Bidded

by MagickBeing

John Watson had the blessed tendency to get more than he bargained for—finding Sherlock Holmes was no exception. He had believed slavery to be wrong for so long, falling firmly in black in a world with far too much gray, but quite abruptly, & with sickly-sweet encouragement, the sands were shifting & he was struggling to regain his footing. (TW: mentions of drug use. Slavelock AU.)

A/N: Dedicated to the wonderful Shea, who has been beyond patient with the timeline of this story and always supportive. The words 'thank you' aren't nearly enough.

And a thank you to Mary (Marian93) for encouraging my late-night ramblings and helping me find my muse when I had no motivation to find her myself. 3

Bidded

by Magickbeing

- a Sherlock committee author -

It had been just over two months.

Two months and nearly eight days total.

One thousand, six hundred and eight hours and thirty two minutes to be exact.

What, exactly, had been the last sixty eight days of John Watson's life? Living with a mad man. He was absolutely bonkers, really—and absolutely brilliant. Fascinating. Riveting. He said his name was Sherlock. Sherlock. Even his name was interesting. Unique. The way it rolled off of a person's tongue—it demanded attention, much like the man himself did—even babbling, shivering and malnourished in an alleyway with a needle at his disposal all of those days ago. An addict. A sob story that was anything but a sob.

Since Afghanistan, John had struggled to find a place in the bustling city he had once called home—London, it seemed, had moved on without him.

He typically kept to himself. Eyes down, head up, shoulders straight—as if he were still at war.

But he saw more than many thought.

And when he saw Sherlock in that alleyway, back pressed against a brick wall—all pale skin and jaunting bones—nails digging at alabaster flesh, hair tousled and dirty, something made him step toward him—away from foot traffic and safety and everything that was known. Something pulled him toward him, an invisible magnetism that John was powerless to resist. The first few days had been hard. To be honest, John had experienced something heavy, akin to regret, soul stained with shame. He was helping someone. Saving someone. He hated himself for regretting his choice, for missing the quiet, unbroken nights—nights without screaming withdrawals or foaming vomit. During those days Sherlock had refused to eat. He had yelled obscenities, eyes half-mad, body quivering but stiff, as if he were trying to force a blanket of control onto himself. The madness had lasted for but three days. And then, quite abruptly, it was quiet. He was quiet. Still. Occasionally his hands would tremble and he would turn his fingers into his palms, press his nails against pale skin until his knuckles were white and stiff. But he was always quiet. He refused to speak, actually. He only stared, expression indifferent. Blank, as if he were in a waking coma. He ate when prompted, moved when required, sometimes only with John's assistance. He started bathing himself. But he was empty. Half-gone. No longer mad but hardly complete.

The silence lasted for nearly two weeks. Thirteen days.

And then there was the occasional sentence, a few syllables here and there that caused John to stop and stare himself, eyes wide with wonder, eyebrows raised in surprise.

Somehow, someway, Sherlock knew things—things he shouldn't, like his duty in Afghanistan—his rank—his medical history—that he had a sister and when he had a row with her—it was unnerving. And absolutely and completely fascinating. Extraordinary. The man himself was a mystery—a riddle wrapped in an enigma. He radiated logic and yet repelled it. There was no explaining him. There was little that John could figure out himself and even less that the man volunteered.

He had been a cocaine addict.

That much was, as Sherlock himself would say, obvious.

And he had been abused.

John never broached the idea, knowing as much as sensing that it was an unwelcomed subject; he had seen the bruises first hand, the stubborn, yellowed tissue that refused to clear itself, discolored markings sprinkled across his ribcage, abdomen, back, and inner thighs. And he had seen the way that Sherlock's eyes had followed his hands those first few days, as mad as he was—always guarded, always watching, even then. He had his suspicions of course. Half formed theories, images of dark rooms and leather restraints.

His imagination was running away from him.

Not all slaves were abused, he knew, and not all who were abused were slaves.

---

They shared a certain expression.

Their brow furrowed slightly at its center and simultaneously lifted, angled upward, and their nose pinched along its bridge—eyes wholly curious—disbelieving—surprised—amazed.

Along with the emotion that filtered across his forehead, John's mouth would part—only slightly—and occasionally his tongue would sweep across his top lip in thought.

Sherlock's mouth wouldn't part. No, rather it pinched, as if the sentiment behind the expression tasted sour—acidic.

It was easily explained on his part.

He was enamored.

And he was absolutely horrid at hiding it, especially when Sherlock's deep, baritone voice reverberated through the air, words rushing from his lips to strike John's mind in a flurry of bullets, quick, accurate, and sometimes deadly—as if his voice wasn't enough on its own accord, rich and smooth but gently grated, slowly entrapping him like a spider's web would.

His adoration was just as easily explained.

Sherlock was ethereal.

