out. “Now, if you want me to change, turn around.”

Sherlock obediently rotated a hundred and eighty degrees, fixing his eyes on the doorframe. “So . . . you’re into . . . bondage and whipping and all that?”

John quickly shucked his clothes and pulled on the tight silk t-shirt and fitted jeans. He debated, but skipped wearing pants. Everything was black, except for the red leather lightning bolt leading from his right knee up to his hip. “Okay, you can turn back around. Yes, I’m into ‘all that.’ Let me find my boots, and then we can go downstairs and talk about this.”

They relocated to the living room. John calmly worked his feet into his black combat boots, while Sherlock still was obviously having issues sorting everything out.

“If people there recognize you, will they think it odd you’re coming in with a man?” he finally asked.

“Not particularly.” John flashed him a tight smile. “I haven’t brought any men in a while, but I play with both genders - any gender, really, if you want to be pedantic about it. I generally skew towards straight, but it’s definitely not one hundred percent.”

Sherlock nodded and looked away.

“Right then.” John stood, clomped over to stand directly in front of Sherlock, and held his hand out for the collar which Sherlock was still twirling nervously. “Will you wear this collar for me tonight?”

Sherlock brought his head up, then, meeting John’s eyes. He looked completely lost. “This isn’t how I thought it would go,” he said quietly.

“And yet you thought we could swan into a sex club and blend in.”

Sherlock licked his lips and looked back down.

“I see.” John plopped down on the sofa next to him. “Serious talk time. Are you gay?”

Sherlock hesitated, then nodded slightly.

“Have you ever had sex?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Define sex.”

“Orgasm in the presence of another person.”

“Then yes.”

“Ever suck a cock or have your cock sucked?”

“Yes.”

“Ever had your dick inside someone, or had someone inside you?”

“No.”

“Ever been to a club like this?”

“. . . No.”

“Okay.” John cocked his head to one side, studying his flatmate. “What exactly did you expect would happen tonight? If I had been willing to pretend to be your sub?”

Sherlock shrugged again. “I expected we’d play a new couple in town, checking out the scene. The victims were all men in their early thirties, relatively fit, professionally-successful types but in fields they weren’t likely to have a lot of creative autonomy. From what I’ve gathered from their friends and families, their personalities would all indicate they’d be submissives in an environment like this. I suspect the killer picked them up at the club, convinced them to go elsewhere for sex, and murdered them while they were consensually incapacitated.”

“And you’d recognize the killer on sight?”

“I -” Sherlock made a frustrated gesture. “No way to know, of course, but it doesn’t hurt to look. I was planning to start up some conversations with other doms and see who was actively looking for a sub - and who was offering to play with people outside the club.”

“I see.” And he did. Sherlock would have used him as bait, he would have gotten silently furious, and they would have had a big row about it once they got back to the flat. “This will work better, actually.”

Sherlock blinked. “How?”

“You’re the bait.” John eyed Sherlock’s outfit. “I’m just being realistic - I’m half a decade older than you are, I’m five foot six, and I’m not all that much to look at. We’ll have much better luck if it sounds like you are the one on offer. You’re good at flirting, when it suits your purposes.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, John.” Sherlock blatantly eyed him right back.

“Oh, I know.” John smirked at him. “I have the whole military thing going for me. My better qualities mostly come out when I’m ordering someone around, though - I’m not exactly submissive material. Think you can fake it for the night?”

“I -” Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobbed sharply. “Might be harder putting myself in position to have the right conversations, this way.”

“Don’t worry about that.” John deliberately dropped his hand to Sherlock’s knee and squeezed it.

Sherlock jumped.

“We’re going to have to work on that, you know.” John kept his hand perfectly still, just a warm weight on Sherlock’s leg. “I’m going to have to touch you, and you’ll have to trust me to get you into the right places to gather information. Without arguing with me. Do you want to decide on a safe word first?”

Sherlock’s forehead wrinkled. “Why?”

“Because if we have one, I won’t have to constantly stop and ask for your consent before we do anything new. And I suspect there will be a lot of ‘new’ tonight. I’ll trust you to tell me if something is making you uncomfortable.”

“Are you . . .” Sherlock frowned. “You anticipate actual physical contact will be necessary?”

John let out a long breath. “Yeah, honestly,” he admitted. “We’ll really stick out - you’ll really stick out - if you jump every time someone touches you. I mean, it’s horribly rude to just go up and manhandle someone just because they’re dressed as a sub, but it happens sometimes. And part of the point of playing in a public place like Restraint is all the little incidental contact with other people. Not sexual, necessarily, but the possibility is always there. So if you’re not comfortable with the idea of being touched -”

Sherlock grumbled and shifted in his seat. “It’s not that I can’t stand being touched,” he said grumpily. “I just don’t like the idea of being pawed at by anyone except you.”

That was . . . informative. And unexpected. Sherlock hadn’t actually said he wanted John to touch him, but he might as well have. “You’re okay with me pawing at you?”

He shrugged awkwardly. “It’s acceptable.”

“Okay.” John nodded. And then tried to figure out how to ask about the elephant in the room. “So, ah, when you say it’s acceptable -”

“Anything I’ve done before,” Sherlock replied, cutting right to the heart of the matter. “I acknowledge that some form of sexual play may be necessary, and I’ll tell you if you’ve hit my limits.” He looked away and swallowed. “I suppose I’ll have to . . . follow your lead in that arena.”

“Right then. Pick a word?”

Sherlock hmmmed. “Red-yellow-green is traditional, I understand. And if I tell you I’m thirsty, that’s a cue for us to get somewhere quiet and either regroup or leave.”

Right. I can work with that. “This is going to be one of the stranger things we’ve done together. Just so you know.”

A tiny smile flitted around Sherlock’s lips. “I know.” He held out the collar and raised an eyebrow.

John stood, took the collar, and clasped it neatly around Sherlock’s pale neck. It looked . . . very good on him. He grabbed his duffel, offered Sherlock a hand up, and didn’t release his grip until they got into the cab.

Chapter Text

Sherlock was uncharacteristically jittery for most of the ride. He looked rather pathetic, actually - he was all dressed up in that mouth-wateringly tight black leather and sparkly fishnet, but his shoulders were slumped and he kept looking out the window like a small child who knew he was headed for a long day at church and would much rather be anywhere else. The combination was incongruous and gave John second thoughts about the whole affair.

“We don’t have to do this, you know,” he said.

Sherlock glanced at him, then back out the window. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I mean it - I could go alone, ask around, and report back. If you don’t get off on this kind of thing, you’re going to find Restraint a bit shocking. And probably distasteful. And since you’ve never done this before-”

“What makes you assume that?”

John eyed his flatmate. “The fact that instead of practically vibrating like you usually are when we’ve had a breakthrough in a case, you’re hunched in on yourself and you actually look self-conscious in that outfit.”

Sherlock immediately straightened his shoulders. “Don’t assume I’m naive just because I’ve never been to a sex club.”

“Aren’t you?”

He arched an eyebrow in his John-I’m-disappointed-in-your-tiny-brain look. “My past experience hasn’t been entirely vanilla, John. And I do take in information from other sources, much as that might surprise you.”

“Fine, fine.” John was already wishing he hadn’t brought it up. “I’m not trying to pry, just - observe now and analyze later, all right?”

“Why?”

John huffed out a long breath. “Because I’m nervous too, okay? Not about the club - everyone’s very discreet and it’s a good environment to play in. No complaints there. But I’ve never had you there with me, and I’m finding that’s a bit more exposure than I’m used to. I’ve never played in front of someone who could notice the way I hold my elbow when I wield a whip and deduce my entire sexual history from that. It’s kind of unnerving.”

“. . . You have a whip?”

John leaned his head back against the window and closed his eyes. “Yes, Sherlock, I have a whip. And quite a few other things in the bag at our feet. Want me to plan to use it tonight?”

There was a long pause before Sherlock finally answered, “I don’t think so.”

“No impact play, then?”

Sherlock shifted in his seat. “Never tried it.”

“Thought so.” John sighed. “Look, all I’m saying is, I do intend to have a long talk with you once we get back to the flat. About whatever happens tonight, both for the case and between us. But I’d really appreciate it if you can just focus on the case first, and leave all the other stuff for later.”

Another pause. “I can do that,” Sherlock said slowly.

