I literally died writing this.
All my secret fantasies out in the open.
Original idea credit to MeltyPrincess, beta-ed by MrRedHat, written by me, inspired by Archia.
"There are several rooms in my Mind Palace not fit for public consumption."-Benedict Cumberbatch
xXx
There are places.
Places that we keep secret our fantasies and our innermost being. They can break us or they can make us. They are in fact, us. It is a manifesto of the experiences we have had since birth; from the very first dream we have had when swimming in the amniotic fluid of a mother's womb.
What we build, how we construct, this is us. This is our Mind Palace.
Sherlock had a room in his Palace that was unlike the rest. This was a room of human error, as he had come to term it. Human error was punctuated by feelings, riddled with emotion and steeped in sentiment.
Human error was useless. Caring was not an advantage. Desire was ruin.
This room was located in the deep recesses of his Mind Palace, where all things vile resided. A crimson ribbon was placed on its knob, a warning of sorts as to the undesirability of its content. The ribbon was a Scarlet Letter in itself, telling the six-foot tall man to stay far, far away from it. But he never turned tail and ran, not until he had gathered the semblance of his marbled, perfect outer self and could bring himself to walk away. Only cold, harsh resolve could make him step foot in the room.
Today, he doesn't run, just slips a small key into the lock to undo it, to undo himself.
A red haze of smoke engulfs him whole as the door creaks open, smoke that smells like cherry and strawberry, tinged with nicotine and tar. It is familiar, it is heavy and he breathes it in like it is oxygen. When the haze clears, in the cramped room are shelves that are a mess; marked with indices only he could understand. The shelves are lined with cases and boxes containing all sorts of paraphernalia: leather whips, chains and the like. It's not decent, he reminds himself, but he cannot stop the shiver of pleasure that shoots down his spine, caught in the moment and in the delirious haze of the room he has constructed. He walks deliberately to a form in the room, a form that writhes under his long, violinist fingers as he draws them across the pink, naked flesh, covered with scars that map out a story for anyone willing enough to listen to it. The body shivers and whimpers from his touch, just loud and low enough to make the Mind Palace Sherlock take the bait and feel more than aroused with a feral sort of base desire. The form struggles against his bonds, which dangle from a clever contraption attached the ceiling. The bonds keep his hands above his head and hold him up against his will.
This form could be anyone Sherlock pleases, but now, as is more often than not, it is John who is in the handcuffs, his sweet doctor with the cherubic face of a seraph and a hedgehog, his attractive doctor with the slightly tubby body, his very own doctor and plaything who writhes wantonly under his touch and moans like a whore at every lash he strikes on the flesh of his back and buttocks.
Kisses are exchanged, of course, hot and wet with lust, and the arousal evident in both of them with the rapid hardening of each man's shaft, the delicious friction creating sparks between them.
Certainly, it is not only John who has been whipped, branded, rimmed and shagged within an inch of his life. Sherlock always claimed the people he had wanted with an almost vicious fervour, and they have had been numerous. Victor in his university days, Gregory Lestrade, even Moriarty at a point.
But one he remembers one woman. The only one.
The Woman.
Irene is seductive, voluptuous, her voice lingering in the air as she slips out of the cuffs if he is not fast enough, the silken voice that mocks and laughs at him like they are small children in the playground. Sherlock dislikes losing, as much as he dislikes being left alone in a room, cold with his rapidly deflating penis left to the elements' harsh touch.
It was not always that he had done the whipping; instead he was, for a period of time, the one being whipped. It was not strength as much him letting go and succumbing to his desires, letting Irene Adler have her way in riding him to oblivion and then in his hazy aftermath she'd walk away, always with different women on her arm, the cold glint of winning in her eyes, and always, always the curve of her blood-red lips lingering in his memories.
But John was married, Irene had disappeared without a trace, and Lestrade had his wife at the very least. Moriarty had Sebastian, and Sherlock was left alone. He was asexual on the surface, at least that's what he projected, the inside beast never allowed to surface. But in the Mind Palace, with its gilded doors and hallowed halls, the rules of the regular world never play out. Instead he was God, he was supreme, and here where he was king of the world, the pirate captain. He would play with his little crew, his toys until the end of the day.
After all, a little imagination never hurt anybody.
SMUTAHOLIC GUYS :D