He was, as previously put, a riddle wrapped in an enigma. He radiated logic and yet repelled it.

He was a walking contradiction in every form, startling contrasts that tied themselves together, fit in a way that seemed wholly natural and yet unreal. He very obviously had his vices and yet seemed superior to every other person John had met; he was calm, collected, but quick to rise to anger or indifference. He was confident but seemed to question himself at every turn.

He was unlike any single person John had met or could even imagine meeting.

He was doomed from the start.

Sherlock's looks were carefully timed, typically caught in John's peripheral or by a quick turn in his direction—it was tactful, quick, and easily disguised. John had thought it imagined until the line between what was his and what was Sherlock's blurred beyond recognition, until Sherlock immersed himself in his flat as if he had never been anywhere else. The expression became more frequent then, less discrete, and John thought he gradually saw his adoration returned, the endless fascination that made his eyes glint just so. That, he knew, had to be imagined.

There was no way someone like Sherlock could care for someone like him.

Oh yes, he was doomed from the start.

---

John did the shopping.

Sherlock went through the milk at an alarming rate.

John started a meager job at a nearby clinic.

Sherlock would be perched on the edge of his armchair, staring absently out the window, or draped haphazardly—often with his head hanging listlessly over the side—on the sofa when he returned.

John had visited his sister twice.

Sherlock had wordlessly made him tea when he came home.

They fell into a routine.

It was surprisingly natural.

Two months and twenty two days had passed, then, and his gun moved from beneath his pillow to his bedside drawer.

Sherlock hadn't left the flat since John had taken him in.

He had shown little interest in starting a life outside of their walls.

To John's knowledge there had been little—if any—attempt to make contact with the outside world.

John frequently wondered if he had a family or friends that missed him. He tried to imagine Sherlock's life before the bruises and the needle marks, before the alleyway and his flat. Those surrounding him were always faceless, voiceless, leading John to quickly shrug the image away and think that maybe, just maybe, everything had happened for a reason. On the single occasion John had voiced his curiosity Sherlock had given him the silent treatment for two days and had blatantly refused to look at him. John had felt like an outsider in his own flat, had considered staying elsewhere, but was as stubborn as the man that had wordlessly brushed past him minutes prior to the thought.

His silence had ended quite abruptly with a request for tea and an answering, begrudging compliment of you make it better.

As it tended to, everything changed quite abruptly. It just so happened to be exactly three months after John had found him, a particularly cool Friday evening. John came home from the clinic to find his flat barren. Panic, blind and unnecessary, gripped at his heart. Somewhere within the span of three months, John had become so used to the other man's presence—to the shuffling of his weight or the tinker of porcelain—that the silence seemed daunting—overwhelming.

He checked each room, scoured the counters or fridge for a note—frantically looked to his phone, despite Sherlock's lack of such a device.

The few things Sherlock possessed were missing.

Every trace of his presence had been wiped away, cleaned, and in a frantic moment of paranoia and fear, John wondered if his imagination really had gotten away from him and Sherlock had been nothing more than a creation of a lonely man.

The thought was quickly dismissed.

John wasn't brilliant enough to create him.

As soon as there was a familiar creak of worn hinges, John was spinning on his heels and toward the door, expression a mixture of hot irritation, worry, and relief, mouth turned into a tight line with puckered eyebrows and a set jaw. The moment Sherlock was within his sights, a tight knot jumped into his throat; the other man was wearing the same clothes as the day John had found him, no longer torn—sewn—and relatively clean, with but the occasional stain or mark of dirt on dark fabric. Sherlock stepped further inside, closing the door behind him. It was then that John saw he carried with him a brown back-pack, smudged with white powder—scuffed—brick, perhaps?—and black dirt, and a cluster of papers in his right hand.

The words fell from his lips, hard and loud, louder than he had intended.

"Where the Hell were you?"

His hands were trembling.

Sherlock's expression remained impassive, cool eyes meeting John's own.

"Out," he replied simply, moving further into the tiny sitting room, toward the sofa. John turned, eyes following each movement, surveying the other man for any sign of injury, trying to determine whether or not he was high. Sherlock's movements were steady, graceful, and he dropped his bag haphazardly to the floor before the sofa.

"Out?" John repeated, the pitch of his voice still off, underlined with an air of incredulousness. "Out? And what, exactly, does that pertain?"

Sherlock turned to face him, face as blank as before.

"Relax, John," he drawled, stepping toward him. "I'm clean, I assure you—" his eyebrows raised slightly, eyes focused solely on John's, "—or would you care to check to ensure I'm honest?"