The taxi lurched to a stop. “Good,” John said. “Because we’re here.”

***

“You’re still nervous.” John pushed Sherlock into an alcove in the antechamber, just past the coat closet, and blocked him in with his body. “Stop worrying about it.”

Sherlock looked away. “I’m not worried,” he lied.

“Yes you are.” John dropped the duffel and reached up to grab the nape of Sherlock’s neck. “Come here.” And then he kissed him.

Sherlock’s mouth tasted sweet, like his afternoon tea, with a hint of chocolate from the three biscuits John had managed to get him to eat. He didn’t respond immediately, but John pressed harder and eventually Sherlock made a tiny sound of surrender and his lips softened. John immediately took advantage, exploring the inside of Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue and drawing a longer groan out from the detective.

When he finally drew back, Sherlock was a bit flushed and breathing heavily. “Perfect,” John declared. Sherlock looked dazed but perfectly alert - the ideal combination for the evening. “I’m going to give you some rules for tonight, and you’re not going to argue with me.”

Sherlock blinked.

“First rule is, you’re going to address me as ‘Sir.’ No exceptions. It’s something I require of anyone I play with here, and everyone will expect it.”

Sherlock licked his lips. “Yes . . . sir.”

Oh, God, the sound of it in Sherlock’s deep baritone was already sending shivers down John’s spine. He allowed himself only a second to indulge, though, before pulling up to his full height and reverting to his dom stance. “Second rule: when I’m at your side, you will not speak unless I ask you a direct question. The only exceptions are safewords and when you’re . . . thirsty.” He looked Sherlock directly in the eye to underscore their agreement from back at the flat. “If you should find yourself apart from me at any point during the evening, you may speak when spoken to, but always respectfully. And always defer any decisions to me.”

Sherlock swallowed, but he kept his eyes on John. “Yes sir,” he said again.

“Third rule: you will speak up if I’m making you do something you’re not comfortable with.” John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and squeezed to underscore the point. “Usually I insist on step-by-step consent with new subs, but we’re going to have to pretend we already play together, so we don’t have that option here. And I don’t give a flying rat fuck about the case, if it means accidentally pushing you into something you’re going to have issues about later. So I’m going to be assuming consent unless told otherwise.”

“That’s . . . reasonable.” Sherlock nodded, not breaking the intense eye contact John was forcing on him. He licked his lips. “I trust you,” he whispered. “Sir.”

“Good.” John stepped back and smiled. And yes, Sherlock was responding properly, taking a little breath in confusion at the sudden extra space around his body. John crouched down to rummage in his duffel bag and pull out a short length of his thinnest rope. “Hold still - this is going to make everything easier.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. Even when John started lacing one end around his waist, weaving it in and out through base of the fishnet shirt. John tied one end off in a slipknot, then took the rest of the rope and wrapped it around his hand. The effect was a loose leash with which he could throw Sherlock off-balance whenever he wanted, but which wouldn’t twist the shirt unnecessarily. He glanced up at Sherlock’s face, half-anticipating resistance, but Sherlock merely looked intrigued.

“Right then. Ready to meet everyone?” John gave a slight tug - eliciting a tiny indrawn breath from Sherlock - and led him inside.

Chapter Text

“John!”

“Bill! Good to see you out and about again!” John shook the older man’s hand. “Last I heard, you were laid up with some sort of back surgery. That all sorted now?”

Bill put his hands on his hips and swayed his upper torso from side to side, showing off his mobility. “Took bloody long enough, but yes. Doc said my disc wasn’t just slipped, it was actually pulverized. Tonight’s my first night back.” He rolled his shoulders, then turned a politely questioning eye on Sherlock. “Brought a friend tonight, I see?”

Sherlock was eyeing Bill with that blatantly calculating look he used at crime scenes. It rubbed people the wrong way at even the best of times, and it definitely wasn’t going to fly here as long as Sherlock was acting as John’s sub. Probably going to be a lot of this tonight . . . John yanked hard on the cord around Sherlock’s waist.

“Yeah, thought it was time he saw the scene for himself,” John said with a light smile. Sherlock, knocked off his feet, had fetched up surprisingly convincingly against John’s side, making it easy for John to throw an arm around his waist.

“Boyfriend?” asked Bill with one raised eyebrow.

“Kinda,” John answered, with an arch look up at Sherlock. Who - finally - seemed to get the hint, and simpered back. “I guess I’d say he’s my ‘it’s complicated.’”

Bill laughed. “Gotcha. I’d love to see you play tonight - especially with a new sub. God, you’re an amazing artist out there.”

“Sure thing - keep an eye out.”

“Will do.”

They slipped through the crowd in opposite directions, Sherlock trailing John by half a stride. John snaked an arm around him again and hauled him closer so he could whisper in his ear.

“No staring, Sherlock - not like that. You’re gonna have to be more subtle.”

Sherlock shifted his shoulders. “I need to-”

“Hey.” John punctuated the reprimand with a sharp slap on Sherlock’s back pocket. “Rule number two - that was an order, not a question. You don’t speak to me unless I tell you to. Whatever you’ve got going in that brain of yours, it stays in your head unless I ask for it. Understood?”

Sherlock swallowed. “Yes,” he mumbled.

“Yes what?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good.” John put a bit of space between them and led Sherlock on to the next cluster of people.

They made slow progress around the perimeter of the room, chatting with some people John recognized and just watching others as they played. John made an effort to actually speak to every male dom there whom he didn’t already know - Sherlock was undoubtedly cataloguing everything for future analysis. He was still a bit too alert, a bit too present to be convincing as the kind of sub John usually played with, but turning Sherlock’s brain off was . . .

John stopped dead. Sherlock, for all he tried to deny it, had the same biology as any other red-blooded male. Turning his brain off was therefore easy, if you knew how. And a horny Sherlock would be a Sherlock lost in subspace, which would be a lot easier to deal with. Probably. He tried to ignore the part of his brain which amended “. . . and hot as hell” on to that thought.

He glanced up at Sherlock, gauging his best plan of attack. Sherlock was, once again, eyeing the room with far too much thinking for someone wearing a collar. John jerked the rope and dragged Sherlock over to the relatively quiet corner where he had dumped his bag of gear. Sherlock bit his lip, but didn’t ask the question that was obviously bursting to get out.

“Good,” John murmured, unzipping the bag. “Stand over there, facing the wall, toes against the baseboard. Hands behind your back. You may talk - quietly - if you have something to say.”

Sherlock obeyed without complaint, although his eyes did linger overly long on the little bit of the bag’s contents he could see from where he was standing. “I assume you were seeking out particular people for a reason?” he asked over his shoulder in a near-whisper.

“All the men I don’t know, and all the male doms I don’t know well,” John answered. “You’re assuming the killer is male based on the statistics, right?” He pulled out his thinnest rope - nearly cord - and started prepping loops in the right places. “Right hand first, palm away from me.”

“Female killer wouldn’t fit the profile,” Sherlock answered, allowing John to pull his hand away from his body and slip loops of rope over his pinky and thumb. “John, what are you doing?”

“Micro-bondage.” John didn’t bother to hide the predatory smile he knew was creeping over his face. “Other hand.” He repeated the knots over Sherlock’s left hand, then stepped in so he was pressing Sherlock against the wall with his chest. “I’m going to give you something to think about so you’re not analyzing quite so blatantly.”

“What-”

“Enough talking,” John snapped, falling back into his dom voice. He was mildly surprised to see it had the intended effect. Quickly he bound Sherlock’s pinky fingers together behind his back, palms in, then reached around to unzip Sherlock’s fly. Sherlock swallowed and straightened, but didn’t speak.

“Good,” John whispered, and pressed a quick kiss to the back of Sherlock’s shoulder through the fishnet shirt. “Not getting you off, yet, just shifting your focus.”

Sherlock wasn’t wearing pants either, something John should have realized earlier - he would have seen the lines through the tight black leather. As it was, the knowledge that Sherlock was right there - available for the groping, if he so desired - shot a bolt of lust straight to John’s cock. Part of him wanted to just pin Sherlock to the wall and pound into him right there, height differences and angles be damned.

That wasn’t in the cards, though. John rummaged one-handed through the bag until - ah. He fit the leather cock ring on Sherlock entirely by feel, managing to snap it on without actually touching Sherlock’s cock more than incidentally. Sherlock was already mostly hard.

