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FIC: Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast (Sherlock/John, NC-17)
Title: Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast
Pairing/Characters: John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/Spoilers: Mind-control drugs and the resulting consent issues.
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Summary: A new drug that links sexual arousal to obedience? Sherlock is intrigued, but there are no handy test subjects around. Oh, wait...
Word Count: 6000
"Intriguing," said Sherlock Holmes.
John Watson yawned and rubbed his eyes as he buttoned his shirt and made a beeline for the steaming cup of tea on the table. "You got up early to read a journal? How very studious of you." He took a sip of the tea and grimaced--it had steeped a little too long--then went over to kiss the nape of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock made a small noise that was half irritation and three-quarters pleasure (that didn't add up, but neither did Sherlock), and John marveled once again that he was apparently never going to get tired of kissing Sherlock Holmes good morning. "What's so fascinating?"
Sherlock waved the journal a bit. "British Journal of Pharmacology. Research on a new benzodiazepine derivative with some interesting effects." He tapped it as John took his own chair and stretched out his legs. "Greatly enhances suggestibility in subjects and--here's the interesting twist--links that suggestibility to sexual stimulation."
John made a politely interested noise, nursing his tea.
"Cutting through all the technical language, it appears that a person dosed with this drug would find it nearly impossible to disobey direct commands, and would in fact find obeying such commands highly arousing. It creates a positive feedback loop: the more the subjects obey, the more pleasure they experience, the more they want to obey."
"Sounds like pretty iffy research," John observed, and polished off his tea.
"Of course, they haven't been able to conduct many clinical studies yet," Sherlock said. "A shame, really. Such promising research stymied by red tape and silly ethical concerns." He watched John finish the last swallow.
John froze with the rim of the empty cup still against his lips. "Sherlock," he said. "You didn't." At Sherlock's too-innocent look, he put the cup down on its saucer with an emphatic clatter. "God damn it, Sherlock!"
"Where are you going?" Sherlock looked alarmed as John jumped up and pulled on his coat.
"I don't know. Somewhere I'm not treated like a damn guinea pig. Get the hell out of my way."
Sherlock shook his head, not moving from the door he had leapt to block. "John, I don't think you understand. This drug--if I had slipped it into your tea, which I did not--would make you highly suggestible and submissive. I'm not letting you go out there and having you get turned on by a blinking pedestrian sign commanding you to walk, or throwing yourself at the first person who tells you to get out of their way." He nodded, his expression ludicrously solemn. "No responsible friend would allow you to go out in such a condition."
"Responsible friend?" John sputtered for a bit. "Do you know what responsible friends don't do?" Sherlock tilted his head, curious. "Drug their friends' tea, that's what!" But he stamped back into the flat, throwing himself into his chair and indulging in a sulk of nearly Sherlockian proportions.
Silence fell. Sherlock perched on the sofa, looking at him. John glared beyond his shoulder.
After a while, John said, "I don't feel any different."
"It takes some time for the effect to fully develop," Sherlock said. "Are you feeling at all warm? Increased heart rate? Slight dizziness?"
"Well, my heart rate is high, but that's because I'm pissed off at you. I think."
"It could be," Sherlock agreed. "Do you feel any... tendency to do what I tell you to do?"
John couldn't help chuckling ruefully. "Don't I always do what you tell me to do?"
"Well, certainly," Sherlock agreed blithely, and John glared at him. "But you do tend to complain quite a lot while doing it. This drug would make you actually enjoy doing as I command."
"Just because I complain doesn't mean I don't--" John broke off. "I mean, part of the reason I follow your lead so much is that you're often right."
"Nearly always," Sherlock corrected him.
"Very often."
"Extremely often."
"Okay, whatever," John said. "My point is that although I may grumble, I trust you, and so letting you take the lead is...I don't actually mind it that much."
Sherlock's brow crinkled. "Then why complain?"
John shrugged, releasing an exasperated breath. "I don't know. If I don't make some protest, it's embarrassing."
"Embarrassing?" Sherlock tilted his head. "Tell me why."
"It's not--it's just not okay," said John, "To just do what someone tells you to do. To enjoy it." He took a breath, feeling vaguely as though he had just stepped onto shifting sand, unsure why.
"But you were in the military," Sherlock said.
"That's different," John said.
"Explain the difference." Sherlock's voice was low: not for the first time, John reflected that he could make commands sound like poetry.
Ah, an answer was needed. "You're part of a system there. You're submitting to an organization, not just one person." He cleared his throat. "That makes it more all right. Submitting just because someone has a masterful personality is..."
"...intoxicating?"
"Mm," said John. Then his eyes snapped open. "No, unmanly."
"Believe me, I find you extremely manly," said Sherlock, with not a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
Sherlock wanted John to believe him. "Oh," John faltered. "Okay then. I guess I'm manly. To you, at least. Um." He took a couple of deep breaths. "Doesn't it seem warm in here?" He started to stand up. "Should I open a window?"
"No, sit down," Sherlock said.
John's knees went out from under him and he fell back onto the chair. "Mm," he said. "A little dizzy, I guess." He put his head down on the arm of his chair, fighting an impulse to giggle. "I'm sorry, I'm feeling kind of..."
"Take deep breaths," said Sherlock. "Relax."
John relaxed, feeling his limbs go heavy and loose. He drew in a lungful of air, then another. It didn't seem to help at all--the dizziness only increased, a giddy vertigo that was nearly pleasant. It was okay, he was safe here at Baker Street, he could let go of all that tension and need to be in control, he could just let it go. Sherlock was silent, and John wished he'd say something else. The air between them seemed empty without his voice in it, that familiar silken rope pulling at him.
"John," said Sherlock, and he had to bite back an incoherent sound at the touch of his voice. "Look at me."
John raised his heavy head with an effort and met Sherlock's brilliant gaze, and Sherlock swallowed hard and bit his lower lip.
"Your face is flushed," Sherlock observed. "And you're smiling. You look..." He paused and took a long, shaky breath, his eyes sharp and avid. "You look good."
"Oh shit," John said lucidly. "This is that drug, isn't it? That's why I'm all dizzy and feeling--" Good "--weird."
"It might be," said Sherlock. "If I had drugged your tea."
"Of course you did," John said, trying to sound angry. He sounded more giddy than furious even to his own ears. Sherlock hadn't told him to do anything for a while now. Why was he holding back? Shouldn't he be testing the effects, seeing how John responded? "Are the effects going to get--" He groped for the right word, came up with better, shied away from it. "--stronger?"
"They might." Sherlock stood up and came closer to John, pausing just out of reach. "The drug does take a while to reach full potency." His eyes scanned John's face, assessing, analyzing. "If your reaction is like the test subjects, you should start to crave being given a command. Your brain is preparing a massive flood of endorphins, waiting for the trigger to release all that pure bliss at once when you obey. You know it's coming. It's all you can think of." He took one step closer and rested his hand on John's head; at the touch John heard himself gasp, a sound that seemed faint and far away compared to the vibrancy of Sherlock's voice. "Are you experiencing that?"
He wasn't sure how to answer, words were getting lost in the awful ache that seemed to be filling his body, a sensuous need that demanded satiation. "Sherlock," he managed. "Please."
Sherlock's long fingers stroked his hair, and John heard him chuckle. "Have you stopped fighting it? Good. I must say you lasted longer than I expected. According to the article, by now all of the test subjects were begging for the chance to obey even the most trivial of commands. Something as tiny as..." He paused and stepped back, crossing his arms and smirking. "John. Unbutton the top button of your shirt."
