Sherlock was lying in bed staring at the ceiling, watching the patterns the sunlight was making, but thinking about something else entirely, as he usually was. Yawning, John rolled over, his arm flopping across Sherlock's chest. Sherlock shoved it off of his body mindlessly. Retaliating, John nuzzled closer to him, kissing his shoulder.
"Good morning," John mumbled sleepily.
"Mmm," Sherlock hummed, not bothering to articulate a full response.
John propped himself up and leaned over Sherlock, kissing him.
"Can't you see I'm busy?" Sherlock said in between John's lips.
"Busy? Doing what?"
"Thinking. Obviously," Sherlock sighed, annoyed.
John flopped back down against the mattress. He should have been used to Sherlock's habits and certain lack of sensitivity by now, but it still annoyed him. Sometimes he wished that just once Sherlock would think about someone other than himself. Of course he knew that he cared about him, but it was in a less obvious way. Sometimes John just thought Sherlock acted like this because he simply liked the idea of being "mysterious".
Suddenly, Sherlock rolled over and was straddling John. "I'm done thinking," he said, assuming that this was an adequate enough explanation after seeing the look of surprise on John's face. He leaned down and kissed him roughly, biting his lip.
"Ow, Sherlock," John muttered, pushing him away.
Sherlock just ignored him, shutting him up by pressing their lips together.
John felt Sherlock's hand snaking up his chest and his long, slender fingers settling around his neck. Slowly, his fingers began to tighten.
"Sh-Sherlock!" John sputtered, choking.
"What?" Sherlock asked innocently, his grip loosening.
"What are you doing?"
Sherlock sighed at the tediousness of having to explain everything to John. "Erotic asphyxiation. When the brain is denied oxygen it heightens sensitivity and arousal because of the increase of carbon dioxide, which-"
"Sherlock!" John knew that he would never shut up if he didn't cut him off.
"Don't you think that's…dangerous?"
"Don't you trust me?"
"Well, yes, but…"
"Then what's the problem? Have you ever tried it?"
"No, but…I just don't…feel comfortable doing that."
"Fine," Sherlock said grabbing John's hands and placing them around his own delicate neck.
"No! I'm not going to do that."
"Why not? I trust you. And you're a doctor for God's sake. It's not like you wouldn't know when to stop."
"I don't want to do it," John said, getting irritated.
Sherlock climbed off of him and sank into the bed next to him. "Fine," he said rolling over so his back was facing John.
John sighed exasperatedly. He moved closer to Sherlock and kissed his neck. Sherlock batted him away.
"What? You're not honestly going to be angry just because I said didn't want to choke you?" he asked angrily.
Sherlock didn't reply. He let John grab his shoulder and roll him over, so he was lying on his back, but he still didn't meet John's eyes.
John traced a finger up Sherlock's arm and down his chest.
Without giving any warning, Sherlock flung back the covers angrily and got to his feet, storming out of the room.
"What? Sherlock," John called after him. He heard the shower start in the bathroom. Pulling the sheet around him, John got up and shuffled after him. The bathroom door was ajar, but as soon as he started to push it open, Sherlock's hand reached out from inside the shower and slammed the door, locking it.
John growled in annoyance. "Fine. Act like an immature child. I'm not going to apologize for saying no," he shouted through the closed door. He heard the shower turn off suddenly. The door flung open to reveal Sherlock in a towel, his dark curls dripping wet and sticking to his face.
"Do you really think I'd ask you to apologize for that?" he asked, angry and hurt that John would think so little of him. "I'm not that bloody selfish and insensitive."
"Well, I don't know. I just…why did you walk out then?"
"You wouldn't understand," Sherlock started to shut the door.
John flung out his hand to stop the door from shutting, "Just tell me. What's wrong?"
"Don't take this personally," Sherlock started hesitantly, "but this is getting boring."
John just looked at him, dumbstruck. "Boring? …Are you…breaking up with me?" he asked, hurt.
"No, don't be stupid," Sherlock said as if it were obvious.
"Well…what are you saying then? I don't understand?"
"You're not stimulating enough. The sex is getting boring. Too boring," Sherlock said blatantly. "I told you not to take it personally," he sighed, reading John's face.
"So…I'm a boring sex partner?" John said slowly.
"Not just you. Everyone."
John raised his eyebrow.
"No, I didn't mean…I just meant that everyone's idea of sex is boring. Sex that substitutes emotions for any intellectually stimulating aspect, normal sex."
"'Normal sex' as in making love?"
Sherlock cringed. "Love is boring."
"I love-"
"Don't," Sherlock cut him off quickly. "I just can't have sex if you make it all about emotions, things that don't matter."
"Mmm. Things that don't matter."
"God, I told you not to take this personally."
"Well, what do you suggest then?"