He could explain - but eh, fuck it. A demonstration would be faster. John shimmied Sherlock’s trousers down just enough to work, then quickly connected the small D-ring on the leather strap to the trailing end of the rope binding Sherlock’s pinky fingers. A second, slightly longer rope ran from Sherlock’s left thumb, through the D-ring, and up to his right. The end result was one rope running from Sherlock’s thumbs down the creases at the top of his thighs to the base of his cock, and another rope running from his bound pinkies straight down the crack of his ass. John made sure the extra knot was situated just over Sherlock’s perineum. Everything in place and accounted for, he yanked Sherlock’s trousers up and re-zipped them. Sherlock’s hands were trapped over his ass cheeks, inside his trousers, and moving either his thumb or his pinky would cause not-entirely-pleasant pressure on his balls and the base of his cock.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice was shaky.

John growled, mostly just to give Sherlock an audible reminder that he wasn’t supposed to be speaking. “I wouldn’t try to move your hands too much,” he said. “It could make walking very uncomfortable. How does it feel?”

Sherlock shuffled backward a step, then his eyes grew wide as he took in the nuance of his position. “I-” He licked his lips.

Oh, God, that lost look on his face . . . John reached up to grab Sherlock’s shoulder and swing him around so his back hit the wall with a thud, then he kissed him senseless.

It didn’t take long. Sherlock’s hands were trapped behind his back, so he couldn’t do anything except take it. And John pressed his advantage. He yanked roughly at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, stooping him over until his lips were in range, then he forced his tongue inside Sherlock’s mouth until they were both moaning. Sherlock kept squirming, shifting his shoulders, which John knew from previous experience was also rubbing the knot in the rope over his perineum and was yanking something terrible on his cock. And it was obviously turning Sherlock on, because all Sherlock seemed to be able to do was squirm more and moan louder.

Right then. That rather answered the question which had been percolating around in the back of John’s mind, namely is Sherlock actually a sub, or is he just having to fake it? Sherlock’s original intention of playing the part of the dom was just on the basis of the case, then. Good to know.

Hell, not just good - fantastic. Because from the way Sherlock was positively writhing under a little micro-bondage and a good snog, John could tell he’d be fucking phenomenal in real ropes. And ropes happened to be one of John’s favorite things to play with. He also happened to be really fucking good at it.

He broke the kiss and took a step back. Sherlock literally fell forward, only barely stepping forward in time to keep himself from stumbling. John put out a hand to keep him from falling entirely, but his attention was already on his bag of gear. “Turn around one more time - I want to do your forearms too.”

Sherlock stood quietly - mostly quietly - while John laced his wrists up to his elbows in an elaborate diamond pattern. It wasn’t uncomfortably tight, didn’t force Sherlock’s elbows together, but the bright red rope made it a bit more obvious that Sherlock was tied up and not just walking around with his hands shoved down the back of his trousers. It would have been better if Sherlock were naked, purely from an aesthetic standpoint, but John couldn’t deny he was enjoying the sight of Sherlock in those tight pants . . .

John cinched up the final knots while he scanned the rest of the room. There were four scenes already going - one relatively tame threesome, a willowy brunette pissing on a bound man’s face, something with knives going on in the far corner, and a good-sized blowjob circle in the middle of the room. With the exception of the bloodplay, which was often a bit too graphic for even seasoned kinksters to watch, people were idly milling around and appreciating the scenes. The circle, in particular, seemed to be unusually lackadaisical - participants were drifting in and out, laughing and cheering each other on. The important point to note, though, was that the suspension hook and pulleys were currently empty.

“Sherlock.” John turned Sherlock around and kept a hand on his shoulder, giving him time to focus. “How do you feel about doing a scene?”

Sherlock blinked dizzily. “A scene?” He let out a small moan. “Sir?”

Fuuuuuck. Okay, Sherlock was definitely in subspace now. The wide pupils, the dazed expression, the repetition of John’s words (Sherlock normally despised repeating himself) - he was blatantly turned on by this. John felt absurdly pleased that his little micro-bondage creation could have such a big effect. And that the word “sir” from Sherlock’s mouth could have such a big effect on him.

John drew himself up to his full height and fixed Sherlock with his best army listen up or else glare. “Here’s what we’re going to do - see that hardware on the wall there? I’m going to go start setting up. You are going to go get me a bottle of water, making a complete circuit of the room. Observe, lock it all away in your mind palace, but don't analyze yet. And when you get back, I’m going to suspend you upside-down and make you come so hard you’ll forget your own name.”

Sherlock stopped breathing.

“Give me a color, Sherlock. What will it be?”

Sherlock swallowed twice before he could form words. “Green. Green, sir.”

John nodded sharply, then swatted Sherlock’s arse (which was currently protected by his hands, but it made him jump anyway). “Go, then. You can manage a bottle of water with your teeth if you really try.”

Sherlock panted out a breath, nodded back, and shouldered his way through the crowd the best he could with his hands literally tied behind his back.

Chapter Text

John took his time setting out his rope. The club had an excellent setup for a nice, flashy bondage scene - a sturdy table to work on, a pulley system, and an adjustable suspension hook. It was good from a demonstration standpoint, because it made everything easy to see, but it was also just fun. Not something he could really do at home. By the time Sherlock worked his way around the room with his teeth firmly clenched around the cap of a good-sized bottle of water, several people had already gathered to watch.

“Ah, thanks.” John took the bottle, letting Sherlock see the “this is going exactly how I want it to” in his face. And then held up a red-and-black ball gag. “Here, trade you.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide, but he didn’t protest. John hesitated just a fraction of a second, making eye contact and are you sure this is okay and Sherlock’s answering look said yes and so John tapped Sherlock’s jaw and said “open” and slid the ball inside.

“Right then.” John smiled for the benefit of their audience, but his attention was solely on Sherlock. “I know you’re already a bit tied up, as it were, but hop up on the table here and we’ll do something fun.”

Without the use of his arms or hands, Sherlock was forced to rely on leaning his torso on the waist-high surface and then pushing himself up with his legs. It was neither graceful nor elegant, completely unlike how Sherlock moved the rest of the time, but John stepped back and let him struggle for a minute anyway before giving one last helpful shove and then Sherlock was on his stomach on the heavy wood. He turned his head to the side and laid it flat against the hard surface, eyes open and on John but looking vaguely dazed.

“Hum something for me. Vivaldi.” John insinuated a hand through Sherlock’s dark curls, cupping the back of his head and massaging gently.

Sherlock’s eyes widened a bit, but he managed a few bars of Vivaldi’s “Spring” through the ball gag.

“Good. That’s your safe word for this scene - if you hum, I’ll take the gag off and we can stop if you want. Nod for me.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Right then.” John maneuvered Sherlock to a kneeling position on the table, so he was sitting back on his heels and his chest was slightly thrown forward by the position of his arms. It was more difficult to tie a basic body harness with Sherlock’s arms in the way, but John had plenty of experience and it didn’t take him all that long to devise a workaround. He quickly had the bight of the rope at the back of Sherlock’s neck, against the leather collar, and tied a series of knots several centimeters apart down the trailing ends over Sherlock’s torso. He centered the last one just above the button of Sherlock’s trousers, then ran the ends down between Sherlock’s legs and worked them underneath Sherlock’s bound arms and up to the bight again. Sherlock was practically panting, little short puffs of air against the top of John’s head as he worked his way down.

“Breathe for me,” John commanded, pausing a moment to catch Sherlock’s chin and force eye contact. Sherlock’s jaw worked against the ball gag, but his nostrils flared with a deeper breath. “Good. No hyperventilating. Nice, even breaths - I haven’t even gotten to the fun part yet.”

Sherlock moaned.

John split the ropes and worked one under each of Sherlock’s armpits, bringing them around to meet the column of knots running down his sternum. The body harness was a nice, versatile starting point for a suspension scene, partly because it looked gorgeous when done right and partly because it made a fantastic anchor for whatever else he felt like doing. Sherlock’s chest moved with deliberate, even breaths as John wove the rope back and forth, wrapping around Sherlock’s torso in big diamonds and anchoring it to the knots in the center. John finished the bottom diamond at Sherlock’s hips with a little flourish, cinching up the rest of the slack and tucking the extra rope underneath so it wouldn’t get in the way.