John felt his jaw tighten at the smugness in Sherlock's voice. He sat up straighter in his chair through the dizziness that threatened to send him to his knees in front of Sherlock, planted his hands on the arms of his chair and glared.
Sherlock tilted his head to the side, the smirk turning wry. "I wouldn't recommend that," he said.
"Why not?" John said, pleased that he managed two syllables without stammering, without breaking into a flood of confused babbling about how lovely Sherlock's voice was and how he wanted those slender strong hands on his head again, caressing and guiding and--
"Test subjects who resisted the drug merely heightened the effects when they finally gave in to a command," Sherlock noted, and John could feel that shirt button pressing at his throat, constricting his breath. "The more they struggled, the more intensely they went under when they finally did submit. So when I tell you to undo that button, you should probably do so, John."
John tightened his hands on the arms of the chair, trying not to think about that tiny bit of plastic, that small cool circle that Sherlock wanted undone, that needed to be undone, obviously, it was so obvious.
"Go ahead, John," murmured Sherlock, and John felt his hands twitch. "I'm telling you to do it." John clung to the chair, even though he yearned to let go, to make that tiny, simple motion that would fulfill Sherlock's request. He could feel the need to acquiesce building up like water behind a dam, heavy and dark and powerful, a weight that could shatter him.
He didn't move.
Sherlock's smug smile shifted slowly into a puzzled frown that hurt John to see, he wanted to see Sherlock smile, to make Sherlock smile at him. "Is it really so terrifying?" Sherlock mused. "Are you that afraid of what I'd do to you if I had you helpless?"
John hissed a breath between his teeth. "Never that," he said.
"Then what is it?" Sherlock muttered to himself, sounding peeved. He swung to pace back and forth across the room, and John watched him move, unable to tear his eyes away from that long graceful economy of motion. "I could command you to tell me, but I'd rather not add onerous pressure if you truly are so resistant. No, this is a mystery." He shot John a delighted glance, a sly smile, and John's fingers ached to let go and unbutton that stupid tiny unimportant trivial button for him.
He dug them in tighter.
"You said earlier that you didn't mind following my lead. From your physical responses, even before the drug would have--hypothetically--taken effect, the idea is a pleasurable one. You don't seem afraid of me--surely if you were you would never have become my lover, I'll give you credit for that much intelligence."
"You're too kind," gritted John.
"Oh, not really," Sherlock said breezily, swinging back into another revolution of the room. "Now, I've warned you that the longer you resist, the more overwhelming the effect of the drug will be. The only logical, pragmatic choice would be to do as I say quickly and avoid having the endorphin release be so intense it overwhelms your reasoning capacity completely. And yet you sit there--" Sherlock shot him an aggrieved look, "--refusing to obey despite the very clear risk, despite the fact that you're clinging to self-control quite literally by your fingernails, despite the clear evidence that you want to do as I say."
Sherlock's voice was an undertow, dragging him toward unthinkable depths. He held on against it.
"John, by defying the effects of the drug, you're merely intensifying the eventual--"
Sherlock broke off and looked for a long moment at John, his beautiful imperious face lost in thought. John's fingers hurt as he dug them into the fabric. The strange sensual ache was so intense that he was having problems breathing.
Sherlock's face lit up into revelation. "Oh," he breathed, a long exhalation of illumination. "You know that perfectly well, of course. That's what you want." He stepped forward and took John's chin in his hand, tilting it upward; John didn't dare to bat his hand away because to do so would require him to move his hand and he couldn't let go, if he did he'd be lost, he could feel that. The warm lassitude suffusing him was sliding lower, threatening to dissolve the world around him completely.
"Oh, Doctor John Watson," murmured Sherlock, "You delightful, stubborn, perverse, glorious man." His hand left John's chin and moved to brush along John's white-knuckled fingers, still clutching the fabric of the chair arm. John groaned as Sherlock's touch tripped across each desperate knuckle in turn. "What a magnificent challenge you are at times."
John's groan turned to a gasp as Sherlock went down on his knees in front of his chair, completely unself-conscious, bending over his clenched hand as if over a microscope that revealed something marvelous.
"John," Sherlock murmured, and kissed the knuckle of his little finger, a tiny electric spark that seemed to render his bones and muscles deliciously inert. "I think--"
Lips against the knuckle of his ring finger.
"--that it's time--"
A whisper of touch against the knuckle of his middle finger.
"--to let go," he finished, kissing John's index finger.
"So," he went on, "let me tell you again to undo that top button." He lifted John's unresisting hand from the chair and kissed the palm, turning his eyes up to meet John's.
"Pretty please?" Sherlock murmured with an impish smile.
Sherlock's eyes were limpid and coaxing, and John suddenly realized that he could feel a minute curve of plastic beneath the fingers of his other hand, the one that had lifted to touch that cursed little button, the only thing barring the way between him and complete abandon.
He saw triumph glitter in Sherlock's eyes as he moved his fingers and let the button slide through the buttonhole and did as Sherlock told him to do.
A torrent of pure pleasure accompanied the tiny motion; John closed his eyes and let the annihilating bliss of it obliterate him completely. Joy sang through his veins, ignited the edges of his consciousness, and there was nothing at all but the sweetness of submitting. He was lost and consumed and he had no desire to find himself again until he heard a voice from far away: "John? Breathe. Breathe, John."
He took a harsh breath, and then another, and each breath was the most exquisite pleasure imaginable. His lungs were burning and when he opened his eyes the room swum in a haze, gray around the edges. God, he felt good.
"Keep breathing, okay? Don't--don't stop breathing again," Sherlock said. His voice sounded faintly worried for some reason, and John couldn't imagine why, there seemed to be nothing at all in the world to worry about ever again. He drew in another breath, dizzy with the knowledge that he was doing it because Sherlock had told him to. Every breath seemed infinitely precious, impossibly valuable. Sherlock was looking at him. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," John said, and his voice slurred and wavered out of his control, which made him giggle helplessly. Nothing at all seemed within his control anymore, he was utterly free. "I'm absolutely fine," he managed through his laughter. "Never better. Oh my God, this is good. So good." He tried to stand up and his knees gave out again; on his hands and knees he crawled over to his abandoned teacup. "Is there more?" he asked, peering woefully into its empty whiteness. "Tell me there's more."
Sherlock had stood up as he crawled past, and now his beautiful merciless poisoner was looking down at him. "I think you've had enough," he observed.
"No such thing," John said. He was still breathing heavily (Sherlock had told him not to stop, he was never going to stop, he was immortal now) and the room rocked around him; with an effort he pulled himself to his knees, swaying, waiting. "I want--I want you to--please."
Sherlock looked at him for a long time. Then he murmured, "Stand up."
John staggered to his feet, ecstasy sparking through his brain as he complied. He grinned at Sherlock: See how well I stand up for you?
Sherlock put his hands on John's shoulders almost as if to steady himself, which was more than a bit ironic since it was John that was having problems standing straight. "Obviously the published research didn't require the test subjects to do anything..." He licked his lips without seeming to realize it, a tiny touch of pink that made John throttle a sound in his throat. "...overly intimate. I, on the other hand, have no need for such scruples, do I?"
John shook his head and nearly stumbled sideways at the motion. "God, no."
"So." Sherlock paused again, and his silence was a sea on which John was cast adrift, unmoored, waiting. "Unbutton my shirt."
