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What is Already Yours (3/3)
Title: What is Already Yours (3/3)
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing/Characters: John/Sherlock
Warnings/Spoilers: Consensual BDSM
Rating: R
Word Count: 2100
Summary: Celebrating the completion of John's list, Sherlock comes up with a few improvisations and surprises, and John doesn't mind at all.
Note: Written for the Sherlock Kink Meme prompt asking for a BDSM relationship with Sherlock as the Dom with lots of slow trust-building and aftercare.
Sherlock put a finger to John's lips. "You are practically begging to be gagged when you talk like that, you know."
"Sorry." John grinned unrepentantly against the pressure of Sherlock's finger, knowing perfectly well that was a threat he would never follow through on. Sensory deprivation items--blindfolds, gags, earplugs--were all on the "under no circumstances" list.
John had never given a reason, and Sherlock had never needed to hear one.
"And stop grinning, you ruin the aesthetic," Sherlock said crossly, bending down to tie another knot in the intricate jute bindings. John was sitting backwards on a chair, his hands bound together across its back and his ankles tied to the back legs. "You're supposed to be sweetly submissive, not cheeky."
"If you're looking for a sweet submissive, you might have the wrong partner," John said around a giggle that was threatening to sneak from his throat. He could never seem to help talking back at first, no matter how cranky it might make Sherlock.
Sherlock hummed under his breath as he adjusted the knots that pressed into John's flesh, muttering about pressure points and the proper placement of knot patterns. "You make a delightful graduation present, John. All wrapped up and ready for anything."
His anticipatory tone made John close his eyes and take a deep breath, trying to keep his head clear a little longer. Try to be something of a challenge, John, he told himself. "I'd say you've even graduated summa cum laude," he said, and soaked up Sherlock's snicker.
"Which means I'm no longer limited by your--frankly unimaginative--list and I may improvise at last," Sherlock said. "How do you like it so far?"
"The crazy knotting? It's--" John leaned into the knots, feeling them holding him in place, pressing deliciously into carefully-chosen bundles of nerves. "--Actually quite, um, nice. Isn't it Japanese?"
"Adapted from, yes," said Sherlock. He eyed his work. "Quite attractive."
The latticework of ropes distributed the pressure with an almost hypnotic evenness, wrapping him in luxurious helplessness. John pressed against them, secure in the knowledge that no knot tied by Sherlock Holmes would ever give way. He could push as hard as he liked and know he was safe. "So are you going to do something, or just fiddle with pretty knots?"
Sherlock's smile was dangerous and delighted. "Oh, I intend to do something indeed, John." He reached into his bag and came up holding--John's mouth went dry--a long, single-tailed whip.
"Those are--those are really difficult to wield, Sherlock," John stammered. "They take a lot of finesse and skill, you know."
Sherlock bestowed a luminously pitying glance on him: Your attempts to goad me are pathetically transparent, John. "Indeed. An elegant tool, requiring discipline and control." Looping it over his arm, he leaned down and produced his leather gloves, pulling them on briskly, and John's mind staggered sideways: he had never said anything about the gloves, and certainly nothing about whips--how did Sherlock--
He didn't even bother to finish the pointless question: by now he should know the answer (to this and so many others) was Sherlock.
Sherlock moved past to stand behind him, letting one leather-clad hand trail from his shoulder down his back as he moved. "There's a certain visceral aspect to a whip, isn't there?" he observed. "So much symbolic weight. The sound alone can be arousing to some people."
From behind him came a crisp, determined crack that seemed to strike like a blow straight at the roots of John's brain.
"Very nice," murmured Sherlock, and only then did John hear the sound that had been torn from him. Another crack, this time over his head, and he bit his lip, his breath coming harder. "I haven't even touched you yet, John."
"I'm well aware of that, damn it," John snarled. He started to turn his head, wanting to see it, all that wildfire control, but Sherlock made a sharp noise of command.
"Keep your head turned away. I'm not risking hitting your face."
"As if you would," John said.
"Oh? You trust my control that much?" Sherlock's voice glowed smugly, and this time the snap was much, much closer; John felt the breeze fan his shoulder.
"You know I do," whispered John. He was shivering, which only made the cords press against him more firmly.
"Then let's say I find it distracting," Sherlock snapped, and John reluctantly let it drop. It was getting hard to argue at this point as he waited for the impact that would lift him out of himself, how long was he going to have to wait, God.
"What's the matter," he grated past the tremble in his throat, "Afraid to get to it?"
