After John hit him, Sherlock got hard.
What a surprise.
Of course it'd been an accident, of course John had apologized profusely, and of course that had been the end of that.
Except it hadn't, god no.
Lying in bed that night, wide awake while his sweetheart slept, Sherlock's brain had lit up like a damned supernova. Why had it felt good, no…no, not good, not good at all but cock-hardeningly perfect when John's hand had struck the back of his mouth hard enough that teeth cut flesh?
Burning through postulates, cataloging sensations, experimenting for god's sake—scratching, pinching, biting himself there in the midnight light—Sherlock had been desperate to unravel this very new, very wonderful mystery.
And he did. Of course he did. He's Sherlock fucking Holmes.
In that midnight light, silent as you please, Sherlock learned that it was the pain after that he'd relished. As the blood pearled and his lip ached it had been the delicious sense of his senses that had stirred him. The sensation that his entire body was roused, not just has brain, that he was physical, present, alive right there with John, not ahead of him, beyond him, not alone.
Yes, that was it: The pain had driven Sherlock out of his mind, his intellect, driven him out—and right into John.
And oh god he wanted to do it again.
...
As they crawled into bed that next night he'd tried telling John what he'd learned, but when he opened his mouth to say, "Please John, will you hurt me again?" he'd gone so nervous—they've been together barely a month, just one—that nothing came out. Then John had curled warm against him and gone to dreams, leaving Sherlock staring at shadows, looking for words that weren't there.
And now, alone in sitting room dark at two a.m., Sherlock slid down into the sofa, a rag doll, boneless, and again he experimented because that's what Sherlocks do. The tools for this silent research: His own body, his own riding crop.
Staring at nothing much he ran the crop across his cheek in a long slow stroke, as if he were a violin and it was his bow. A patient musician, Sherlock took his time, playing softly the tender skin of cheek, jaw, neck, until the pale flesh was sensitized, singing.
Like this John…it could start like this. Do you see?
He slowed the tempo of this brand new song, made it a darker thing when he opened his mouth, slid the flat leather of the crop's tip along his tongue, then bit hard, arching his neck, tugging. He growled, shook his shaggy head, thought of John and bit harder.
Racing, pounding, flying…how many lyrical words are there for the music of a thrumming heart, John?
Growing still Sherlock placed the crop across his chest, then both hands over it and counted those heart beats—one-two-one-two-one-two—fast, fast, so fast he was dizzy with it. After awhile he started keeping time with a faint whisper. "JohnJohnJohnJohn," and felt his heart slow, which made him laugh, the sound deep in his chest.
Where are you my darling, my soldier, my love?
In the big wide world Sherlock was rarely fanciful, so it surprised even him how positively lavish his brain could be when he thought about his lover, how tender, how damned sweet.
Stretching both arms out to his sides, the whip softly striking the Union Jack pillow at the far end of the sofa, Sherlock stared down at his bare chest, watched his heart tick-hum-hammer beneath skin.
Never did know how much better everything could be with love. Didn't see that coming Johnny, no I didn't.
As if moving on its own the riding crop returned, inched across Sherlock's chest in one smooth achingly slow stroke. It rasped over a hard nipple, ticked the xylophone of his ribs, strummed his belly, then in sudden staccato swipes, played over his cock.
Oh John, come play your instrument, tune me, make me sing.
There in the blue shadow Sherlock closed his eyes and counted his heartbeats again and told himself that when he reached one hundred he'd go upstairs and crawl into bed and ask the healer to heal him. "John, sweet beautiful John, please will you do this for me, please hurt me until I don't have to think any more?"
One hundred and one, one hundred and two, one hundred and three…
Yet as the night ticked on he couldn't make himself rise. Couldn't lift his heavy body and trip it through the gloom, couldn't brave rejection, not just yet. Because there would be rejection, he knew that. John ministers, makes well. He sets, soothes, salves he doesn't strike white flesh so hard it raises up red, angry, and maybe…maybe a little bloody.
Two hundred fifteen, two hundred sixteen…
No. John would say no and so Sherlock had to say yes and so that's why in the dark of two a.m. he tried it himself. He swung the crop fast across his palm, hard enough to make him bark out a short grunt of pain that was…that was…that was only pain.
Three hundred forty two, three hundred forty three…
The second time it was with a good sharp swing to the side of his calf and that hurt much more, so badly that sweat beaded across his forehead, but the pain was wrong, so god damn wrong he threw the crop across the room with a hiss.