John lifted his hands and found they were shaking and unsteady, he had to stop and wait a moment until his fine motor control managed to return a little. He undid the first button and Sherlock took a quick breath that lifted his collarbone against John's fingers. "Now the next one," he murmured.
There were six buttons in all, six straining buttons that clearly yearned to be undone, six bursts of pleasure that left John shuddering as he went lower and lower, deeper and deeper. "Belt buckle," said Sherlock. John fumbled with it in vain, his hands numb with bliss, his brain overloaded with pleasure. "Oh God," Sherlock whispered, almost too low for John to hear, and then raised his voice: "Get on your knees."
John's legs gave out from under him and he thumped to the floor, a groan of delight torn from his throat. "You like that," Sherlock said, his voice husky.
"You know I do," John breathed through the giddiness.
"Oh," said Sherlock. "Oh, John." The belt buckle finally gave way and John paused with his hands on the fly, wanting. He could feel Sherlock's erection shifting, pressing against the cloth. "Yes," muttered Sherlock, "Yes, yes, that too. Get my trousers off."
They fell to the ground, the belt buckle giving a small clink as it hit the floor. Sherlock stepped out of the trousers and kicked them away. He was wearing blue silk boxers today; John could see a hint of pale flesh where the fly was straining, the small circle of darker, damp fabric.
John knelt on the floor before him and felt wave after wave of shuddering pleasure break over him with every breath. He was lost in bliss, a moth caught on the most exquisite of silver pins, held fluttering and helpless here at the center of the universe, where Sherlock was.
Slowly he became aware that nothing had been said for some time; dazed, he looked up into pale bright eyes. "Do you--" Sherlock licked his lips again. "Do you want to suck me off?"
John shook his head--not in negation, but in utter confusion. What did want have to do with anything at all? He was emptied of all volition, he wanted nothing, he needed nothing. He was a hollow shell in which Sherlock's voice sang like the sea.
Sherlock made a small, hoarse sound. "Tell me what you want," he commanded.
John's brain reeled as he tried to comply. "All I want is to be here," he managed. "To--" To make you happy, he wanted to say, but that wasn't enough, if Sherlock had told John to torment him he would have done so with joy. "To be yours," he finally said, the words so small and simple, the dark ecstatic current in his brain anything but.
Sherlock took a deep breath and with a quick shimmying motion sent his boxers to float after his trousers. Then he backed up, his eyes still fixed on John, until he was leaning against the table. His shirt hung loose around his lean frame, his hair was tousled and wild, and his eyes had a feverish glint to them. He dropped one hand to circle his cock, and John groaned aloud at the sight.
"You look good on your knees," Sherlock observed, and his voice was only the tiniest bit breathless. "Like a fallen angel. Don't you dare laugh," he added irritably, and John obediently bit back his giggle, triggering another rush of delirious delight, as if the thwarted laugh were effervescing within him and turning to light. "I'm allowed to get a touch poetical when you're kneeling in front of me with your face all flushed and that look in your eyes, damn it."
John wasn't sure what "that look" was, but if it made Sherlock's eyes grow heavy and his hand tighten on his cock like that, he was quite happy to have it.
"Besides," Sherlock said with a lopsided smile that made John's heart lurch, "What is an angel but a being that serves a higher power with all of its heart and soul? Oh yes, John," he said softly, "You're most definitely my angel." He bit his lip, looking down. "Say that you're mine," he whispered.
"I'm yours," John said, and with the statement the world seemed to whirl and resettle in new lines. For a moment he was a paladin, a knight bowing to the spirit of truth (oh wicked, mischievous Truth, with its cruel tongue and gentle hands) and his blood sang with the sweet carnal rush of that vision. "I'm yours," he said again, and he was utterly so.
"Don't touch yourself," Sherlock snapped, and John realized that his hand was on his fly. He let it drop and shuddered all over as a fresh wave of pleasure washed over him. "Oh," said Sherlock. "You get more turned on when I tell you not to touch yourself than you probably would from touching yourself." His eyes drifted half-closed. "God, you amazing, contrary man," he muttered. "Come closer."
John staggered closer on his knees, the room tipping and spinning around him as he made his way to the small still point where he had to be.
Sherlock stared down at him. "This is--this is a direct command, John," he said. "You must obey it."
"Yes."
"I want you to suck me off," Sherlock said, "and come at the same moment I do. Without touching yourself. Just from hearing my voice and feeling my orgasm. From nothing at all but me." He closed his eyes for a moment and his hand stopped moving; he drew in a long breath.
"And your terrible wonderful drug," John muttered, yearning to lean forward and lose himself in obeying once more, how long would he have to wait?
Sherlock opened his eyes and looked down at him as if he had said something meaningless. Then the flicker of uncertainty vanished and he was imperious once more: "Do you think you can do that? Come without touching yourself, just because you know I want you to?"
"Of course," said John.
"Of course," echoed Sherlock, and his voice was touched with a wonder that John couldn't understand. He let go of his erection and grabbed John's hair, not gently. "Then hurry up."
His voice was cool and untouched, but his hands were shaking as he pulled John's head close. The combination of detachment and urgency kindled an unspeakable arousal in John's mind and body; he let Sherlock's hands drag him in and took him in his mouth all at once--hurry up, no ability left to delay or to prolong, hurry up hurry up yes.
"I can't last long," Sherlock said. His voice was still distant as a glacier, but his body was hot and coiled and John could taste need, bitter salt on his tongue. "I'm so close, I've been so close since you smiled at me, that smile, God, John. I'm--I'm in control. I am." A ragged breath. "Tell me I'm in control."
Words were both mentally and physically impossible; John made a desperate affirmative sound and saw sparks dance before his eyes, he was so close, every hitch of Sherlock's breath and every tiny shivering spasm of his muscles driving John further beyond thought. The long fingers in his hair tightened exquisitely, but the pain was only a bright silver edge to the pleasure that had turned his whole body into a violin-string, plucked skilfully into sympathetic vibration, a shivering perfect pure note of bliss.
"I'm in control, I'm in--" Sherlock stammered, and then gasped, throwing his head back.
John heard himself make a broken, greedy sound as his own body followed Sherlock's climax, as pleasure obliterated everything but the taste of bliss and the sound of Sherlock's voice, shattered into shaking delight.
John sagged forward against Sherlock, clutching at the sharp sweet angles of his hips. He heard himself make a small disconsolate sound as Sherlock tugged his head back and away from from flesh gone soft and gentle. Sherlock's face was flushed, his eyes bright as he looked down at John with a small, wry smile. "You're going to hate me for this later," he murmured.
"Don't be stupid," John managed to say. His thoughts were hazy, lost in satisfaction. He never wanted to leave this moment. "That's impossible." He gazed up at Sherlock's face.
"God, you're lovely. I adore you."
Sherlock blinked, and his smile turned amused and distant, the smile he handed to strangers and other stupid people. "Don't be silly, John. Even doped to the gills, I expect you to be truthful. Stick to the facts."
The truth, the truth, Sherlock wanted the truth, but he didn't believe the truth. The contradiction threatened to topple John entirely. "I adore you," he repeated stupidly, and Sherlock's crystallized-sugar smile twitched and faltered. "Every day feels brighter with you in it, every night more precious." The truth sang in him, he lost himself in it like an ocean of bliss, it felt unbearably good to offer it up to the startled pale eyes before him. "The truth is that you are my truth. The day I met you was the luckiest day of my life and I love you with all that I am, Sherlock Holmes." There it was at last: the truest thing he had to give, the heart of his heart, and the giving was a joy. He felt himself shaking and lost himself in this different climax, this sweeter culmination.