There were two more cracks in quick succession on either side, and then, just as the waiting became completely unbearable, Sherlock said "All right then."
This time the sound was accompanied by a stroke of almost delicate flame across his shoulderblades; John jolted against his webbing of ropes, body crying out in animal instinct to flee, adrenaline firing his nerve endings. "Ow, damn it," he said. "Stop it. You shouldn't be handling dangerous weapons."
He leaned dizzily into the hushed moment of waiting, feeling Sherlock's whipcrack smile, knowing he wouldn't stop no matter how rude or dismissive John was. "Cheeky," Sherlock murmured.
Two quick explosions of sound and sensation, these with more thud to them, shattering the protests in his mind into silence for a moment.
"Of course, you should be perfectly aware that the most dangerous weapon is the human mind," Sherlock observed as if he were lecturing a room full of Oxford dons. "Source of all mastery and all pleasure." The next lick of flame was almost cold, a pain that hinted at endless bliss on the other side of some hidden door. "How I wish I could see what was going on in your brain right now, it must be lovely. All the little neurons blazing into life at my command, a radiant net to trap you in pleasure. Cascades of sparks, torrents of electricity--" A jolt of pure light and sound; John heard himself make a guttural noise that was not at all of agony. "The shining connections transforming pain into delight." His voice lowered, caressing. "Let go, John. Let me lead you there."
John felt himself going limp in his bonds, trusting Sherlock's sure hands, and that rush of trust was the most blissful narcotic he had ever imagined. He gasped and shuddered, losing himself in the sensation, letting it drive him onward into serenity, all the world narrowed down to Sherlock and himself. Words fled, thoughts fled, his mind was laid bare to Sherlock's light, and time itself seemed to falter and fail.
There was a pause, and the sublime agony ebbed a little, leaving him empty and yearning. "Don't stop," he managed to mutter, the words slow and meaningless in his lax mouth.
A rustle of movement, and long fingers gripped his chin, gently forcing his head up. "Open your eyes. Look at me," a cool voice said, and he looked into pale eyes in a frowning face, beautiful as a star. He tried to say something, but language kept slipping away from him, and it didn't seem important to get it back.
Sherlock was saying something about dilated pupils, reflexes, heart rate. The voice was intoxicating, the words were meaningless, surely it was obvious he needed more, why was nothing happening? "John," Sherlock said, and he groped to connect that set of sounds to himself; he started to giggle at the idea that a collection of arbitrary noises could sum him up, it was ludicrous.
"Earth to John," said Sherlock, his voice amused. "I'm checking to make sure you remember the safeword."
"'Course I do," he slurred, anything to get back to that timeless space, please.
"You'll forgive me if I have my doubts," Sherlock said. "You don't have to say it. Just give me a hint you remember it."
He stared at Sherlock, blinking. He felt so good and all he wanted was to keep going, why would he ever need Sherlock to stop doing anything to him? The absurdity of the thought made him start giggling again, dropping his head in helpless delight.
"Tell me where you can find the safeword," Sherlock said. "Or someone else associated with it."
Sherlock wanted something from him, so he wanted to provide it, but it was all arbitrary sounds again, everything was garbled nonsense but Sherlock's voice. "You know," John stammered. "The--the place. With the thing. You know. You know everything. You--you're perfect and I just want you to--to keep--I can't--please--"
Sherlock tangled his fingers in his hair and he groaned at the contact, words slipping away from him again completely: yes, touch me more. But Sherlock straightened with a quick, fluid motion, the whip pouring into a long river of darkness on the floor at his feet. "I believe we've had enough for now," he said. He snapped the whip away from them with an offhanded flick of the wrist--John closed his eyes at the sound and shuddered luxuriously--then coiled it around his hand. Gently, he touched the leather to John's lips. "You've done well," he murmured, a benediction and a blessing. "Good job."
John sagged against the ropes, the breath leaving his body in a sob of pure relief and release. "Oh God," he heard himself say. "Jesus."
Sherlock undid no more than four of the knots holding him in place and the whole network of ropes went slack. John started to stand, realized he was shaking too hard to manage it and faltered, but then Sherlock's arm was around him, supporting him.
Together they managed to stagger to the bed and collapse there.
John fell face-first into the pillow and felt no inclination to ever move again. Sherlock's hand--bare now--touched his shoulderblade. "Does that hurt?"
"Nope."
"That's the endorphins," Sherlock said. "Let me get some--" A rummaging sound, and soon cool cream was being spread across his back.
