Title: Bound
Rating: light R for sex
Word Count: ~1200
Disclaimer: Moffat, Gattiss, Sir Author Conan Doyle et. al. own 'Sherlock.'
For Anonymous's prompt on the Sherlockbbc kink meme on Live Journal:
John wakes up tied to the bed.
Sherlock has decided they should be together, and he's going to use rational argument to convince John.
John's tied up so he can't get away before Sherlock has made all of his points.
John is tied to the bed. It's the third thought that comes to him upon waking, preceded by 'Why can't I move?' and 'Wait, why the hell can't I move?'
John cracks his eyes open and is immediately presented with Sherlock's pale face. His eyes have got a slightly mad gleam to them-the way they always do when he's being oh-so-clever and self-satisfied-and his hair stands up around his head like an unruly black halo. He looks like a deranged angel.
"John, I'm so glad you're awake. We need to talk about our relationship."
John's only-just-awake brain stutters to a stop at the word relationship, which Sherlock has managed to make sound both filthy and filthy, and it takes his brain an abnormally long time to start up again.
He swallows. "Er," he starts, "Sherlock what exactly-"
"We should be together, John," Sherlock says, as if it's obvious. He's straddling John's legs, leaning forward, hands on either side of John's head. He's fully dressed in his usual impeccable suit, which puts John at quite a disadvantage, clad as he is in only his underpants and, it seems, yards and yards of crimson nylon rope. John pulls in a shuddering breath and clamps down tight on his libido. Wouldn't do to let Sherlock feel just how much the teasing rope against his chest is affecting him. He can see only two courses before him. One requires laughing in Sherlock's face, which is dangerous at the best of times and really not something he wants to contemplate when he's helpless. The other is anger.
"What the hell are you on about? Untie me at once!"
He uses his soldier voice, which usually causes men to startle and obey. Sherlock only gives him a pitying look. "There are plenty of benefits to such an arrangement," he goes on as if John hasn't spoken. "Firstly, there is of course, sexual gratification."
John's mind bends around that concept. Sherlock and sex. Of course he notices, damn him, and chuckles lowly. "I can see you're intrigued by the idea."
John has to clear his throat before he can speak. "I thought you weren't interested."
Sherlock waves a hand. "You're an exception," he says airily but there is a subtle tremor underneath that said the words were more serious than the tone.
"There are also other benefits. Legal rights we would have over each other, rather than relying on Mycroft or your lovely Harry."
John is still staring, too shell-shocked to answer.
"There are also the emotional benefits of stability and partnership. And yes, before you ask, I admit that these things are…desirable to me as well."
Sherlock sits back on his heels as if the matter has been argued convincingly, damn him. John forces his brain into working order, wrenching it away from the place where it was still gibbering Sherlock, sex! and says, "And the detriments?"
Sherlock purses his lips. "Mmm, yes well, there are some." He's no doubt got them written out in his head on a bloody spreadsheet. John expects nothing less. "It will be dangerous, for one." Sherlock casts him a look from under his lashes, the one that says, 'Come and play, John.' And damned if John can think that danger is a detriment at this point, not when he's already being kidnapped or attacked nearly every week. But Sherlock doesn't let up on this point. "It would make you more of a target."
And John remembers, with horrible clarity, Moriarty's deranged promise, I will burn the heart out of you. He feels his jaw clench at the memory. "Yes. And?"
Sherlock smiles then, a real, natural smile, not the smirk he usually throws at people. He looks a bit impressed. "Right, didn't think that would trouble you." The smile slides off his face. "You'd have to deal with people thinking…"
John doesn't even let him finish. He knows that Sherlock's delaying and he knows why. "Yes. Next?"
Sherlock's head dips, his long white hands coming up to press against his own lips and he sits on his heels, perched across John like a gangly black bird, for a moment. John wonders if Sherlock knows how much he reveals to anyone who looks. Probably not.
"There's me," he says finally. His voice is low, ironic, but his eyes are uncertain. "I'm not the easiest person to bear at the best of times." His long fingers flick the words away, as if he's impatient with his own weakness, his own need for companionship. His grey eyes, fixed on John's wounded shoulder, are close to anguished. John feels an overwhelming desire to capture that pale hand in his, to kiss those words away from Sherlock's mouth. It is not the first time he's felt this way but certainly the desire is strongest now.
"Untie me, please," he says. Sherlock lifts an eyebrow, temporary vulnerability gone, and complies, stripping the ropes off John's wrists with brisk efficiency. The places where his fingertips brush John's wrist burn and, as soon as his hands are free, John is reaching for him. He pulls Sherlock to him and kisses the corner of his mouth, his temple, the place above his ear.
"You bloody idiot," he whispers and Sherlock's laugh against John's neck is strangled and a little manic. John slips his hands under Sherlock's crisp white shirt at the same time Sherlock nips his neck. He arches up and the rope at his chest pulls taut, pinning him back to the bed. John makes a frustrated noise and Sherlock's laugh turns dirty. His lips trail down John's neck to his bare chest and then lower, across his stomach, dipping into his belly button. He hears Sherlock's low hum, as if he's found another piece to an especially intriguing puzzle, and bites down sharply on John's hip. John cries out and squirms.
"Be still, John," Sherlock murmurs against his skin. His clever fingers are at the band of John's pants and John sees now that of course Sherlock planned for this because there's a convenient break in the rope between his hips and his knees. Sherlock pulls them down and the look on his face when he looks at John's cock makes everything go hazy—fascination and surprise and need. He licks his lips and John can feel a whimper escape his throat.
Sherlock bends and swallows him whole and the heat is incredible and John knows he cries out but he can hear nothing but his own amazed thoughts, 'Sherlock Holmes is sucking me off. Oh my god, Sherlock Holmes has my cock in his mouth' repeating over and over. His hand fists in Sherlock's curls and Sherlock pulls back slightly, looking up at John with those pale eyes and his mouth wide open around John's cock and it's too much and John's whole body tightens as he comes.
He collects himself by slow degrees. Realizes that Sherlock is lying beside him and turns, relieved that Sherlock has also removed the rest of the rope.
"I'll take that as agreement," Sherlock says and his arrogant drawl isn't nearly as annoying as it should be.
"Too right," John says instead and shifts so that's he's on top of Sherlock, capturing that maddening mouth in a kiss.