"Oh," said Sherlock, the bright false smile gone and only blankness remaining. "That's..." He looked away. "I don't know what to say," he said, more to himself than John, his voice puzzled.
John chuckled faintly, leaning forward to press a kiss to his hipbone. "Say I'm yours."
"That goes without saying."
"A lot of things go without saying between us. But I'd like to hear it anyway."
"You're mine, John Hamish Watson," said Sherlock, still gazing away as if at something fascinating on the wall, perhaps a water stain that revealed something essential. "And...the other thing you said, too. The feeling is, um, mutual." He glanced down at John's face, then away once more, blinking as though he had looked into a bright light, and cleared his throat. "I think maybe we should both lie down for a while."
"How long will the effects of the drug last?" John tried to pull himself to his feet, but all of his tendons seemed to have come unstrung; he slumped back down, giggling softly.
"You should be back to normal in a few hours," Sherlock said, bending down to help him to his feet.
John leaned heavily against him as they staggered toward the bedroom. "I don't know if I want to be back to normal," he sighed. "I feel wonderful." A faint worry pierced the blissful haze. "What if I get addicted to it?"
Sherlock's arm tightened around him briefly. "Test subjects showed no signs of dependency. I wouldn't--I wouldn't risk that with you, John," he said, his voice low.
"It's just--it feels so fucking good," John slurred as he collapsed onto the bed. "I don't want it to wear off. Want to stay here where everything makes sense and everything's right and everything's perfect."
"Everything makes sense if you just would pay more attention." Sherlock peeled John's jeans and sticky pants off, muttering under his breath about "human effluvia," and deposited them in the laundry basket, pinched fastidiously between a thumb and forefinger.
"Not quite what I meant," John said. "I mean--I mean don't stop," he said as Sherlock lay down next to him. "Tell me to do something. Tell me to do something impossible. Tell me to fly to the moon, or make two plus two equal five, or recite T.S. Eliot in Swahili. Tell me to believe that Anderson's a genius." He felt Sherlock's silent chuckle jar the bed. "I can do anything for you at this moment. Nothing is impossible with you, Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock flung an arm over him, tugged him closer, skin against skin. "Asking for the impossible is foolish, John. Just...get some sleep. And know that I find you both fascinating and...gratifying."
"Gratifying." John snorted, but Sherlock's words sent a wave of warm, pleased lassitude over his body, and he relaxed into it, letting go of all tension, all uncertainty. He was where he was needed, where he wanted to be.
Drifting in and out of a doze, he dimly felt fingers stroke the nape of his neck. "Impossible things," murmured Sherlock, his voice low and musing, as if talking to himself. Then John heard him whisper, the barest thread of sound:
"Love me forever, John Watson."
John smiled against his pillow.
Forever it is, then.
: : :
Sherlock's eyes snapped open as a rather heavy item collided with his bare chest and bounced off onto the floor. He looked over the edge of the bed to see his copy of the British Journal of Pharmacology sprawled on the carpet, then looked up at John standing in the bedroom door, his arms crossed, scowling.
"Not one word," John said.
"I didn't say anyth--"
"Not. One. Word," John repeated through gritted teeth. He pointed an accusing finger in the direction of the journal (which also happened to be the general direction of Sherlock). "There are articles in that journal about anti-inflammatory steroids, about decreasing vasoconstriction during pregnancy, about lipid accumulation under hyperglycaemic conditions, and about anti-fibrotic agents. But there is not one word about any benzodiazepine derivatives."
"John, if you are implying--"
"I'm not implying a thing, but I have been inferring that you are a lying, manipulative bastard!"
Sherlock crossed his arms across his bare chest to match John's posture. "I must say, John, that being angry at me for not drugging you is a new one."
John sputtered angrily for a few moments. "You made me think--and then you--and then you let me--"
"I did say--quite a few times--that I hadn't drugged your tea," Sherlock pointed out. "I was scrupulously honest with you--well, within certain specific definitions of 'honest,' of course. He looked away from John and down at the journal. "I also did say you'd hate me later," he added, more softly.
"I don't--" John waved his hands in the air as if trying to conjure words from nothing. "I don't hate you," he said. "But Sherlock--"
"You're not angry with me for not drugging you," said Sherlock, "Or even for--well, being less than entirely forthcoming with you, really. That's not it." He glanced at John out of the corner of his eyes, then away again. "You're angry because I tricked you into admitting you enjoy it. Doing what I tell you to do."
John huffed an exasperated breath. "You'd better not expect me to fall into raptures every time you bark at me to hand you your pen." He was painfully aware that it was not exactly a denial.
"Of course not. Context is everything. But John, isn't it amazing?" Sherlock flung himself forward onto his stomach, propping his chin in his hands and beaming at him like a child with a new toy. "I made you feel all of that with no drugs at all, with just my mind and my voice. It was utterly exhilarating--I don't mean making you do things, any moron can demand and threaten. I mean that I made you feel--how did it feel, John?"
"You know damn well how it felt," said John, "It isn't like I didn't tell you at length."
Sherlock's eyes were shining. "Tell me again."
"It felt...good."
"Just good?"
The surging memory of bliss was bliss itself; John took a breath and realized he was leaning against the door frame, his knees weak. "Okay, whatever, it felt wonderful," he muttered.
Sherlock cast his eyes upward as if remembering; a wistful smile curved his mouth. "You were completely rapt. Lost in ecstasy. Nothing in the world existed but you and I. And I did that by simply talking to you, by exerting my will. It was--I don't believe I could possibly explain what it felt like. To know that every word I spoke was doing that to you, driving you deeper, making you go all wobbly and shiver and gasp in that lovely way--yes, that lovely way," he added, and John caught his lower lip in his teeth as if to punish it for allowing that sound to slip out. "To be able to read all those clues on your face and see the effect I was having on you, to know that I could make you respond so strongly with nothing but the power of my mind--"
He broke off and looked at John for a long moment; when he went on his voice was lower: "Your mind and mine together, John. Nothing but the connection between them. All that power and pleasure and mastery was ours, and we didn't need any drugs at all, just my brilliance and your beautiful, lunatic trust." He shook his head and his expression was bemused, almost pitying. "Oh John, don't you feel sorry for all those poor normal people out there who don't get to be us?"
"Not often," said John. He couldn't waste energy feeling sorry for anyone when Sherlock's voice seemed to be making it necessary to hang onto the door frame to avoid stumbling forward onto his knees.
Sherlock's smile was a flash of manic glee. "Neither do I." The cold glitter softened as he looked at John. "That can be ours anytime we like, John. Anytime you're able to let go and enjoy it, I can make you feel like that again." His gaze flickered from John's half-closed eyes and warm cheeks to the rise and fall of his chest, and then lower. "Anytime you like, I can take you to that place where everything makes sense and obeying me is bliss."
"Anytime?" John's bluster sounded thin even to himself, but Sherlock bit his lip at the sound and he didn't care at all. "I'd--I'd like to see you try," he stammered.
Sherlock smiled and raised a hand. Beckoned.
"John Watson," said Sherlock, "Come here and kiss me."
Pairing/Characters: John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/Spoilers: Mind-control drugs and the resulting consent issues.
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Summary: A new drug that links sexual arousal to obedience? Sherlock is intrigued, but there are no handy test subjects around. Oh, wait...