"It's fine," John mumbled.
"Trust me, you'll be feeling it tomorrow."
John had no intention of telling Sherlock that feeling those marks on his skin the next day, under his clothes, burning like a secret as he went about shopping and writing and chatting nonsense with people, was a large part of the appeal.
"I feel very, very good right now," he said instead. Which was a severe understatement for the blissful peace of mind and body he was currently floating in, but he knew Sherlock would understand what he meant.
"I'm rather satisfied myself," Sherlock said. Wiping off his hands, he laid down and pulled the blankets up, carefully avoiding contact with John's back. "But there's always room for improvement. I felt my timing was off on the eighth through fourteenth strokes. Too fast." A pause. "I might have let my breathing and heart rate get a trifle elevated for a moment. Careless."
John buried his face in Sherlock's neck. There was a very faint smell of sweat on the skin. "I didn't notice."
"Of course you didn't," Sherlock snapped. "You were even less observant than usual, which I suppose is the point."
"Mmm." It was far too much effort to be annoyed right now. John was safe and complete and cherished--albeit not in the most conventional of ways--and Sherlock's tone rolled off him and was gone, lost in contentment. "You were perfect."
"Your judgment is at best suspect and at worst entirely sentimental," Sherlock said. A moment of silence. "But--thank you."
"You'll do better next time," John said.
"Next time," Sherlock echoed him. He sounded quietly pleased. "Yes."
Silence fell once more. John let his thoughts drift in no particular direction. The sheets smelled of both of them together, a warm animal smell. He breathed it in, an animal in its den with its mate, fortified against the world. Everything was good.
Sherlock's chest shook slightly with that familiar almost-ghoulish chuckle, jarring John from his lack-of-thought. "I'm planning out next time," he said in response to John's questioning sound. "Would you like to hear the details?"
"No."
"No?" Sherlock's voice had the faintest hint of hurt in it. "But I think you'll enjoy it, it's rather ingenious. You--don't care?"
John wrapped his arms more tightly around him. "Sherlock," he said. "I trust you."
"Oh," Sherlock said. And then again, exhaled on a low breath: "Oh."
John fell asleep listening to Sherlock breathe, their arms around each other as if holding something precious and fragile and utterly unbreakable.
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing/Characters: John/Sherlock
Warnings/Spoilers: Consensual BDSM
Rating: R
Word Count: 2100
Summary: Celebrating the completion of John's list, Sherlock comes up with a few improvisations and surprises, and John doesn't mind at all.
Note: Written for the Sherlock Kink Meme prompt asking for a BDSM relationship with Sherlock as the Dom with lots of slow trust-building and aftercare.
Sherlock put a finger to John's lips. "You are practically begging to be gagged when you talk like that, you know."
"Sorry." John grinned unrepentantly against the pressure of Sherlock's finger, knowing perfectly well that was a threat he would never follow through on. Sensory deprivation items--blindfolds, gags, earplugs--were all on the "under no circumstances" list.
John had never given a reason, and Sherlock had never needed to hear one.
"And stop grinning, you ruin the aesthetic," Sherlock said crossly, bending down to tie another knot in the intricate jute bindings. John was sitting backwards on a chair, his hands bound together across its back and his ankles tied to the back legs. "You're supposed to be sweetly submissive, not cheeky."
"If you're looking for a sweet submissive, you might have the wrong partner," John said around a giggle that was threatening to sneak from his throat. He could never seem to help talking back at first, no matter how cranky it might make Sherlock.
Sherlock hummed under his breath as he adjusted the knots that pressed into John's flesh, muttering about pressure points and the proper placement of knot patterns. "You make a delightful graduation present, John. All wrapped up and ready for anything."
His anticipatory tone made John close his eyes and take a deep breath, trying to keep his head clear a little longer. Try to be something of a challenge, John, he told himself. "I'd say you've even graduated summa cum laude," he said, and soaked up Sherlock's snicker.
"Which means I'm no longer limited by your--frankly unimaginative--list and I may improvise at last," Sherlock said. "How do you like it so far?"
"The crazy knotting? It's--" John leaned into the knots, feeling them holding him in place, pressing deliciously into carefully-chosen bundles of nerves. "--Actually quite, um, nice. Isn't it Japanese?"
"Adapted from, yes," said Sherlock. He eyed his work. "Quite attractive."