"I think we should see other people."
"What?"
"I don't mean exclusively. Rather an open relationship. We both obviously have different needs that the other is unable to satisfy. Go over Sarah's tonight and…cuddle, or whatever," he waved his hand.
"And you?"
Sherlock smirked.
"Oh God. No. Not her. Anyone but her, Sherlock please," John begged. "You know how I feel about her."
"There is no one else."
"No. Absolutely not."
"Fine. I'll just spend the rest of my life sexually frustrated, I'm sure our relationship will be wonderfully exciting..."
"Fine! Fine. But don't make this a regular thing," John said, throwing his hands up in surrender.
"Oh don't be so jealous."
"I'll be back tomorrow. And she had better be gone by the time I get back. I don't want to see her." John slammed the bathroom door, leaving Sherlock smiling as he sent a single text:
Bring the riding crop. – SH
A woman's heels clicked sharply against concrete: Alexander McQueen pumps; six inches, jet black. Dark red lipstick against pale skin. Sculpted eyebrows, Marilyn Monroe. Thick batting eyelashes, winged eyeliner, champagne and ash lids. Dark brown eyes, inviting, yet warning. You want to approach her, but there's something holding you back; she's almost too confident…you don't know her, and you never could, that much is obvious. But somehow you know that nothing would hold her back from taking whatever she wants, regardless of the consequences; she has no limits. And that scares you, but intrigues you at the same time.
You're not quite sure if her hair is brown or black, but that fits somehow. She catches you looking and you look away she can lock eyes with you, because you know that if you stare into those mysterious, inviting, dangerous, confident eyes, then you will be hers.
She never takes a cab if she can walk. Because she knows the inner monologue going through each person's head as it turns as she passes by. It's not a need for attention, though. It's about power. Every slight turn of their heads, every not so sly glance is a genuflection. Without even asking, she has your full attention for a few moments, or for a sleepless night spent lying awake thinking about those red lips, or perhaps even for a lifetime filled with regrets of not saying hello. She doesn't need it; she just wants to show off for the hell of it, and she does it selfishly, without a single passing thought of remorse for the wasted regrets she so cruelly hands out.
She doesn't knock; she has a key. Tumblers unlocking, the door clicks open with a snap and she pushes it open with her carefully manicured fingers. Her hands are soft and delicate, almost ironically so considering how she uses them…
"Holmes." Her voice rings throughout the silent flat. It's softer than you would expect, but he knows it well, though it makes him shiver each time, because it's hearing it for the first time. A delicate tinkle of glass that turns out to be hard diamonds.
He breathes in, can smell her perfume, feel her presence. "Adler." His voice is too calm, too steady for how fast his mind is racing. It's almost as if his body doesn't quite know how to react; she's like a drug: mind-altering, addicting, exciting.
It's a primal, uncontrollable craving, something he doesn't understand, which is new for him. He's not sure if he likes it or not, feeling vulnerable because she's unpredictable, reckless, uninhibited. But so is he, and he realizes this, which makes her even more confusing. Because he should understand her, but he doesn't, and he's not sure if he wants to. The rush she gives him is too intoxicating, addicting.
Heels against wood floors. The sound isn't unfamiliar, but infrequent. Suddenly, he's breathing too heavily, audibly, noticeably, though she hasn't touched him yet. He tries to get it under control, but his breath shudders, making her smirk.
The heels stop just in front of him. She leans in, he follows her lead. Stopping dead, she cocks her head in mock confusion.
"Did I say you could touch?" she asks in a low, smoky voice that shoots straight through him.
He shakes his head, forgetting how to speak.
She's wearing a strapless black dress. It fits her perfectly, wrapping around her body, hugging her hips, stopping just above mid-thigh, making her legs look impossibly long with the McQueen pumps. She'd look like a high-class, old money aristocrat if it weren't for the fishnets. Turning around, she motions for him to unzip it. He stands, hands trembling slightly as his fingertips lightly brush her back. The zipper flows easily as he pulls it slowly down the arch of her back. The dress falls off with a rustle of fabric.
She's wearing a corset underneath: black, latex and polyester, buttons down the front, silk black ribbons criss-crossing down the back. Straps hold her garters in place, she turns around to see his mouth parted, a lost breath. He closes his mouth quickly, licking his dry lips mindlessly.
Leaning in, she's now an inch away. He smirks, she tries to maintain professionalism, though the corner of her lip just barely twitches up, which he notices of course, though pretends not to.
With one finger, she pushes him into the chair; he falls, almost melting at her touch. Sinking to her knees, she rakes her fingernails down his thighs, making him shiver. She leans in, teeth on the zipper of his pants and undoing the button. Slowly, she tilts her head so that she's looking up at him from the floor, which drives him crazy, though he tries not to show it. Keeping eye contact, she stands, hands on his thighs still.