Word Count: 6000
"Intriguing," said Sherlock Holmes.
John Watson yawned and rubbed his eyes as he buttoned his shirt and made a beeline for the steaming cup of tea on the table. "You got up early to read a journal? How very studious of you." He took a sip of the tea and grimaced--it had steeped a little too long--then went over to kiss the nape of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock made a small noise that was half irritation and three-quarters pleasure (that didn't add up, but neither did Sherlock), and John marveled once again that he was apparently never going to get tired of kissing Sherlock Holmes good morning. "What's so fascinating?"
Sherlock waved the journal a bit. "British Journal of Pharmacology. Research on a new benzodiazepine derivative with some interesting effects." He tapped it as John took his own chair and stretched out his legs. "Greatly enhances suggestibility in subjects and--here's the interesting twist--links that suggestibility to sexual stimulation."
John made a politely interested noise, nursing his tea.
"Cutting through all the technical language, it appears that a person dosed with this drug would find it nearly impossible to disobey direct commands, and would in fact find obeying such commands highly arousing. It creates a positive feedback loop: the more the subjects obey, the more pleasure they experience, the more they want to obey."
"Sounds like pretty iffy research," John observed, and polished off his tea.
"Of course, they haven't been able to conduct many clinical studies yet," Sherlock said. "A shame, really. Such promising research stymied by red tape and silly ethical concerns." He watched John finish the last swallow.
John froze with the rim of the empty cup still against his lips. "Sherlock," he said. "You didn't." At Sherlock's too-innocent look, he put the cup down on its saucer with an emphatic clatter. "God damn it, Sherlock!"
"Where are you going?" Sherlock looked alarmed as John jumped up and pulled on his coat.
"I don't know. Somewhere I'm not treated like a damn guinea pig. Get the hell out of my way."
Sherlock shook his head, not moving from the door he had leapt to block. "John, I don't think you understand. This drug--if I had slipped it into your tea, which I did not--would make you highly suggestible and submissive. I'm not letting you go out there and having you get turned on by a blinking pedestrian sign commanding you to walk, or throwing yourself at the first person who tells you to get out of their way." He nodded, his expression ludicrously solemn. "No responsible friend would allow you to go out in such a condition."
"Responsible friend?" John sputtered for a bit. "Do you know what responsible friends don't do?" Sherlock tilted his head, curious. "Drug their friends' tea, that's what!" But he stamped back into the flat, throwing himself into his chair and indulging in a sulk of nearly Sherlockian proportions.
Silence fell. Sherlock perched on the sofa, looking at him. John glared beyond his shoulder.
After a while, John said, "I don't feel any different."
"It takes some time for the effect to fully develop," Sherlock said. "Are you feeling at all warm? Increased heart rate? Slight dizziness?"
"Well, my heart rate is high, but that's because I'm pissed off at you. I think."
"It could be," Sherlock agreed. "Do you feel any... tendency to do what I tell you to do?"
John couldn't help chuckling ruefully. "Don't I always do what you tell me to do?"
"Well, certainly," Sherlock agreed blithely, and John glared at him. "But you do tend to complain quite a lot while doing it. This drug would make you actually enjoy doing as I command."
"Just because I complain doesn't mean I don't--" John broke off. "I mean, part of the reason I follow your lead so much is that you're often right."
"Nearly always," Sherlock corrected him.
"Very often."
"Extremely often."
"Okay, whatever," John said. "My point is that although I may grumble, I trust you, and so letting you take the lead is...I don't actually mind it that much."
Sherlock's brow crinkled. "Then why complain?"
John shrugged, releasing an exasperated breath. "I don't know. If I don't make some protest, it's embarrassing."
"Embarrassing?" Sherlock tilted his head. "Tell me why."
"It's not--it's just not okay," said John, "To just do what someone tells you to do. To enjoy it." He took a breath, feeling vaguely as though he had just stepped onto shifting sand, unsure why.
"But you were in the military," Sherlock said.
"That's different," John said.
"Explain the difference." Sherlock's voice was low: not for the first time, John reflected that he could make commands sound like poetry.
Ah, an answer was needed. "You're part of a system there. You're submitting to an organization, not just one person." He cleared his throat. "That makes it more all right. Submitting just because someone has a masterful personality is..."
"...intoxicating?"
"Mm," said John. Then his eyes snapped open. "No, unmanly."
"Believe me, I find you extremely manly," said Sherlock, with not a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
Sherlock wanted John to believe him. "Oh," John faltered. "Okay then. I guess I'm manly. To you, at least. Um." He took a couple of deep breaths. "Doesn't it seem warm in here?" He started to stand up. "Should I open a window?"
"No, sit down," Sherlock said.
John's knees went out from under him and he fell back onto the chair. "Mm," he said. "A little dizzy, I guess." He put his head down on the arm of his chair, fighting an impulse to giggle. "I'm sorry, I'm feeling kind of..."
"Take deep breaths," said Sherlock. "Relax."
John relaxed, feeling his limbs go heavy and loose. He drew in a lungful of air, then another. It didn't seem to help at all--the dizziness only increased, a giddy vertigo that was nearly pleasant. It was okay, he was safe here at Baker Street, he could let go of all that tension and need to be in control, he could just let it go. Sherlock was silent, and John wished he'd say something else. The air between them seemed empty without his voice in it, that familiar silken rope pulling at him.
"John," said Sherlock, and he had to bite back an incoherent sound at the touch of his voice. "Look at me."
John raised his heavy head with an effort and met Sherlock's brilliant gaze, and Sherlock swallowed hard and bit his lower lip.
"Your face is flushed," Sherlock observed. "And you're smiling. You look..." He paused and took a long, shaky breath, his eyes sharp and avid. "You look good."
"Oh shit," John said lucidly. "This is that drug, isn't it? That's why I'm all dizzy and feeling--" Good "--weird."
"It might be," said Sherlock. "If I had drugged your tea."
"Of course you did," John said, trying to sound angry. He sounded more giddy than furious even to his own ears. Sherlock hadn't told him to do anything for a while now. Why was he holding back? Shouldn't he be testing the effects, seeing how John responded? "Are the effects going to get--" He groped for the right word, came up with better, shied away from it. "--stronger?"
"They might." Sherlock stood up and came closer to John, pausing just out of reach. "The drug does take a while to reach full potency." His eyes scanned John's face, assessing, analyzing. "If your reaction is like the test subjects, you should start to crave being given a command. Your brain is preparing a massive flood of endorphins, waiting for the trigger to release all that pure bliss at once when you obey. You know it's coming. It's all you can think of." He took one step closer and rested his hand on John's head; at the touch John heard himself gasp, a sound that seemed faint and far away compared to the vibrancy of Sherlock's voice. "Are you experiencing that?"
He wasn't sure how to answer, words were getting lost in the awful ache that seemed to be filling his body, a sensuous need that demanded satiation. "Sherlock," he managed. "Please."
Sherlock's long fingers stroked his hair, and John heard him chuckle. "Have you stopped fighting it? Good. I must say you lasted longer than I expected. According to the article, by now all of the test subjects were begging for the chance to obey even the most trivial of commands. Something as tiny as..." He paused and stepped back, crossing his arms and smirking. "John. Unbutton the top button of your shirt."
John felt his jaw tighten at the smugness in Sherlock's voice. He sat up straighter in his chair through the dizziness that threatened to send him to his knees in front of Sherlock, planted his hands on the arms of his chair and glared.