The latticework of ropes distributed the pressure with an almost hypnotic evenness, wrapping him in luxurious helplessness. John pressed against them, secure in the knowledge that no knot tied by Sherlock Holmes would ever give way. He could push as hard as he liked and know he was safe. "So are you going to do something, or just fiddle with pretty knots?"
Sherlock's smile was dangerous and delighted. "Oh, I intend to do something indeed, John." He reached into his bag and came up holding--John's mouth went dry--a long, single-tailed whip.
"Those are--those are really difficult to wield, Sherlock," John stammered. "They take a lot of finesse and skill, you know."
Sherlock bestowed a luminously pitying glance on him: Your attempts to goad me are pathetically transparent, John. "Indeed. An elegant tool, requiring discipline and control." Looping it over his arm, he leaned down and produced his leather gloves, pulling them on briskly, and John's mind staggered sideways: he had never said anything about the gloves, and certainly nothing about whips--how did Sherlock--
He didn't even bother to finish the pointless question: by now he should know the answer (to this and so many others) was Sherlock.
Sherlock moved past to stand behind him, letting one leather-clad hand trail from his shoulder down his back as he moved. "There's a certain visceral aspect to a whip, isn't there?" he observed. "So much symbolic weight. The sound alone can be arousing to some people."
From behind him came a crisp, determined crack that seemed to strike like a blow straight at the roots of John's brain.
"Very nice," murmured Sherlock, and only then did John hear the sound that had been torn from him. Another crack, this time over his head, and he bit his lip, his breath coming harder. "I haven't even touched you yet, John."
"I'm well aware of that, damn it," John snarled. He started to turn his head, wanting to see it, all that wildfire control, but Sherlock made a sharp noise of command.
"Keep your head turned away. I'm not risking hitting your face."
"As if you would," John said.
"Oh? You trust my control that much?" Sherlock's voice glowed smugly, and this time the snap was much, much closer; John felt the breeze fan his shoulder.
"You know I do," whispered John. He was shivering, which only made the cords press against him more firmly.
"Then let's say I find it distracting," Sherlock snapped, and John reluctantly let it drop. It was getting hard to argue at this point as he waited for the impact that would lift him out of himself, how long was he going to have to wait, God.
"What's the matter," he grated past the tremble in his throat, "Afraid to get to it?"
There were two more cracks in quick succession on either side, and then, just as the waiting became completely unbearable, Sherlock said "All right then."
This time the sound was accompanied by a stroke of almost delicate flame across his shoulderblades; John jolted against his webbing of ropes, body crying out in animal instinct to flee, adrenaline firing his nerve endings. "Ow, damn it," he said. "Stop it. You shouldn't be handling dangerous weapons."
He leaned dizzily into the hushed moment of waiting, feeling Sherlock's whipcrack smile, knowing he wouldn't stop no matter how rude or dismissive John was. "Cheeky," Sherlock murmured.
Two quick explosions of sound and sensation, these with more thud to them, shattering the protests in his mind into silence for a moment.
"Of course, you should be perfectly aware that the most dangerous weapon is the human mind," Sherlock observed as if he were lecturing a room full of Oxford dons. "Source of all mastery and all pleasure." The next lick of flame was almost cold, a pain that hinted at endless bliss on the other side of some hidden door. "How I wish I could see what was going on in your brain right now, it must be lovely. All the little neurons blazing into life at my command, a radiant net to trap you in pleasure. Cascades of sparks, torrents of electricity--" A jolt of pure light and sound; John heard himself make a guttural noise that was not at all of agony. "The shining connections transforming pain into delight." His voice lowered, caressing. "Let go, John. Let me lead you there."
John felt himself going limp in his bonds, trusting Sherlock's sure hands, and that rush of trust was the most blissful narcotic he had ever imagined. He gasped and shuddered, losing himself in the sensation, letting it drive him onward into serenity, all the world narrowed down to Sherlock and himself. Words fled, thoughts fled, his mind was laid bare to Sherlock's light, and time itself seemed to falter and fail.
There was a pause, and the sublime agony ebbed a little, leaving him empty and yearning. "Don't stop," he managed to mutter, the words slow and meaningless in his lax mouth.
A rustle of movement, and long fingers gripped his chin, gently forcing his head up. "Open your eyes. Look at me," a cool voice said, and he looked into pale eyes in a frowning face, beautiful as a star. He tried to say something, but language kept slipping away from him, and it didn't seem important to get it back.