Four hundred…four hundred…four hundred…
He stood, his leg throbbing, and for a moment he growled down at the magazines on the coffee table, thought about throwing them too, but instead he took the Dutch courage his anger gave him and let it push him toward the bedroom, toward their bed—his bed, my bed, our bed, yours and mine Johnny, yours and mine—and he looked down at his sleeping lover and bit savagely at his still-swollen lip until it hurt, and then he ran the back of his thumb nail along his wounded palm until that hurt, and the pain didn't feel good, it made him feel stupid and tired, and somehow that made him braver still and so he crawled into bed beside John and pressed against him and whispered desperately, "Please please please please please."
John's breathing hitched, he murmured something sleepy and against his ear Sherlock whispered, "Please. Do it again."
Sherlock's timing was exquisite, John's dream had only just begun and it would have been a bad one. Neither would ever know that really, but some part of John's body was already on alert, high on adrenaline, ready for something, very ready.
The good doctor rolled over, rested the back of his hand against Sherlock's cheek, said with eyes still closed, "Hey, what's up?"
Sherlock finally stopped counting, pressed lips against the back of John's hand. "I want you to do it again. Make me bleed. Please John, please…please…please…please…"
Chest rising and falling fast Sherlock faltered. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He was Sherlock damned Holmes for god's sake, he was rude, demanding, arrogant, he plowed over obstacles, he didn't curl his naked body against them, he didn't beg or press his lips to their warm neck and breathe deep and feel an ache of joy, of longing, of belonging.
One month. Only one month of this man in his bed and his heart and already Sherlock was gone, so far gone. Weak where before he'd been strong, impossibly strong where before he'd been weak, he didn't have words yet for how much he loved this beautiful creature, for how terribly good it was to have his old life in ruins at his feet.
John's eyes were wide now and staring as Sherlock's teeth worried the plump swell of his own lip. John pressed the tip of one finger there. "Stop. You'll make it scar."
Sherlock stopped.
"Look at me."
Sherlock did.
"Tell me."
Sherlock did and by doing those things…stopping…looking…telling…he'd already convinced the good doctor before he'd even spoken the first word.
Because yes John knew what was being asked, and really all John needed to know was that Sherlock knew there were limits. That they would go so far and no further, that stop meant stop, that no meant nothing more and nothing less than I will not.
Sherlock pressed the palm of John's hand to the side of his own head. "In here, this is where I live, all the time, forever. I locked myself in here a long time ago and until you I didn't want a key, I didn't want my freedom, I didn't care what was outside. Outside was dull, but in here—" Sherlock leaned his head hard into John's hand, "—in here there was a riot raging all the time and it was never boring, never dull, it never let me think or feel or understand what I was missing and then and then—"
Sherlock gusted out a sigh and the air smelled…soft? quiet? sweet?
"—and then there was you."
Suddenly Sherlock fell against his pillow, bones and joints achy, as if he'd run hard. He clapped his mouth shut and frowned into the dark and he might have actually been this close to saying, "Never mind. Forget it. I've got an experiment to finish," but he didn't get a chance to turn into an idiot, no, John didn't let him.
"I know I'm smaller than you, but you do know I'm strong, don't you? I'm so much stronger than you think I am."
Honestly, seriously, truly, absolutely, completely, utterly and totally Sherlock god damned loved it when John said stuff he just didn't understand.
"What? What?"
"I could hurt you in ways you don't expect. I could scare you." John's hand curled around Sherlock's gently. "Do you understand that? That I could make you fear me? And that if I did it would pretty much kill me?"
The hardest part of all of this, this loving lark, was that Sherlock forgot again and again that there were two hearts involved, that he wasn't the only one who needed or longed or ached.
"I seldom get to talk to the criminals I help find, but sometimes I do. Sometimes I have time alone with them and do you know what they often do, without any prompting at all? They justify. Absolve themselves. They make excuses."
Sherlock surrounded John's hands with both of his. "I don't think you even know how." Sherlock closed his eyes. "There's a part of you that's so much like me, John. Maybe it's one of the reasons we knew, that first hour, that first minute, knew we'd work. Let's walk this highwire and see if we keep our balance. If we fall, I'll be your safety net and you can be mine."
John smiled a little in the dark. "When did you get so damned lyrical, my sweet?" His smile faded quickly. "There'll be rules, and every last one of them will be mine. Do you understand?"
Without hesitation Sherlock pressed both of John's palms to his own cheeks, nodded.
"All right then. When you say 'hurt me'—tell me how."
A million years (eight months) ago I wrote my first Sherlock fic, "Black and Blue," about John, Sherlock, and the riding crop. The trio had been together a bit longer in that story. This is the prequel, where we find out how it started. More to come. As with that first story you couldn't stop me here if you paid me cold, hard cash.