Sherlock tilted his head to the side, the smirk turning wry. "I wouldn't recommend that," he said.
"Why not?" John said, pleased that he managed two syllables without stammering, without breaking into a flood of confused babbling about how lovely Sherlock's voice was and how he wanted those slender strong hands on his head again, caressing and guiding and--
"Test subjects who resisted the drug merely heightened the effects when they finally gave in to a command," Sherlock noted, and John could feel that shirt button pressing at his throat, constricting his breath. "The more they struggled, the more intensely they went under when they finally did submit. So when I tell you to undo that button, you should probably do so, John."
John tightened his hands on the arms of the chair, trying not to think about that tiny bit of plastic, that small cool circle that Sherlock wanted undone, that needed to be undone, obviously, it was so obvious.
"Go ahead, John," murmured Sherlock, and John felt his hands twitch. "I'm telling you to do it." John clung to the chair, even though he yearned to let go, to make that tiny, simple motion that would fulfill Sherlock's request. He could feel the need to acquiesce building up like water behind a dam, heavy and dark and powerful, a weight that could shatter him.
He didn't move.
Sherlock's smug smile shifted slowly into a puzzled frown that hurt John to see, he wanted to see Sherlock smile, to make Sherlock smile at him. "Is it really so terrifying?" Sherlock mused. "Are you that afraid of what I'd do to you if I had you helpless?"
John hissed a breath between his teeth. "Never that," he said.
"Then what is it?" Sherlock muttered to himself, sounding peeved. He swung to pace back and forth across the room, and John watched him move, unable to tear his eyes away from that long graceful economy of motion. "I could command you to tell me, but I'd rather not add onerous pressure if you truly are so resistant. No, this is a mystery." He shot John a delighted glance, a sly smile, and John's fingers ached to let go and unbutton that stupid tiny unimportant trivial button for him.
He dug them in tighter.
"You said earlier that you didn't mind following my lead. From your physical responses, even before the drug would have--hypothetically--taken effect, the idea is a pleasurable one. You don't seem afraid of me--surely if you were you would never have become my lover, I'll give you credit for that much intelligence."
"You're too kind," gritted John.
"Oh, not really," Sherlock said breezily, swinging back into another revolution of the room. "Now, I've warned you that the longer you resist, the more overwhelming the effect of the drug will be. The only logical, pragmatic choice would be to do as I say quickly and avoid having the endorphin release be so intense it overwhelms your reasoning capacity completely. And yet you sit there--" Sherlock shot him an aggrieved look, "--refusing to obey despite the very clear risk, despite the fact that you're clinging to self-control quite literally by your fingernails, despite the clear evidence that you want to do as I say."
Sherlock's voice was an undertow, dragging him toward unthinkable depths. He held on against it.
"John, by defying the effects of the drug, you're merely intensifying the eventual--"
Sherlock broke off and looked for a long moment at John, his beautiful imperious face lost in thought. John's fingers hurt as he dug them into the fabric. The strange sensual ache was so intense that he was having problems breathing.
Sherlock's face lit up into revelation. "Oh," he breathed, a long exhalation of illumination. "You know that perfectly well, of course. That's what you want." He stepped forward and took John's chin in his hand, tilting it upward; John didn't dare to bat his hand away because to do so would require him to move his hand and he couldn't let go, if he did he'd be lost, he could feel that. The warm lassitude suffusing him was sliding lower, threatening to dissolve the world around him completely.
"Oh, Doctor John Watson," murmured Sherlock, "You delightful, stubborn, perverse, glorious man." His hand left John's chin and moved to brush along John's white-knuckled fingers, still clutching the fabric of the chair arm. John groaned as Sherlock's touch tripped across each desperate knuckle in turn. "What a magnificent challenge you are at times."
John's groan turned to a gasp as Sherlock went down on his knees in front of his chair, completely unself-conscious, bending over his clenched hand as if over a microscope that revealed something marvelous.
"John," Sherlock murmured, and kissed the knuckle of his little finger, a tiny electric spark that seemed to render his bones and muscles deliciously inert. "I think--"
Lips against the knuckle of his ring finger.
"--that it's time--"
A whisper of touch against the knuckle of his middle finger.
"--to let go," he finished, kissing John's index finger.
"So," he went on, "let me tell you again to undo that top button." He lifted John's unresisting hand from the chair and kissed the palm, turning his eyes up to meet John's.
"Pretty please?" Sherlock murmured with an impish smile.
Sherlock's eyes were limpid and coaxing, and John suddenly realized that he could feel a minute curve of plastic beneath the fingers of his other hand, the one that had lifted to touch that cursed little button, the only thing barring the way between him and complete abandon.
He saw triumph glitter in Sherlock's eyes as he moved his fingers and let the button slide through the buttonhole and did as Sherlock told him to do.
A torrent of pure pleasure accompanied the tiny motion; John closed his eyes and let the annihilating bliss of it obliterate him completely. Joy sang through his veins, ignited the edges of his consciousness, and there was nothing at all but the sweetness of submitting. He was lost and consumed and he had no desire to find himself again until he heard a voice from far away: "John? Breathe. Breathe, John."
He took a harsh breath, and then another, and each breath was the most exquisite pleasure imaginable. His lungs were burning and when he opened his eyes the room swum in a haze, gray around the edges. God, he felt good.
"Keep breathing, okay? Don't--don't stop breathing again," Sherlock said. His voice sounded faintly worried for some reason, and John couldn't imagine why, there seemed to be nothing at all in the world to worry about ever again. He drew in another breath, dizzy with the knowledge that he was doing it because Sherlock had told him to. Every breath seemed infinitely precious, impossibly valuable. Sherlock was looking at him. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," John said, and his voice slurred and wavered out of his control, which made him giggle helplessly. Nothing at all seemed within his control anymore, he was utterly free. "I'm absolutely fine," he managed through his laughter. "Never better. Oh my God, this is good. So good." He tried to stand up and his knees gave out again; on his hands and knees he crawled over to his abandoned teacup. "Is there more?" he asked, peering woefully into its empty whiteness. "Tell me there's more."
Sherlock had stood up as he crawled past, and now his beautiful merciless poisoner was looking down at him. "I think you've had enough," he observed.
"No such thing," John said. He was still breathing heavily (Sherlock had told him not to stop, he was never going to stop, he was immortal now) and the room rocked around him; with an effort he pulled himself to his knees, swaying, waiting. "I want--I want you to--please."
Sherlock looked at him for a long time. Then he murmured, "Stand up."
John staggered to his feet, ecstasy sparking through his brain as he complied. He grinned at Sherlock: See how well I stand up for you?
Sherlock put his hands on John's shoulders almost as if to steady himself, which was more than a bit ironic since it was John that was having problems standing straight. "Obviously the published research didn't require the test subjects to do anything..." He licked his lips without seeming to realize it, a tiny touch of pink that made John throttle a sound in his throat. "...overly intimate. I, on the other hand, have no need for such scruples, do I?"
John shook his head and nearly stumbled sideways at the motion. "God, no."
"So." Sherlock paused again, and his silence was a sea on which John was cast adrift, unmoored, waiting. "Unbutton my shirt."
John lifted his hands and found they were shaking and unsteady, he had to stop and wait a moment until his fine motor control managed to return a little. He undid the first button and Sherlock took a quick breath that lifted his collarbone against John's fingers. "Now the next one," he murmured.