“You look so fucking amazing right now,” John breathed in Sherlock’s ear. The swelling crowd standing at a respectful distance seemed to agree - John estimated they had more than half the club watching them by this point. It really had been a while since he’d done a nice public scene like this, and apparently he’d been missed. It was a pleasant feeling.

Right, what next? John took several steps back and bit his lip, thinking. His favorite red rope stood out beautifully against Sherlock’s pale skin and the fishnet shirt. Something with Sherlock’s legs - ah. Sometimes simple was best. And - from what John had seen of Sherlock’s strange contortions in his armchair and on the sofa while he was thinking - Sherlock was also delightfully flexible.

John grabbed another length of red rope and carefully repositioned Sherlock so he was on his stomach again, face toward their little audience. John couldn’t resist another quick brush of his fingers through Sherlock’s curls before going around to the other side of the table and focusing on the task at hand.

Sherlock’s legs really were sinfully long, he decided. He widened the gap between Sherlock’s knees, then brought his ankles up and tied them in a tight X. He could work in something decorative, something flashy -

But no. Sherlock’s chest was already spread because of the position of his arms, and anything complicated with his legs would put too much pressure on his hips. John settled for affixing Sherlock’s ankles to the anchor point at the small of his back, then ran a doubled balance line to several points along the harness and linking them all to a heavy-duty carabiner. He did a test yank - everything supported, nothing pulling in dangerous ways. Time for the fun, then.

Whoever had designed the suspension hardware for Restraint had done an admirable job. It would have been easy to just screw a hook into a ceiling support and call it done, but there was actual engineering involved here. The hook was attached to an industrial I-beam, which was on a hinged pivot and braced against the wall. The result was a pulley system which allowed John to clip into the carabiner at the back of Sherlock’s harness, hoist him up half a meter, and then swing him away from the table so he was suspended in empty air. Sherlock stiffened a bit when he was first lifted away from the table, but John knew the tension in the rope was spot-on. It wouldn’t be uncomfortable, just . . . well, whatever it was subs felt when they were tied up. They all seemed to enjoy it, at any rate, Sherlock included.

And John was definitely enjoying the sight of his flatmate, gagged and incapacitated. Even though he was fully clothed, if you counted the see-through shirt. Not that the tight leather trousers did anything to disguise the massive hard-on Sherlock was currently sporting. The more he wriggled his shoulders and arms and fingers, the more the micro-bondage would tighten against that lovely cock ring, and the more Sherlock would want to squirm . . .

Fuck. John reached down to adjust himself through his jeans. Two hours ago, they had just been flatmates. And now they seemed to have skipped past all the normal stages of a relationship and gone straight to “I’m going to tie you up in front of fifty people and make you come your brains out.” And apparently that was perfectly fine with both of them. Life with Sherlock Holmes was never boring, that was for sure.

“Think you can escape?” John caught Sherlock by the shoulder and rotated him so they were face-to-face. Well, Sherlock’s face to his chest. It was kind of nice to be the taller one for once, actually. “I want to see you get yourself down from there, if you can.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, but he gamely wriggled against his bonds. They weren’t entirely inescapable - he’d probably be able to work his fingers free from the cords, if he really wanted to - but they both knew this wasn’t actually about escaping. John gave him a lazy spin, then propped his hips against the table and settled back to watch.

Watching the audience, to be honest. Sherlock was absolutely mesmerizing - all that skin and leather and rope on display, revolving slowly, making the most delicious noises as he struggled and didn’t get anywhere - but John wasn’t the only one entranced. The blow job circle had completely disappeared in favor of John’s little show, and it looked like only the bloodplay scene was still ongoing. Everyone else was quietly but earnestly watching Sherlock.

John let his gaze rove over individual faces, under the pretense of thinking about what to do next. He at least vaguely recognized about half the people there, and knew names (first names, anyway) for around half of those. Only one or two he’d actually played with before, but - thank goodness - no exes were among them. The club had always been more his scene than theirs, anyway. As much as his girlfriends might have enjoyed going to Restraint while they were dating him, hardly any of them came on their own after their inevitable breakup.

Was one of these people a murderer? None of them looked especially creepy to John - but then, serial killers wouldn’t last long enough to be serial killers if they looked guilty from the get-go, obviously. Hopefully after Sherlock had his orgasm and had a chance to clear his head, he’d have some insight.

John caught Sherlock’s shoulder again, stopping both his spinning and his escape attempts. Sherlock’s eyes were wide, pleading.

“You ready for more, or you want to stop? Nod for more, shake your head for stop.”

Sherlock nodded emphatically.

John grinned and trailed a deliberate fingertip over the bulge in Sherlock’s trousers. “I bet you’re already aching for it, aren’t you? Leaking all over that gorgeous leather?” He firmed his grip into a squeeze, making Sherlock’s eyes shoot wider, wild and frantic. “I’m a bit of a sadist, you know - I rather enjoy seeing you like this. Want to see how much you can stand?”

Sherlock whimpered through the gag. Nothing in his expression was showing actual fear, though - it was all excitement and trepidation and hope. John had no idea what Sherlock’s previous sexual experience was, but he’d bet a good deal it hadn’t included being tied up, suspended, and thoroughly humiliated in front of an audience. There was something immensely satisfying in being Sherlock’s first, especially given how he seemed to be enjoying the scene as much as John was.

The ball gag was going to get in the way, though. John gave one last squeeze, then wandered over to rummage in his duffel again. He slid the ring gag out of its plastic bag and held it up, advancing on Sherlock. “Now that I’ve got you up there, I think it’s time for the fun part. And for that I’m going to need your mouth free. Open.”

Sherlock held very still as John switched out the two gags. The thick metal ring held Sherlock’s mouth not-quite-fully open - Sherlock could still stretch his jaw a bit when he needed to, but he was helpless to stop John from slipping a thumb inside and caressing the roof of his mouth.

“Beautiful,” John breathed. “You don’t know how much this turns me on, seeing you like this, mouth open and ready for me.” He pulled his hand away, thumb glistening with saliva, and traced a wet trail down Sherlock’s cheek. “Turns you on too, doesn’t it? Knowing I can take full advantage of that gorgeous mouth right now and there’s nothing you can do about it?”

Sherlock gave a full-body shudder and a slightly frantic sigh.

“That’s it - just enjoy letting go.” John couldn’t resist two fingers now, trailing roughly over Sherlock’s tongue and the inside of his teeth, twisting his hand slowly so he could touch every part of Sherlock’s sensitive mouth. Sherlock bucked when he brushed his soft palate, shivered when he pressed hard against the underside of his tongue, and practically collapsed into a quivering mess when he dug a fingernail into the soft gums along the inside of his bottom teeth.

“God, you’re incredible. Wiggle your fingers for me.”

John left his fingers in Sherlock’s mouth, but pulled far enough back he could see Sherlock’s fingers moving through the tight leather of his trousers. Sherlock flexed them, then lifted them one at a time, groaning loudly as he did so.

“You’re absolutely aching now, aren’t you?” John withdrew his hand and brought it down to Sherlock’s crotch, rubbing gently against the leather. “Oh, I can feel it. You could probably come just from me doing this, couldn’t you. Just from being here, being my rope slut sex toy - and in front of an audience, too. Look at them. Look at their faces while I touch you. See them watching your every reaction, your every twitch and groan. They’re all getting off on it, too - every single one of them.”

Sherlock’s eyes slid past John’s to scan over the crowd. Observing, but not in any state to analyze - not yet, anyway. John pulled Sherlock a little closer so he could see what he was doing as he carefully worked Sherlock’s zipper open. The leather trousers were still tight enough to stay more or less where they were, but Sherlock’s cock sprang free immediately. It was absolutely glistening with precome and was one of the most beautiful things John had seen in a long time. He closed both hands around it - one gentle hand around the shaft, and one pinching a circle around the base tightly enough Sherlock cried out.

“None of that - not yet,” John snapped. “God, look at how much of a mess you’ve made already, just by letting me control you. You’re such a whore for this, aren’t you?”

Sherlock shivered.

“I said aren’t you?” John tightened his grip again, loving how Sherlock’s body tried to buck but was brought up short by the ropes.

“Yeh ir,” Sherlock tried to say through the ring gag.