Sherlock was saying something about dilated pupils, reflexes, heart rate. The voice was intoxicating, the words were meaningless, surely it was obvious he needed more, why was nothing happening? "John," Sherlock said, and he groped to connect that set of sounds to himself; he started to giggle at the idea that a collection of arbitrary noises could sum him up, it was ludicrous.
"Earth to John," said Sherlock, his voice amused. "I'm checking to make sure you remember the safeword."
"'Course I do," he slurred, anything to get back to that timeless space, please.
"You'll forgive me if I have my doubts," Sherlock said. "You don't have to say it. Just give me a hint you remember it."
He stared at Sherlock, blinking. He felt so good and all he wanted was to keep going, why would he ever need Sherlock to stop doing anything to him? The absurdity of the thought made him start giggling again, dropping his head in helpless delight.
"Tell me where you can find the safeword," Sherlock said. "Or someone else associated with it."
Sherlock wanted something from him, so he wanted to provide it, but it was all arbitrary sounds again, everything was garbled nonsense but Sherlock's voice. "You know," John stammered. "The--the place. With the thing. You know. You know everything. You--you're perfect and I just want you to--to keep--I can't--please--"
Sherlock tangled his fingers in his hair and he groaned at the contact, words slipping away from him again completely: yes, touch me more. But Sherlock straightened with a quick, fluid motion, the whip pouring into a long river of darkness on the floor at his feet. "I believe we've had enough for now," he said. He snapped the whip away from them with an offhanded flick of the wrist--John closed his eyes at the sound and shuddered luxuriously--then coiled it around his hand. Gently, he touched the leather to John's lips. "You've done well," he murmured, a benediction and a blessing. "Good job."
John sagged against the ropes, the breath leaving his body in a sob of pure relief and release. "Oh God," he heard himself say. "Jesus."
Sherlock undid no more than four of the knots holding him in place and the whole network of ropes went slack. John started to stand, realized he was shaking too hard to manage it and faltered, but then Sherlock's arm was around him, supporting him.
Together they managed to stagger to the bed and collapse there.
John fell face-first into the pillow and felt no inclination to ever move again. Sherlock's hand--bare now--touched his shoulderblade. "Does that hurt?"
"Nope."
"That's the endorphins," Sherlock said. "Let me get some--" A rummaging sound, and soon cool cream was being spread across his back.
"It's fine," John mumbled.
"Trust me, you'll be feeling it tomorrow."
John had no intention of telling Sherlock that feeling those marks on his skin the next day, under his clothes, burning like a secret as he went about shopping and writing and chatting nonsense with people, was a large part of the appeal.
"I feel very, very good right now," he said instead. Which was a severe understatement for the blissful peace of mind and body he was currently floating in, but he knew Sherlock would understand what he meant.
"I'm rather satisfied myself," Sherlock said. Wiping off his hands, he laid down and pulled the blankets up, carefully avoiding contact with John's back. "But there's always room for improvement. I felt my timing was off on the eighth through fourteenth strokes. Too fast." A pause. "I might have let my breathing and heart rate get a trifle elevated for a moment. Careless."
John buried his face in Sherlock's neck. There was a very faint smell of sweat on the skin. "I didn't notice."
"Of course you didn't," Sherlock snapped. "You were even less observant than usual, which I suppose is the point."
"Mmm." It was far too much effort to be annoyed right now. John was safe and complete and cherished--albeit not in the most conventional of ways--and Sherlock's tone rolled off him and was gone, lost in contentment. "You were perfect."
"Your judgment is at best suspect and at worst entirely sentimental," Sherlock said. A moment of silence. "But--thank you."
"You'll do better next time," John said.
"Next time," Sherlock echoed him. He sounded quietly pleased. "Yes."
Silence fell once more. John let his thoughts drift in no particular direction. The sheets smelled of both of them together, a warm animal smell. He breathed it in, an animal in its den with its mate, fortified against the world. Everything was good.
Sherlock's chest shook slightly with that familiar almost-ghoulish chuckle, jarring John from his lack-of-thought. "I'm planning out next time," he said in response to John's questioning sound. "Would you like to hear the details?"
"No."
"No?" Sherlock's voice had the faintest hint of hurt in it. "But I think you'll enjoy it, it's rather ingenious. You--don't care?"
John wrapped his arms more tightly around him. "Sherlock," he said. "I trust you."
"Oh," Sherlock said. And then again, exhaled on a low breath: "Oh."
John fell asleep listening to Sherlock breathe, their arms around each other as if holding something precious and fragile and utterly unbreakable.