There were six buttons in all, six straining buttons that clearly yearned to be undone, six bursts of pleasure that left John shuddering as he went lower and lower, deeper and deeper. "Belt buckle," said Sherlock. John fumbled with it in vain, his hands numb with bliss, his brain overloaded with pleasure. "Oh God," Sherlock whispered, almost too low for John to hear, and then raised his voice: "Get on your knees."
John's legs gave out from under him and he thumped to the floor, a groan of delight torn from his throat. "You like that," Sherlock said, his voice husky.
"You know I do," John breathed through the giddiness.
"Oh," said Sherlock. "Oh, John." The belt buckle finally gave way and John paused with his hands on the fly, wanting. He could feel Sherlock's erection shifting, pressing against the cloth. "Yes," muttered Sherlock, "Yes, yes, that too. Get my trousers off."
They fell to the ground, the belt buckle giving a small clink as it hit the floor. Sherlock stepped out of the trousers and kicked them away. He was wearing blue silk boxers today; John could see a hint of pale flesh where the fly was straining, the small circle of darker, damp fabric.
John knelt on the floor before him and felt wave after wave of shuddering pleasure break over him with every breath. He was lost in bliss, a moth caught on the most exquisite of silver pins, held fluttering and helpless here at the center of the universe, where Sherlock was.
Slowly he became aware that nothing had been said for some time; dazed, he looked up into pale bright eyes. "Do you--" Sherlock licked his lips again. "Do you want to suck me off?"
John shook his head--not in negation, but in utter confusion. What did want have to do with anything at all? He was emptied of all volition, he wanted nothing, he needed nothing. He was a hollow shell in which Sherlock's voice sang like the sea.
Sherlock made a small, hoarse sound. "Tell me what you want," he commanded.
John's brain reeled as he tried to comply. "All I want is to be here," he managed. "To--" To make you happy, he wanted to say, but that wasn't enough, if Sherlock had told John to torment him he would have done so with joy. "To be yours," he finally said, the words so small and simple, the dark ecstatic current in his brain anything but.
Sherlock took a deep breath and with a quick shimmying motion sent his boxers to float after his trousers. Then he backed up, his eyes still fixed on John, until he was leaning against the table. His shirt hung loose around his lean frame, his hair was tousled and wild, and his eyes had a feverish glint to them. He dropped one hand to circle his cock, and John groaned aloud at the sight.
"You look good on your knees," Sherlock observed, and his voice was only the tiniest bit breathless. "Like a fallen angel. Don't you dare laugh," he added irritably, and John obediently bit back his giggle, triggering another rush of delirious delight, as if the thwarted laugh were effervescing within him and turning to light. "I'm allowed to get a touch poetical when you're kneeling in front of me with your face all flushed and that look in your eyes, damn it."
John wasn't sure what "that look" was, but if it made Sherlock's eyes grow heavy and his hand tighten on his cock like that, he was quite happy to have it.
"Besides," Sherlock said with a lopsided smile that made John's heart lurch, "What is an angel but a being that serves a higher power with all of its heart and soul? Oh yes, John," he said softly, "You're most definitely my angel." He bit his lip, looking down. "Say that you're mine," he whispered.
"I'm yours," John said, and with the statement the world seemed to whirl and resettle in new lines. For a moment he was a paladin, a knight bowing to the spirit of truth (oh wicked, mischievous Truth, with its cruel tongue and gentle hands) and his blood sang with the sweet carnal rush of that vision. "I'm yours," he said again, and he was utterly so.
"Don't touch yourself," Sherlock snapped, and John realized that his hand was on his fly. He let it drop and shuddered all over as a fresh wave of pleasure washed over him. "Oh," said Sherlock. "You get more turned on when I tell you not to touch yourself than you probably would from touching yourself." His eyes drifted half-closed. "God, you amazing, contrary man," he muttered. "Come closer."
John staggered closer on his knees, the room tipping and spinning around him as he made his way to the small still point where he had to be.
Sherlock stared down at him. "This is--this is a direct command, John," he said. "You must obey it."
"Yes."
"I want you to suck me off," Sherlock said, "and come at the same moment I do. Without touching yourself. Just from hearing my voice and feeling my orgasm. From nothing at all but me." He closed his eyes for a moment and his hand stopped moving; he drew in a long breath.
"And your terrible wonderful drug," John muttered, yearning to lean forward and lose himself in obeying once more, how long would he have to wait?
Sherlock opened his eyes and looked down at him as if he had said something meaningless. Then the flicker of uncertainty vanished and he was imperious once more: "Do you think you can do that? Come without touching yourself, just because you know I want you to?"
"Of course," said John.
"Of course," echoed Sherlock, and his voice was touched with a wonder that John couldn't understand. He let go of his erection and grabbed John's hair, not gently. "Then hurry up."
His voice was cool and untouched, but his hands were shaking as he pulled John's head close. The combination of detachment and urgency kindled an unspeakable arousal in John's mind and body; he let Sherlock's hands drag him in and took him in his mouth all at once--hurry up, no ability left to delay or to prolong, hurry up hurry up yes.
"I can't last long," Sherlock said. His voice was still distant as a glacier, but his body was hot and coiled and John could taste need, bitter salt on his tongue. "I'm so close, I've been so close since you smiled at me, that smile, God, John. I'm--I'm in control. I am." A ragged breath. "Tell me I'm in control."
Words were both mentally and physically impossible; John made a desperate affirmative sound and saw sparks dance before his eyes, he was so close, every hitch of Sherlock's breath and every tiny shivering spasm of his muscles driving John further beyond thought. The long fingers in his hair tightened exquisitely, but the pain was only a bright silver edge to the pleasure that had turned his whole body into a violin-string, plucked skilfully into sympathetic vibration, a shivering perfect pure note of bliss.
"I'm in control, I'm in--" Sherlock stammered, and then gasped, throwing his head back.
John heard himself make a broken, greedy sound as his own body followed Sherlock's climax, as pleasure obliterated everything but the taste of bliss and the sound of Sherlock's voice, shattered into shaking delight.
John sagged forward against Sherlock, clutching at the sharp sweet angles of his hips. He heard himself make a small disconsolate sound as Sherlock tugged his head back and away from from flesh gone soft and gentle. Sherlock's face was flushed, his eyes bright as he looked down at John with a small, wry smile. "You're going to hate me for this later," he murmured.
"Don't be stupid," John managed to say. His thoughts were hazy, lost in satisfaction. He never wanted to leave this moment. "That's impossible." He gazed up at Sherlock's face.
"God, you're lovely. I adore you."
Sherlock blinked, and his smile turned amused and distant, the smile he handed to strangers and other stupid people. "Don't be silly, John. Even doped to the gills, I expect you to be truthful. Stick to the facts."
The truth, the truth, Sherlock wanted the truth, but he didn't believe the truth. The contradiction threatened to topple John entirely. "I adore you," he repeated stupidly, and Sherlock's crystallized-sugar smile twitched and faltered. "Every day feels brighter with you in it, every night more precious." The truth sang in him, he lost himself in it like an ocean of bliss, it felt unbearably good to offer it up to the startled pale eyes before him. "The truth is that you are my truth. The day I met you was the luckiest day of my life and I love you with all that I am, Sherlock Holmes." There it was at last: the truest thing he had to give, the heart of his heart, and the giving was a joy. He felt himself shaking and lost himself in this different climax, this sweeter culmination.