“Better.” John loosened his fingers, but brought the hand that was sticky with precome up to press over Sherlock’s mouth. “Taste it,” he commanded.

He felt Sherlock’s tongue slide up his palm, and the sensation made his own cock jump again.

“Lick it all off,” he said in as stern a tone as he could muster, under the circumstances. And brought his palm back a bit so Sherlock had to really work to reach it. “This is your mess, and it’s up to you to clean it up. It’s time for you to learn that.”

Sherlock’s nostrils were flaring with the speed of his breathing, but he laved John’s palm with short, desperate strokes until it was completely clean. In John’s peripheral vision, he noticed some of the people in the crowd shifting and making interested noises. Which wasn’t surprising, because Sherlock using his tongue was phenomenally hot, and in this position he was putting on a hell of a show.

And also had a hell of an erection jutting out. At this point, it more or less matched John’s. John unzipped his own trousers. Another quick swipe of his damp palm against Sherlock’s cock got the rest of the precome, and John used the combined moisture to slick himself down from tip to base. He pumped twice, just for the feel of it, then popped his hips up backwards so he was sitting on the table. Within moments he had them both positioned exactly how he wanted - he was kneeling at the edge, his cock wet and ready, and Sherlock was suspended flat in the air at just the right height.

“I’m going to fuck your mouth,” John warned. “I’m going to fuck you deep and slow and you’re going to lick all your precome off my cock with that talented tongue. And since you’re in no position to do anything except take it, I’m going to use you exactly how I want to.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, but his gaze was locked solidly on John’s cock. A little trail of drool was starting to work its way down his chin. John knew Sherlock could feel it, would have been mortified in any other situation, but John felt no obligation to wipe it off - he rather liked the idea of Sherlock literally drooling over him. The whole situation was straight out of some fantasy, and John had every intention of taking advantage of it.

First, though . . . he caught at the closest vertical rope and swung Sherlock fractionally forward, close enough to breathe on his cock. And then pulled. Sherlock swung easily, suddenly there, impaled by John’s length, and they both bit back shaky moans. John pushed and pulled at the rope again, marveling at the feel of how easy it was. And Sherlock . . . Sherlock was desperate, swiping his tongue against John’s cock in wet, sloppy strokes. This wasn’t like any old blow job - the ring gag kept Sherlock’s mouth wide open, so there was no resistance, no suction, no drag of cheeks against John’s skin as Sherlock worked. Just the hot slide of Sherlock’s tongue, the warm softness when John hit the back of his throat, the vibrations coming from every direction as Sherlock moaned and sighed and keened around him.

John hit the edge embarrassingly quickly. He only had a moment to decide - come in Sherlock’s mouth, or on his face? - before he felt his balls tightening with the impending orgasm. At the last second, he decided for in. He tilted his hips forward, impaling himself as far as he could down Sherlock’s throat, and at the same time he reached forward to grip Sherlock’s cock in his free hand and give a deliberately rough squeeze.

They came at almost the exact same time. John’s world went white for a long moment, the pleasure overtaking him, and then he was sitting back on his heels and looking down on Sherlock with what was probably a dazed expression. It mirrored Sherlock’s own. There was a definite trail of drool and come dripping off Sherlock’s chin, now, and even post-orgasm, John found the sight hotter than anything else he’d seen in a long time. His hand was warm and sticky with Sherlock’s own release. He couldn’t resist holding it up in front of Sherlock’s face for him (and everyone else) to see.

But as the little shivers of pleasure receded and the bone-deep languidness set in, John knew Sherlock would be coming down from the high as well. And was going to need to process everything before they did anything else. John hopped down from the table, sketched a little mock bow for the audience (who were already starting to wander off), and set about tugging Sherlock’s trousers into their original position before swinging Sherlock back over the table and lowering him down on his stomach.

He took out the gag first, but Sherlock stayed uncharacteristically silent as John worked off the rest of the ropes. He peeled Sherlock’s trousers down just enough to get the knots off from around Sherlock’s thumbs and fingers, then stood back and cleared his throat.

“I’ll, ah, let you take off the rest.” He stood so Sherlock’s body was blocked from being seen by most of the room - it was a bit late to worry about anyone seeing Sherlock’s cock now, but something told him Sherlock would appreciate the tiny bit of modesty now that he was able to think again.

And it appeared he was right. Sherlock nodded, sat up, and quickly extricated the leather cock ring and the associated ropes before zipping himself back up again. He handed them to John without meeting his eyes.

“Right then.” John threw everything back in his duffel, cleaned off the table and the damp spot on the floor as quickly as he could with the disinfectant wipes the club provided, then wrapped a tight arm around Sherlock’s waist. “Let’s go sit down for a minute and break into that bottle of water you brought me. I’m guessing you’re thirsty.”

Sherlock looked up, then, just a quick glance at John’s face before nodding silently.

Chapter Text

John led him to a quiet alcove and dropped heavily into a large armchair, then tugged Sherlock down to sit crosswise on his lap. They stayed there for several minutes, not talking, just processing what had happened. John threaded his fingers through the hair at the nape of Sherlock’s neck and massaged gently until Sherlock mumbled and shifted closer.

“How are you feeling?” John finally asked.

“Mmmm.”

“Gonna need more detail than that, I’m afraid.”

Sherlock huffed out a breath against John’s neck. “Don’t be pedantic,” he whispered. “I’ve still got a significant chemical imbalance due to the endorphins, and - mmmm, that feels good - and I want to sit here a minute longer.”

“Okay. That’s okay.” John dropped his other hand to Sherlock’s knee - not doing anything, just sitting there. “Let me know when you’re ready to talk.”

Sherlock groaned softly. “Is talking really necessary?”

“Yes.” There was absolutely no question that something needed to be said after what had just happened.

“You said back at the flat.”

John thought back. “I did, didn’t I? Talk about the case, then - this is a good time to analyze all that data you’ve been collecting, if you can.”

Sherlock drew back just far enough for John to see the annoyance on his face. “Of course I can. Do you doubt me?”

“Sherlock, after what we just did, I have very serious doubts you could remember your own name, much less the profile of a specific murder suspect.”

It wasn’t his imagination - Sherlock actually shivered at the memory. And then straightened his shoulders. “Well obviously I can now.”

“Okay, is it someone here, then?”

Sherlock licked his lips and turned to look out at the room, where the other club members were once again mostly milling around and socializing. “I think - there was one man, the tall dark one against the far wall.”

John frowned. “He’s one of the ones I don’t know - why him?”

“Because he’s been flitting from social group to social group all evening, never staying long with any one circle. And because he tried to grope me when I had my mouth full with your water bottle.”

“What?” John pulled back and stared at his flatmate. “God, Sherlock, I’m sorry-”

Sherlock waved John’s apology away. “Not necessary. But from what you told me, that’s appalling club etiquette, which would suggest he’s relatively new. And it’s also boundary-pushing behavior, which is statistically linked to predatory behavior such as rape and assault.”

“You can hardly get him arrested on the basis of an attempted grope, though.”

“No.” Sherlock sat up straighter, then pushed John’s hands away and slid off his lap. “That’s why we’re going to have an argument.” He reached up to unbuckle the collar, took two steps backward, and threw it dramatically on the floor at John’s feet. “Look angry, John.”

It wasn’t hard - John’s lap already felt cold without Sherlock in it. “I am angry,” he snapped back. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Leaving you.” Sherlock gesticulated wildly with his hands, completely out of proportion to his words and the tone of his voice. Elsewhere in the room, John saw heads starting to turn and watch them. “Argue with me, John.”

“What the hell am I supposed to say?”

“Good, that’s good,” Sherlock spat. “Cross your arms, now - that’s it! Act like you can’t believe I just said that.”

John adopted what he hoped was a suitably annoyed expression - one he found startlingly easy to don when Sherlock was around.

“Fine,” said Sherlock, complete with a dramatic about-face and a clear increase in volume. “I’m going to go get a drink and find someone else who will.”

“But - fine.” John shut his mouth and turned his back on his mad flatmate. It left him glaring at a blank wall, but that felt just perfect right now. Sherlock needed to come down after the scene, damn it, and here he was swanning off, using himself as bait, to try to catch a serial murderer . . . John tore the cap off the water and took a large gulp. Not much he could do except sit here and stew - and since that seemed to be what Sherlock wanted him to do anyway, everything was just bloody perfect, wasn’t it?

