Fair Warning: this could be the crackiest thing I've ever written or ever will write. No remorse. But please don't let this little bit of insanity reflect badly on any of my other work. We'll just shove it in the corner and pretend it never happened, ok? Ok. That being said, self-incest. BDSM. Sherlock being insane. Mad science. Clone sex. Mild dub-con. Enjoy!
Really, Sherlock only did it because John told him that he couldn't. Challenged him, was more like it.
"I know you're a genius, but you're not a bloody geneticist," John snorted, waving his teacup around condescendingly. "And besides. You don't have the proper equipment for cloning!"
Sherlock simply narrowed his eyes.
John had been in a mood for days. Really, most of the time he was a good Dom. Firm and vindictive, but gentle when he needed to be. That was the problem. Sherlock did not like to be treated gently. Ever. And though he understood that John sometimes refused him the things he wanted for the sake of their mutual safety—that made things boring.
Sherlock hated when things got boring.
Usually, John was wonderful. He'd hold a dull knife against Sherlock's throat and fuck him into the living room floor. He'd choke Sherlock until he saw stars. He'd slap, and pinch, and dig his nails in—leaving wonderful bruises all over the detective's pale skin.
But other times, John wouldn't take it far enough. No Sherlock, we're not acting out a rape fantasy scene. No Sherlock, I'm not going to strangle you with a piano wire. No Sherlock, for god's sake, I'm not going to burn you with a branding iron.
When Sherlock first brought up the subject of cloning, it was because he'd been reading an article about it. But then when John said that he couldn't, that it was impossible, well, that pushed the big red button inside Sherlock's chest. The button that made him contrary and prickly—that made him feel like snarling and behaving like a feral animal.
Because, technically, Sherlock was a Sub. A masochist. He liked pain. But he also liked to fight tooth and nail against any order given to him. He didn't so much surrender, as collapse from exhaustion, and finally let people take what they would.
And if John said Sherlock couldn't clone himself, Sherlock would be damned if he didn't prove the bastard wrong.
Really, it wasn't so difficult. St. Bart's had a lot of high tech equipment, and people usually didn't ask him questions. If they did, he'd just square his shoulders and deliver some cold one-liner. It didn't take much more than a sentence to dismantle most people.
The first few attempts failed miserably, but Sherlock was a fast learner. It wasn't long before he had a specimen out of a test tube and growing at a startling pace. At that point, it became more difficult to hide what he was doing.
So he moved the specimen home. Into his bedroom. Usually he slept in John's room anyway. So the good doctor did not notice the artificial womb, letting out low thumps and hisses in the corner of Sherlock's closet.
Due to accelerations in aging, the specimen grew quite rapidly. On the first morning out of the artificial womb, it was a delicate infant. Sherlock fed it the baby formula he'd purchased, and only had to change its diaper once.
By afternoon it was a full-fledged toddler. It seemed confused by the toilet at first, but eventually it caught on. The thing ate ravenously. Sherlock snuck food to it all day long. It didn't call him Daddy. It called him Sherlock.
He decided to call it Sherrinford, after his grandfather. It wasn't technically his child. They were genetically identical. His twin? Perhaps a bit more accurate.
As Sherrinford grew, the similarities only became more striking. The curly dark hair. Wide blue eyes. Sharply defined bone structure. It learned to talk quickly, and soon it had mastered all the basics of communication. Sherlock read to it a bit. But mostly, the damn thing just bombarded him with questions. Why, why, why?
By the end of the first day, Sherlock was looking at himself. Aged approximately nine and a half. Sherrinford was clever. Curious. Cruel. More than enough to rub in John's smug face.
He didn't want to ruin the surprise. So he let Sherrinford sleep in his bed that night. It wasn't really that odd. The bed was king sized. They didn't have to really share space. And besides, over the course of the day, Sherlock had developed a sort of fondness for his creation. After all, it was him. He liked himself well enough. Some would even go so far as to call him narcissistic.
As he drifted off to sleep, he only wondered vaguely how old the specimen would be in the morning.
Sherlock awoke pinned to the bed with an erection pressing into his stomach.
Wait. What?
His eyes flew open. He was staring into his own face. Except younger. With wet, pouty lips, and a flush brushed across the cheeks.
Sherrinford… aged… eighteen?
"Get off me," Sherlock grunted.
"No. You'll be a good slut and take care of me," Sherrinford purred. His voice wasn't quite as deep as Sherlock's yet. But it carried a grand sort of weight.
It didn't push the big red button that made Sherlock want to rebel.
On the contrary. It made him want to go limp and pliant. How was this possible? Sherrinford was an exact copy. He shouldn't be a Dom. He should be like Sherlock. Had he made a mistake?
It was quite difficult to collect his thoughts when Sherrinford dipped his head down and stole a chaste little kiss. It became even more difficult when they started to snog. Heatedly. Sherrinford licked savage, punishing, biting kisses out of Sherlock's mouth. And ethics be damned—he'd left those at the door when he made a human clone anyway—Sherlock felt the blood rushing south. Because this was fantastic. People had often called Sherlock an excellent kisser. But he'd never gotten the chance to experience it first hand.