"Stand up," she orders.
He stands, his pants falling to the floor; he never wears underwear.
"On the ground."
He lies down on his back, she rests a heel on his chest, digging it in sharply, making his gasp, to which she replies with a warning glare and a raised eyebrow. Standing over him, she moves her heel and the top button of his shirt pops off. She continues until all the buttons are undone, some broken, a few rips in the material of his expensive shirt, but he doesn't waste a moment thinking about that. He wants her to be destructive, because no one else is ever brave enough around him.
"On your knees."
He kneels. She's standing in front of him, walks slowly around. His head follows her, she stops. Without warning, her hand quickly slaps his cheek hard, the sound snapping in the quietness.
"I didn't tell you to move," she scolds, his cheek stinging. He lifts his head and stares straight ahead, she continues walking around him. Now she's standing behind him, and he's on edge, not sure what she's going to do next. He twitches involuntarily as the moments drag by with agonizing anticipation and uncertainty. Then he catches her hands out of the corner of his eyes, delicate hands on his neck, slender fingers fastening a collar around it. He tries not to smile as she clicks a leash onto the front of it and tugs. She's standing in front of him now.
Motioning to her high heels, "lick them."
Bending down, his tongue flicks out, slowly licking along the side of her pumps, along the arch, down the back of the slender heel. She's tugging upwards on the collar, he follows, tongue tracing up her ankle, across her knee, teeth resting on the lace of her garter. Her hand is in his hair, forcing his head back as she looks in his eyes.
Turning, she walks away from him, into his bedroom. He follows without asking, without thought, as he always does, powerless to do anything else, though he refuses to acknowledge this.
She turns sharply on her heels and he almost doesn't stop in time.
She articulates every syllable, "On. Your. Knees."
Slowly, he gets on his knees and she picks up the leash.
"Come."
He follows her on his hands and knees, crawling as she tugs the leash sharply.
They stop, in his bedroom now. The end of a leather riding crop traces down his back, making his skin twitch.
"Ooh, you are so…tense," she whispers, the sound of her voice tingling in his ear.
He hears it through the air before it strikes his skin. Leather strikes the same place again, turning bright red. Harder this time, making him wince in pain, but he doesn't make a sound.
He's breathing hard, from both pain and arousal.
She pulls the leash, motioning for him to stand, then leads him to the bed. Metal clinks together. She's fastening it to the bars of the headboard and around his slender wrists: handcuffs. Both sets are too tight; he tries to move his hands and his skin rubs painfully against the cold metal. She notices, but doesn't loosen them. He's completely helpless now, both hands handcuffed to the bed. He strains his arms against them because he knows she likes it.
Raking her fingernails across his naked body, he shivers and a moan escapes his lips. His patience is wearing thin, but he's powerless, which only turns him on more.
She leans in, the heat of her body driving him insane. Lips on his ear, she whispers, "I'm not some cheap whore to be summoned," and kisses his cheek, lipstick print.
His bright eyes stare at her. He tries in vain to not look impressed or angry and she smiles serenely. He groans with exasperation as she snaps a photo with her phone before heels click out of the room, he falls back into the mattress, frustrated, knowing he should have seen this coming. Calling after her is useless. He should be angry, but he can't help feeling pleased, almost proud. He's met his match.
The front door shuts. He's still chained to the bed, red whip marks covering his body.
"Hey can you see who that is for me?" John calls to Sarah in the other room. The keyboard clacks as he types up his and Sherlock's latest case from Sarah's living room.
"It's from an Irene," Sarah calls back, sounding a little disappointed.
"Delete it."
"Who's Irene?" She tries to ask as nonchalantly as she can.
"No one. Delete it."
She knows that she and John aren't really "together", least of all exclusive, but she feels a little betrayed nevertheless, and in an act of passive aggressive defiance, she opens the text message.
"Oh…uhh, John, I think….here." She walks into the room and slides the phone across the desk.
"I told you not to-" After the initial shock, John broke into peals of laughter.
"I…have to go…sorry," John managed through laughter.
He grabbed his coat and was out the front door in less than two minutes, leaving Sarah standing in the living room holding John's phone with the picture still open.
"Why would…" she shook her head.
Sherlock's head snapped up as he heard the front door open. He dreaded who it could be, but Irene wasn't that cruel…
He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw John standing in the bedroom doorway.
"So…how was the sex? Boring?" John asked smugly, still trying not to laugh, but failing miserably.
"Shut up and pick the damn locks," Sherlock shot back, annoyed.
"You know, I'm starting to not hate her so much for some reason…"
"Will you just unlock the handcuffs?"
"Actually, I don't think I will yet," he said unbuttoning his shirt and picking up the riding crop.