“You okay, mate?”

John turned around to find Bill squatting near his chair so their heads were on a level.

“Looks like your ‘it’s complicated’ decided to go get complicated with someone else.”

John sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “Yeah, he’s . . . kinda like that.”

Bill cocked his head to the side. “Want to come spot for me? Miranda wants to do a rope scene, and I can always use another set of eyes. I told her to wait while I asked you.”

A brief glance told John that Sherlock was now on the far side of the room, flirting with the tall olive-skinned dom. It would be best to keep an eye on him . . . but Sherlock would obviously not welcome an intervention right now. “I think . . . I’ll come watch, I guess, but I’m not really up for participating just yet.”

“Ta - works for me.” Bill offered John a warm hand up, then kept up an enthusiastic monologue about the planned scene as they worked their way back over to the suspension hook. John’s eyes darted over the toys, just out of habit - safety shears were in their proper place, everything looked clean and in good shape and ready to go - but his attention was still fully on the strange sight of Sherlock flirting somewhere behind him. By shifting around so he was leaning against the wall, John could pretend to be watching Bill and Miranda but was actually close enough to overhear some of Sherlock’s conversation.

“. . . can’t believe he’s your type,” the other dom was saying.

“He’s got a rather spectacular cock and he likes to tie me up,” Sherlock said in a bored tone. “If he’d just stop insisting on so many stupid rules, we’d probably have a wonderful time.”

“Mmmmm - you’re the type of sub who likes to push boundaries, then?”

John couldn’t see Sherlock’s face, but he could hear the predatory smile in his voice. “Depends on the boundaries,” Sherlock purred. “I don’t suppose you’re the more adventurous type?”

The other dom paused, looking Sherlock up and down. “I can be with the right incentive,” he murmured back. “Want to go find out?”

“I believe I might.” Sherlock didn’t turn, never even looked at John, but he flicked his fingers discreetly behind his back in a “pay attention to this, seriously” gesture. “Here? Or somewhere else?”

“Oh, too crowded here, don’t you think?” The dom strutted toward Sherlock, twirling him around and backing him up against the wall so he could duck his head and suck a dark bruise onto the side of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock moaned and tilted his head upward, granting more access, but John could read the faint traces of resignation on his face. The dom was nearly of a height with him, which apparently provided the perfect chance to thrust his groin against Sherlock’s in a vaguely threatening manner. Sherlock’s eyes did flick down to John’s then, just for an instant before he let them slide closed in an approximation of pleasure.

“Where, then?” Sherlock asked breathlessly.

The dom leaned forward to whisper something in Sherlock’s ear and then bite his earlobe. Hard, from the way Sherlock’s forehead went tense and slowly slackened again. Sherlock hmmmmed, though, and wriggled enough to convince the dom he was interested. “Give me two minutes for the loo, and I’ll meet you at the door?”

John took the hint. He managed to squeeze out from his nominal place in Bill and Miranda’s crowd without walking near Sherlock or annoying too many other spectators, then ducked into the men’s loo before Sherlock was halfway across the room. When Sherlock came through the door, John was nonchalantly washing his hands.

“12427 Winchester Court,” he said without preamble. “Have Lestrade meet us there.”

John froze. “You’re still going? You’re sure this is the guy?”

Sherlock’s lips twisted into a half-frown. “Ninety percent sure,” he finally said. “I need to see the flat to know for sure.”

“And you intend to go along with someone who you believe to be a serial killer, just to get a look at his flat.”

“. . . Yes.”

“No.” John said firmly.

Sherlock blinked.

“There’s dangerous, and then there’s stupid,” John clarified. “Getting yourself murdered would fall squarely in the ‘stupid’ category, and I know how you feel about stupid people.”

“But I-”

“No,” John snapped. “I’ll call Lestrade and tell him to check out the address, but right now, you and I are going back to our flat and we’re going to talk.”

Sherlock blinked again, but he kept his mouth shut. And eventually took a deep breath and nodded. “That’s . . . okay.” He waved vaguely toward John’s pocket, the one with his phone. “Call.”

John did, omitting the details about how they were currently standing in the men’s room of a BDSM sex club. Lestrade, to his credit, didn’t argue, just confirmed the address and promised to be there within half an hour. “Do you have a name to go with that?” he asked.

John looked up at Sherlock. “Name?” he mouthed.

“Ismet Turan.”

John relayed the name, apologized for not giving any more details, and hung up with a promise to be in range of his phone whenever Lestrade managed to call back. “So that’s that, then,” he said aloud.

“So . . . home?” Sherlock’s tone was steady, but there was a vulnerability in his eyes John hadn’t seen before tonight. It was simultaneously heartening and heartbreaking - Sherlock clearly wanted something he didn’t think he could have.

John made a silent promise to make everything right if he could. “Home,” he answered.

They evaded Ismet Turan by the simple expedient of slipping out the back door. Sherlock hailed a cab, they tumbled in (with John’s duffel riding in the seat between them), and didn’t say a thing until they got back to Baker Street.

Chapter Text

John practically dragged Sherlock up the stairs, pushed him into the flat, and shoved him onto one end of the sofa. “So want to tell me how you found out his name and where he lived?” he asked, plopping down at the other.

Sherlock shrugged. “He opened his wallet to show me he carried condoms. I peeked.”

“And he was planning to bring you back to his flat?”

“He just said the neighborhood, but I had already seen the address.”

“But you don’t know for sure that he’d take you there - he could just have been saying that but really planned to kill you somewhere else.”

“Nonsense, John. If he were taking me somewhere else, he’d have to tell the cab driver the actual destination, at which point I’d surely get suspicious that it’s not what he had promised me a few minutes earlier. He didn’t have car keys, therefore didn’t drive his own car, therefore he was planning to take a cab home.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “You realize you were about to make a mistake, right?”

Sherlock frowned. “I was perfectly certain-”

“No, Sherlock.” John locked eyes with the detective. “You. Were. Making. A. Mistake. You don’t have your phone, I wouldn’t have been able to follow if you took a cab, and you were going into a situation where your disguise consisted of doing whatever a potential serial killer told you to do. Please don’t try to tell me you had some elegant solution all planned out, because I’m not buying it.”

A long silence. Sherlock would never admit he was wrong, of course, but it would have been nice to have some acknowledgement that perhaps he wouldn’t engage in this level of idiocy again-

“Thank you.”

John snapped his attention back to his flatmate. “Sorry, what?”

“I said thank you.” Sherlock looked down at his lap, not even protesting the necessity of repeating himself. “I . . . didn’t think about not having my phone. I just was working off the assumption that wherever I went, you’d follow. You were right - going with Turan would have been a poor risk to take.”

John blinked. “Did I just hear you apologize?”

Sherlock slanted an annoyed look in his direction. “Don’t ruin it.”

“Right.” John knew he was grinning in a way which would probably piss Sherlock off, but he couldn’t help it. “I’ll just treasure it then.”

“John . . .”

John’s good humor faltered as he suddenly remembered the other things worth treasuring from earlier in the evening. Sherlock’s expression as he came being a major one. Also the way his shoulders moved as he struggled against his restraints, and the look of the crimson ropes against his skin, and the way his nostrils flared slightly when he was out of breath but his mouth was jammed full of ball gag -

“You’re thinking about sex again,” Sherlock observed.

Fuck, is it that obvious? John glanced down at his crotch, but his leg was blocking Sherlock’s view of his groin.

“Not that,” Sherlock said. “Your forehead wrinkled.”

“I don’t have wrinkles.”

“You do when you’re thinking about sex.” Sherlock slid forward on the sofa, extending one long arm. “Here,” he said quietly, tracing a fingertip down the soft skin between John’s eyebrows.

John’s heart suddenly started pounding louder, surely loud enough for Sherlock to hear it. “How do you know I was thinking about sex and not, say, accounting?” he asked.

Sherlock lowered his chin, looking John right in the eye. “Because you’re looking at me.”

And fuck if that wasn’t quintessential Sherlock, arrogant and sexy at the same time.

“You still think we have to talk about tonight,” Sherlock said softly.

“. . . Yeah.” Definitely need to talk. John pulled his knee up to his chest and wrapped his arms around it, putting a barrier between their bodies. “I know I told you you could analyze later - you’ve already done that, I suppose.”