"Oh," said Sherlock, the bright false smile gone and only blankness remaining. "That's..." He looked away. "I don't know what to say," he said, more to himself than John, his voice puzzled.
John chuckled faintly, leaning forward to press a kiss to his hipbone. "Say I'm yours."
"That goes without saying."
"A lot of things go without saying between us. But I'd like to hear it anyway."
"You're mine, John Hamish Watson," said Sherlock, still gazing away as if at something fascinating on the wall, perhaps a water stain that revealed something essential. "And...the other thing you said, too. The feeling is, um, mutual." He glanced down at John's face, then away once more, blinking as though he had looked into a bright light, and cleared his throat. "I think maybe we should both lie down for a while."
"How long will the effects of the drug last?" John tried to pull himself to his feet, but all of his tendons seemed to have come unstrung; he slumped back down, giggling softly.
"You should be back to normal in a few hours," Sherlock said, bending down to help him to his feet.
John leaned heavily against him as they staggered toward the bedroom. "I don't know if I want to be back to normal," he sighed. "I feel wonderful." A faint worry pierced the blissful haze. "What if I get addicted to it?"
Sherlock's arm tightened around him briefly. "Test subjects showed no signs of dependency. I wouldn't--I wouldn't risk that with you, John," he said, his voice low.
"It's just--it feels so fucking good," John slurred as he collapsed onto the bed. "I don't want it to wear off. Want to stay here where everything makes sense and everything's right and everything's perfect."
"Everything makes sense if you just would pay more attention." Sherlock peeled John's jeans and sticky pants off, muttering under his breath about "human effluvia," and deposited them in the laundry basket, pinched fastidiously between a thumb and forefinger.
"Not quite what I meant," John said. "I mean--I mean don't stop," he said as Sherlock lay down next to him. "Tell me to do something. Tell me to do something impossible. Tell me to fly to the moon, or make two plus two equal five, or recite T.S. Eliot in Swahili. Tell me to believe that Anderson's a genius." He felt Sherlock's silent chuckle jar the bed. "I can do anything for you at this moment. Nothing is impossible with you, Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock flung an arm over him, tugged him closer, skin against skin. "Asking for the impossible is foolish, John. Just...get some sleep. And know that I find you both fascinating and...gratifying."
"Gratifying." John snorted, but Sherlock's words sent a wave of warm, pleased lassitude over his body, and he relaxed into it, letting go of all tension, all uncertainty. He was where he was needed, where he wanted to be.
Drifting in and out of a doze, he dimly felt fingers stroke the nape of his neck. "Impossible things," murmured Sherlock, his voice low and musing, as if talking to himself. Then John heard him whisper, the barest thread of sound:
"Love me forever, John Watson."
John smiled against his pillow.
Forever it is, then.
: : :
Sherlock's eyes snapped open as a rather heavy item collided with his bare chest and bounced off onto the floor. He looked over the edge of the bed to see his copy of the British Journal of Pharmacology sprawled on the carpet, then looked up at John standing in the bedroom door, his arms crossed, scowling.
"Not one word," John said.
"I didn't say anyth--"
"Not. One. Word," John repeated through gritted teeth. He pointed an accusing finger in the direction of the journal (which also happened to be the general direction of Sherlock). "There are articles in that journal about anti-inflammatory steroids, about decreasing vasoconstriction during pregnancy, about lipid accumulation under hyperglycaemic conditions, and about anti-fibrotic agents. But there is not one word about any benzodiazepine derivatives."
"John, if you are implying--"
"I'm not implying a thing, but I have been inferring that you are a lying, manipulative bastard!"
Sherlock crossed his arms across his bare chest to match John's posture. "I must say, John, that being angry at me for not drugging you is a new one."
John sputtered angrily for a few moments. "You made me think--and then you--and then you let me--"
"I did say--quite a few times--that I hadn't drugged your tea," Sherlock pointed out. "I was scrupulously honest with you--well, within certain specific definitions of 'honest,' of course. He looked away from John and down at the journal. "I also did say you'd hate me later," he added, more softly.
"I don't--" John waved his hands in the air as if trying to conjure words from nothing. "I don't hate you," he said. "But Sherlock--"
"You're not angry with me for not drugging you," said Sherlock, "Or even for--well, being less than entirely forthcoming with you, really. That's not it." He glanced at John out of the corner of his eyes, then away again. "You're angry because I tricked you into admitting you enjoy it. Doing what I tell you to do."
John huffed an exasperated breath. "You'd better not expect me to fall into raptures every time you bark at me to hand you your pen." He was painfully aware that it was not exactly a denial.
"Of course not. Context is everything. But John, isn't it amazing?" Sherlock flung himself forward onto his stomach, propping his chin in his hands and beaming at him like a child with a new toy. "I made you feel all of that with no drugs at all, with just my mind and my voice. It was utterly exhilarating--I don't mean making you do things, any moron can demand and threaten. I mean that I made you feel--how did it feel, John?"
"You know damn well how it felt," said John, "It isn't like I didn't tell you at length."
Sherlock's eyes were shining. "Tell me again."
"It felt...good."
"Just good?"
The surging memory of bliss was bliss itself; John took a breath and realized he was leaning against the door frame, his knees weak. "Okay, whatever, it felt wonderful," he muttered.
Sherlock cast his eyes upward as if remembering; a wistful smile curved his mouth. "You were completely rapt. Lost in ecstasy. Nothing in the world existed but you and I. And I did that by simply talking to you, by exerting my will. It was--I don't believe I could possibly explain what it felt like. To know that every word I spoke was doing that to you, driving you deeper, making you go all wobbly and shiver and gasp in that lovely way--yes, that lovely way," he added, and John caught his lower lip in his teeth as if to punish it for allowing that sound to slip out. "To be able to read all those clues on your face and see the effect I was having on you, to know that I could make you respond so strongly with nothing but the power of my mind--"
He broke off and looked at John for a long moment; when he went on his voice was lower: "Your mind and mine together, John. Nothing but the connection between them. All that power and pleasure and mastery was ours, and we didn't need any drugs at all, just my brilliance and your beautiful, lunatic trust." He shook his head and his expression was bemused, almost pitying. "Oh John, don't you feel sorry for all those poor normal people out there who don't get to be us?"
"Not often," said John. He couldn't waste energy feeling sorry for anyone when Sherlock's voice seemed to be making it necessary to hang onto the door frame to avoid stumbling forward onto his knees.
Sherlock's smile was a flash of manic glee. "Neither do I." The cold glitter softened as he looked at John. "That can be ours anytime we like, John. Anytime you're able to let go and enjoy it, I can make you feel like that again." His gaze flickered from John's half-closed eyes and warm cheeks to the rise and fall of his chest, and then lower. "Anytime you like, I can take you to that place where everything makes sense and obeying me is bliss."
"Anytime?" John's bluster sounded thin even to himself, but Sherlock bit his lip at the sound and he didn't care at all. "I'd--I'd like to see you try," he stammered.
Sherlock smiled and raised a hand. Beckoned.
"John Watson," said Sherlock, "Come here and kiss me."
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*is dead*
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It's absolutely true, that is something of a tip-off, isn't it? Luckily John is willing to throw himself into the spirit of the thing to make up for Sherlock's odd honestly... :)
I am indeed contemplating the future with this version of them a bit! Lucky, lucky John...
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Even though I knew it was a Sherlock mind-fuck from the beginning, it's delicious.
Yes, John's beautiful, lunatic trust is fun to play with, Sherlock, and even more fun to witness.
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