Usually he got bored of kissing after about five minutes, because people were ever so predictable. Satisfied with the same few motions over and over again. But he found it nearly impossible to anticipate any of Sherinford's movements. He switched what he was doing at such a rapid pace, Sherlock didn't even think about the passage of time.
He barely noticed when Sherrinford grabbed a hold of his hands and pinned them above his head. Barely noticed when the younger man pulled down the chains that were permanently fixed to the bedposts and wrapped the cuffs around Sherlock's delicate wrists.
He only became aware of the situation when Sherrinford crawled upwards and sat upright so that his cock was level with Sherlock's lips.
"Open your mouth and suck me, whore," Sherrinford barked. He tangled his fingers in Sherlock's hair and yanked.
Sherlock let out a small moan, and when his lips parted, Sherrinford shoved his cock between them. He wasn't particularly slow, or careful. He pushed his length in until Sherlock gagged and set up a harsh rhythm.
And Sherlock couldn't help himself. He tugged against the tight restraints. Choked around Sherrinford's cock. And he felt himself slipping down into sub space. Into that wonderful blankness. Peaceful tranquility.
Sherrinford pulled back abruptly and slapped Sherlock across the face. Hard. Harder than John ever would. It wasn't just for the sound effect. It stung.
And then the younger man reached for the drawer on the bedside table and pulled out a tube of lubricant. A sickening pang of arousal shot through Sherlock's body. He had only a moment to think about what was happening.
Because Sherrinford slipped a slick finger between Sherlock's arse cheeks. Pushed inside him and found his prostate immediately. Sherlock groaned. The younger man dragged his fingernails up Sherlock's inner thigh, leaving four wonderful red marks.
He pushed another finger in and Sherlock squirmed.
"Is that what you want you filthy tart?" Sherrinford growled, "Do you want to be fucked? To be stretched, and used until you're just aching for it and I fill you up with my come?"
Oh god. Oh god. Sherlock had created a monster.
"Yes," he found himself moaning breathily, "please."
Sherrinford slicked his cock and positioned himself. Sherlock let out a few feverish breaths. And then the younger man pushed inside him. Not slow and careful, like John did even when he was angry. And fuck. It hurt. It burned.
Sherlock thought he might come on the spot.
Sherrinford snapped his hips and began to thrust at a ridiculous pace. His youth showing. He didn't care about a slow build. No. He seemed to want it fast. Right then. But Sherlock wasn't exactly complaining.
He'd never felt so thoroughly subjugated and used before. It was exciting. He writhed back against Sherrinford's every motion. The pain mixing deliriously with pleasure.
"Do you like that?" Sherrinford grunted. "Do you like feeling my cock so deep inside you?"
"Ugh," Sherlock panted.
"I'm going to make you whine, and beg, and come all over yourself."
And with that, Sherrinford wrapped his hand around Sherlock's windpipe and squeezed down. First, Sherlock's face began to flush. Then his entire body throbbed with a lack of oxygen. He felt giddy. Lightheaded. Sherrinford's taught abdomen rubbed against Sherlock's cock with every motion.
He was going to pass out. John would have let go by now. He never let Sherlock actually go unconscious. But Sherrinford showed no signs of letting up.
Sherlock let out a small, choked noise. He felt the heat rushing through him. The arousal crested, and crashed. His body clenched down. Spasm. Release. The pleasure seared through his nerve endings, and for a few moments he was in a state of white-hot ecstasy.
Then he promptly went unconscious.
When Sherlock's world came back into focus, Sherrinford was still inside him. Panting, thrusting, thrashing.
"Oh good," he rumbled, "didn't want you to miss it."
Sherlock felt drunk. Floating on the high clouds. His body was over sensitized and raw. He wanted nothing more than to just curl up in somebody's arms and go back to sleep. But Sherrinford pounded into him mercilessly. And when the younger man dipped down to bite into the side of Sherlock's neck hard enough to draw blood, his cock twitched, making a valiant effort to become hard again.
But Sherrinford sped up just a bit. And then he started to tense. He grunted, and groaned, and god. Sherlock had never watched himself experience orgasm before. It was a bit awkward. And strangely hypnotizing. Sherrinford's full lips parted in a tiny gasp. He shut his eyes, but he didn't scrunch his face, like John usually did. Instead he seemed to stay mostly relaxed, gasping for air. Then he shuddered.
Sherlock felt the warm pulse inside him.
Then Sherrinford collapsed on top of him.
After a few moments, the younger man grinned, and gave Sherlock a small peck on the lips.
"You, my darling little come whore, are an excellent shag," Sherrinford chuckled.
"I suppose I could say the same to you," Sherlock couldn't help himself. He was smiling. God damn. This was wrong.
It all gave a whole new meaning to the term go fuck yourself.
He doubted he'd be able to say such a thing with a straight face ever again.
Yep. That literary warcrime just happened. And there's another chapter on the way.
Written for the prompt:
Dominant!Sherlock fucks Submissive!Sherlock. Because why the fuck not.