Sherlock inclined his head.

“And?”

“And I don’t really see the need for further discussion,” Sherlock said slowly.

Oh. John rested his chin on his knee and hugged his leg closer. “I see,” he said, keeping his eyes on the floor. “Look, I’m really sorry if I pushed you to . . . Sherlock, what are you doing?”

Sherlock had shifted back over to the opposite end of the sofa, hooked the strap of John’s duffel with one foot and dragged it closer, and was currently digging in it with both hands. “I’m looking for - aha.” He raised up the black leather collar triumphantly. “If you’re going to have a moral crisis about this, I want to be wearing your collar.”

John’s brain instantly emptied of words. He knew he was probably hyperventilating or going into shock or somesuch reaction, but all he could think about was the elegance of Sherlock’s long fingers as he settled the collar against his own neck and fastened the clasp and fuck, John was completely hard again.

“What . . . why?” he squeaked out.

Sherlock’s lips twitched upwards into a hint of a smile. “Because I suspect you’ll be less inclined toward self-flagellating and more toward fucking me if I keep this symbol of my submission visible.” He caressed it with one fingertip, and John shuddered. “My very, very willing submission,” Sherlock added.

“. . . Fuck.”

“I was rather hoping.” Sherlock dropped his hand and went back to rummaging through the duffel. “What else do you have in here, hmmm?”

“Sherl- fuck,” John repeated. “Don’t.”

Sherlock ignored him.

“Stop.”

“Mmmm.”

“Sherlock fucking Holmes, drop the bag right now and put your palms flat on your knees.”

Sherlock obeyed instantaneously, his chin snapping up and his spine straightening as if in a military stance. John took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, only belatedly realizing he had snapped into military-style posture himself. This was so strange, so wrong, and yet . . .

“I am going to ask you simple, direct questions,” John said, “and you are going to answer them quickly and clearly. First question: was tonight a good experience for you?”

Ooh, and there was Sherlock’s blissed-out smile again. “Oh yes,” he said, a touch dreamily.

“And is it something you’d like to repeat, either here or at the club?”

“Yes. Either. Both.”

“Right.” John exhaled. “Was there anything we did tonight you would rather not have done?”

Sherlock’s gaze sought out John’s face in his peripheral vision, but he kept his head perfectly still. “Rather not have made you angry. Rather not have had to worry about a case.”

“But you will at least try to think next time?”

John half-expected Sherlock to protest that he always thought things through, but he just bit his lip and nodded once. “I promise.”

“Good.” Suddenly the width of the couch felt like too great a space between them. John slid over, hip-to-hip with Sherlock, and rubbed Sherlock’s back gently. “Next question: do you want more sex tonight?”

Sherlock did turn his head, then, a quick bird-like movement and a knowing quirk of his lips. “Yes.” His eyes darted back down toward the duffel.

“Not like that,” John said. “No toys, no ropes. I want our first time - well, first private time - to be just about the two of us. Would you like that?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and let his body slump until half his weight was resting on John’s shoulder. “Yesssss.”

John glanced down - and yes, the evidence of Sherlock’s interest was tenting his leather trousers just as strongly as John’s erection was tenting his own. “Last question,” John said. “How much of this - me giving orders and you obeying them - do you want bleeding into our everyday lives?”

Sherlock made a quiet noise and burrowed his nose into John’s neck. “I like you,” he mumbled. “I’ll follow all the orders I feel inclined to.”

Typical. But it was pretty much exactly what John expected, so he wasn’t mad.

“In that case . . . stand up, walk to your bedroom, take off your shoes and socks, and lie on your bed face-down.”

Chapter Text

John hadn’t meant to keep Sherlock waiting as long as he did, truly. He just meant to sit on the couch until Sherlock was well and safely in his room, then nip upstairs and grab his lube and a condom before coming back down to join him. He couldn’t find the lube, though, and for some reason he didn’t have any in his club duffel either. It took several minutes of frantic digging before he came up with a single tear-open lube packet which had at some point gotten stuck in the frayed lining at the bottom of the bag. He actually had to pause and compose himself before pushing open the door.

And it was a good thing he did, because seeing Sherlock’s body sprawled out on the bed like that - still in his club outfit - was doing dangerous things to his respiratory system. John stepped into the room, closed the door carefully behind him, and drew to a stop at the foot of the bed.

Sherlock was beautiful. Hell, he already looked debauched, pale skin against the blinding white of his duvet, and John hadn’t actually done anything except look at him yet. Sherlock turned to watch John over his shoulder, a motion which tightened the muscles in his back in an exceptional way, and John had a hard time retaining his composure.

“Touch me,” Sherlock said with that annoying smirk of his. “It’s obvious you want to.”

“If I didn’t, we wouldn’t be here.” And yet John still took his time looking. Sherlock lay quietly under the observation, radiating mild annoyance but willing enough to be catalogued and filed away in John’s not-as-brilliant-but-still-perfectly-adequate brain.

When he couldn’t wait any longer, John started unbuttoning his shirt. Sherlock’s eyes locked onto the growing triangle of bare skin, until eventually all the tiny buttons had been slid through their holes and John was able to slide the black silk off his shoulders. Sherlock swallowed hard when John’s fingers went to the zipper of his trousers, but soon the trousers, too, joined the shirt in a carefully folded pile on the chair, and John was standing nude at the foot of the bed.

“I do find your body attractive, John,” Sherlock rumbled in a timbre so low John could practically feel the vibrations in the air. “One of the days I’m going to catalogue your scar by feel with my fingertips and my tongue.”

Of course he will. John hadn’t particularly thought about it, but he should have expected his bullet wound would be a turn-on for Sherlock. “You can do that a bit later - right now, stand up and come over here.”

John peeled Sherlock’s shirt off slowly, taking time to brush his palms over every square inch of skin he uncovered. (Not that it had been all that covered in the first place, but now it was his and that novelty was worth celebrating.) Trousers, too - the leather had warmed from Sherlock’s skin, and held the unmistakable scent of leather and arousal and Sherlock all rolled into one. John surreptitiously inhaled and savored it as he folded them and placed them on the chair next to his own.

“No need to fondle my trousers - get over here,” Sherlock grumbled.

“You -” - John turned around and pointed toward the bed - “- need to learn patience.”

“Do I?” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, but didn’t otherwise move.

“Mmmmm.” And without any more warning than that, John dropped to his knees at Sherlock’s feet and took Sherlock’s cock in his mouth.

The moan he ripped from Sherlock’s throat was a religious experience all on its own. John flexed his fingers over Sherlock’s arse, kneading the soft flesh as he explored with his mouth and lips and tongue. Sherlock was exquisitely sensitive, shuddering and shivering with each lick and nip.

“Oh God, John, please. Ohhhhhh . . .”

John drew back after only a few moments - not enough to really get into a rhythm, just enough to shake Sherlock out of that self-composed shell and push him closer to the edge. Sherlock’s fingers flexed at his sides, visible evidence of his eroding impassivity. John hummed, a little thinking noise which drew an answering bob from Sherlock’s cock, and decisively pushed. Sherlock topped onto the bed with significantly less grace than usual.

“Begging is good,” John said, “but don’t you fucking dare trying to tell me what to do. If you want something, ask. Politely.” He crawled up onto the mattress, hovering over Sherlock and staring him down.

Sherlock sucked in a breath. “Please, John. Pretty please touch me.”

“Better.” John dipped to suck a sharp bruise into the sensitive skin of Sherlock’s neck, just below that sexy-as-fuck collar, then drifted lower to toy with Sherlock’s nipples. That damned fishnet shirt had been flashing little teasing glimpses of them all evening, and John was done being denied. As long as I’ve got Sherlock here at my mercy, I’m going to take the time to savor this. And there was quite a bit he wanted to savor.

Sherlock was much less patient, which should have been no surprise at all. He lay passively under John’s ministrations for less than ten seconds, at which point he must have despaired of ever getting his way because suddenly his hands were on John’s back, roving up and down with an almost desperate quickness. John snapped his teeth together over Sherlock’s nipple.

“Ow!” Sherlock yelled, his entire body jolting upward.

“My pace,” John growled. “I’m going to fuck you so thoroughly you’ll build a shrine to me as a sex god before the night is through, but right now you’re going to bloody well lie still and let me taste you.”

Sherlock’s shiver nearly rattled his teeth. “I - fuck. Please.”

And so John resumed the exploration he had been denied earlier in the evening, sampling Sherlock’s flavor with little nips and sucking a line of vividly dark marks into his skin. Sherlock squirmed and panted and tried to encourage John with half-formed pleas, but John ignored the manipulation and focused instead on the fucking phenomenal sensation of Sherlock under his lips and tongue, completely at his mercy simply because he demanded it.

“Flip.”

Sherlock rolled with alacrity, settling in on his stomach with a little wriggle of his bum which earned him a sharp swat.

“No - you’re going to wait for me to get there. Stop trying to direct.” John put his hand over the knot at the top of Sherlock’s spine and swept downwards, slow and deliberate. Sherlock shivered again.

“John,” he moaned.

“Shhh.” John lowered his mouth again, kissing the small of Sherlock’s back. His skin was perfect - pale nearly to the point of translucence, but satin-smooth and wonderfully warm. John worked his way lower until Sherlock started to squirm once more.

John drew back long enough to give Sherlock’s arse another firm smack, then dipped back down and formed his mouth over the reddening flesh. “You want more, don’t you?” he murmured against Sherlock’s heated skin.

Sherlock moaned something which could have been “yes.”

“Mmmm.” John pressed harder, using his hands to pull Sherlock’s cheeks apart and drew his tongue down the crack between them. Sherlock bucked, but managed to stay silent.

“Good.” John blew out a breath onto the wet flesh, making Sherlock twitch. “You’re doing so well, Sherlock. Draw up your knees for me.”

Sherlock quickly shifted position until he was curled into a fetal position with his arse in the air, completely open to John’s ministrations. It was obscene and glorious and even the muffled sound of John’s mobile chiming from the pocket of his trousers didn’t stop him from dipping his head back down and laving the flat of his tongue over Sherlock’s textured flesh.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock murmured.

“Ignore it.” John licked him again, wriggling and teasing with his tongue until Sherlock gasped desperately and finally relaxed his muscles and John was able to worm his way in. Sherlock keened.

“Now-John-oh-God-please-I-need-to-feel-you-”

John withdrew and replaced his mouth with a soothing hand, rubbing up and down over Sherlock’s arse with gentle strokes.

“Hush. All in good time, I promise.”

Sherlock gave a tiny moan and buried his hands in his hair.

The lube packet took a moment to get open, but then John was squeezing out a tiny dollop onto one fingertip and tracing Sherlock’s hole and Sherlock was right there with him again, pushing backwards with his hips. John let him, let his own fingertip breach Sherlock’s entrance, until finally he relented and slipped it inside up to the second knuckle. Sherlock let out a shuddering breath and went still.

“Tell me, Sherlock.”

“It’s - Christ, just the knowledge that part of you is inside of me is almost as overwhelming as the physical stimulus itself.”

John nudged in farther, burying his finger as deep as it could go. He found Sherlock’s prostate on the first try, wringing a desperate noise from Sherlock’s throat. He repeated the gesture, then again, letting his other hand run soothing laps up and down Sherlock’s spine.

“Tell me.”

Sherlock gave a whole-body shudder. “More. Need you.”

John withdrew momentarily, then slipped back in with two lubed fingers. He scissored them apart carefully, cataloguing Sherlock’s every twitch and quiver, trying to memorize what the detective liked. Everything, it seemed. And he was so responsive . . . John swallowed hard and had to look away for a moment to keep from taking things entirely too fast.

“Ready for a third?”

“Ready for you.” Sherlock canted his hips upward again, impaling himself as far as he could. “Need you in me.”

“Okay. That’s . . . okay. Yeah.” John was shaking too, now, almost so much he couldn’t get the condom open with his slippery fingers, but he managed and rolled it onto himself without doing something embarrassing like fainting or coming from just the touch of his own hand slicking up his cock. And then he was nudging up against Sherlock’s entrance, guiding himself inside with minute little nudges, and Sherlock had his head thrown back - exposing his collar - and John couldn’t stand it anymore. He slid home in one smooth thrust, then froze while Sherlock acclimated to the feel of him.

It didn’t take long. Sherlock was practically on the edge already, and within mere seconds he was shifting restlessly and trying to press further back. John dug his fingertips into Sherlock’s hips hard enough to leave bruises, stilling the movement.

“What did I tell you about going at my pace?”

Sherlock dropped his head to his pillow and panted. “Yes,” he breathed. “Just . . . move. Please. I need - I need -”

John pulled almost all the way out and flexed in again, all tight control. Sherlock was completely undone, now, making tiny noises with every slight movement of John’s body against his own. John fucked him slowly at first, letting the smooth glide of Sherlock’s arse around his cock be the only stimulation for the two of them, but gradually he picked up his pace. And when he finally changed his angle so he’d brush past Sherlock’s prostate on every thrust, Sherlock’s jerk of appreciation nearly threw him out entirely.

“Ohhh!” Sherlock was clearly trying to hold still, trying to let John direct the motion of their bodies, but he wasn’t quite repressing the instinctive way his hips were twitching back and forth. It would have provided friction for his cock if he had been flat on the mattress, but in his current position, his cock was hitting nothing but air. He didn’t try to reach for it.

John didn’t have horrendously extensive experience with men - definitely not like this - but sex was sex and Sherlock was easily the most responsive partner he had ever been with. John rolled his hips back and snapped them forward again, wringing another moan from Sherlock. He could do this for ages if he wanted to, long hours of pounding into that tight heat absolutely taking Sherlock apart beneath him. John knew he was good at this, knew he was better than most, and for the first time he felt more than vaguely embarrassed about the idea of a comparison. He wanted to be the best Sherlock had ever had. He wanted to drive Sherlock completely out of his mind with need, with the compulsion to moan and writhe and beg and completely forget to motherfucking breathe. Another undulation, another strangled moan from Sherlock. Yes, this was exactly what he needed.

It didn’t quite end up being hours. They went on for several long, delicious minutes, but by the time Sherlock was actually hoarse with begging, John thought he’d literally explode if he held it in any longer. And so he reached down to cup a hand over Sherlock’s bollocks, and he pressed his chest to Sherlock’s back, and he whispered “Come for me, Sherlock,” into the delicate shell of Sherlock’s ear, and Sherlock screamed his release and came. And the pulsing pressure of Sherlock’s climax pulled John over the edge, too, momentarily blinding him with the force of it. He retained just enough muscle control to pull himself out of Sherlock’s body before rolling on his back and collapsing.

It’s possible they both dozed; John’s internal clock always went completely out of whack following a release of that magnitude. When he finally roused himself enough to prop himself up on one elbow, though, John found Sherlock lying on his back and studying him.

“Good?” John threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, scraping Sherlock’s scalp gently with his fingernails.

Sherlock closed his eyes and smiled beatifically. “Oh yes.”

“Mmmm. So is that something you want to do more often?”

One eye cracked open and Sherlock fixed him with a disbelieving stare. “You have to ask?”

John snorted. “Habit, sorry.” He frowned. “Well, not habit - instinct?”

“Caring is in your nature, John.” Sherlock’s glare dissipated and he closed his eyes again, nudging into John’s caress. “You’ve been caring for me for months - I see nothing wrong with extending that arrangement further.”

John frowned. “You see spanking, whipping, and bondage as ‘taking care of you?’”

Sherlock shrugged, his eyes still shut, expression still peaceful. “My submissive streak is a part of me, so yes. Not a part I’ve indulged all that much in the past, admittedly, but the way you’re able to drive me past the normal limits of my brain is . . .” He licked his lips. “Worth further investigation, definitely.”

“You wanker.” John tightened his fist, yanking a handful of Sherlock’s hair, then resumed his gentle stroking almost as quickly. Sherlock’s face tensed, but his smile widened.

“Substantially less call for that in the future, I expect. But speaking of . . .” He waved vaguely in the directly of the chair and their clothes. “Lestrade is going to want to know why you ignored him, especially after you specifically promised him you’d be sitting by the phone.”

John grinned and leaned down to plant a quick, sloppy kiss on Sherlock’s mouth. “Want me to tell him the truth?”

Sherlock huffed out a laugh. “Let’s let him deduce it on his own.”