The question wasn't challenging in the least, said flatly and in a level voice. It was an honest offer, a dull expectation, as if cavity searches were common practice. And yet it made John's expression falter, cheeks heating, the line of his mouth relaxing, opening and then closing. His shoulders deflated some, a sharp sigh exhaling through his nostrils. "I—no. Of course not." A moment's pause, his eyebrows twitching, a slight crease forming along the bridge of his nose. "Of course not," he repeated, shaking his head. His fingers curled into his palms and then flexed out, stabbing the air. "Just—I..." he paused, Sherlock's eyes doing their usual flit and flicker, surveying his expression and taking it apart. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his leg aching, and cleared his throat. "Never-mind."

"You were worried," Sherlock said flatly, finishing the sentence for him. Despite his annoyingly even tone, something in Sherlock's expression shifted, eyebrows twitching down and inward, the line of his mouth tightening, puckering and then relaxing.

It was that look.

John averted his gaze.

He shrugged, wrists flicking his hands up, palms up, and then back down, a silent confirmation with a tacked on, "Yeah. I was." He looked back to Sherlock. He left out that he had been looking for Sherlock for the better part of two hours, that he had been canvasing the many back-alleys until he had lost himself in their web, that he had barely just resurfaced, just minutes before Sherlock had. He left out that he had scoured each face, had chased each moving shadow as if he were in a desert of blood and sun.

And even though it went unspoken, John knew that Sherlock knew.

There were several seconds of silence, of simply weighing each other, dissecting one another, before Sherlock took another step forward, wordlessly offering him the papers he had clenched so tightly. Begrudgingly John accepted it, looking down at the dark print only after prompted by a slight nod from Sherlock. Sighing, John's eyes skirted over familiar terminology, the crease in his brow deepening as realization dawned.

It was a discharge of information, a sexually transmitted disease test.

He opened his mouth, his confusion written across the lines of his face as his eyes turned up to Sherlock. "You're, uhm, clean—" a slight pause and a tilt of his head, unsure of what he was supposed to do with this information—unsure if it was simply to confirm Sherlock's story, that he hadn't been using but, rather, had been out for other purposes. "Congratulations?"

Sherlock's expression had yet to change.

"There's more."

John shuffled the papers, turning to a carefully stapled document entitled Title of Ownership. The crease between his eyebrows deepened and the words fell from his mouth a mere second later.

"What the Hell is this?"

It was a stupid question, one he already knew the answer to—slavery documents. Sherlock had given him slavery documents.

"An offer."

John's eyes darted up, breath catching in his throat. That was—he was—oh God. Sherlock was as stone faced as ever—he was serious.

"An offer?" he repeated, incredulous. His voice sounded too high to belong to him.

Sherlock lifted his shoulder in a slight, languid shrug, and John gritted his teeth.

"A business proposition," he clarified, stepping to the right to drop his bag haphazardly on the coffee table. "The test—you're a doctor. I knew it would be of a concern." It was said so flippantly, so casually—Sherlock was completely relaxed, John noticed, his head cocked slightly to the side as he surveyed him, obviously trying to predict John's answer. John thought it should be, as Sherlock so frequently said—obvious. Absolutely and completely obvious.

The idea was absurd.

As legal as slavery was, it was rather frowned upon by most of British society—that wasn't to say that it was an uncommon practice. Most of those that were the loudest adversaries to slavery were, in fact, the biggest supporters. Corrupt politicians. Wealthy men with a bigger wallet than mouth, with overwhelming boredom and a thirst for power. There were others, too, that practiced it—men and women whose slaves had been handed down, passed from generation to generation, through generations and generations—a master's son who owned the daughter of his father's slave. There were regulations, of course. But they were laughable, laws that existed solely to exist—laws that existed so that the posh could turn up their noses and say see? We are respectable. Laws that offered a flimsy cover of they're humans too and the threadbare protection of they're still citizens of England that rang with half-cocked reasoning, muttered excuses like they're hired help without the pay.

The idea that he would own a slave—that he wanted a slave—and Sherlock, to boot, was absolutely absurd.

Insulting, really.

Undoubtedly reading John's reaction, Sherlock's nose scrunched up as he said, "Come now, don't be like that—" his expression smoothed save for a slight quirk of his lips, an almost patronizing half-smile. "It's really quite logical. Consider it... repayment."

John balked, his eyebrows darting up.

"When did I—I never expected you to repay me, Sherlock," he managed, his voice loosing some of its edge as he tried to reassure, to erase the idea from his mind. "And even if I did—it certainly wouldn't be like this." He would never—ever—ask someone to forfeit their life, to relinquish their own control. Never. Slavery was inexcusable, legal only because of men whose pockets were deep and thirst for power relentless. He brandished the papers toward Sherlock, exasperation seeping into his tone: "I don't know what sort of person you think I am but this is ridiculous." A pause and then, deliberately, pointedly, John added, "Stupid, really."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I know you never asked, John. I never implied you had." More patronization, more words to add to the surreality of the situation, the wrongness of it all. John pursed his lips but Sherlock pressed on. "Your hesitance is understandable—"

"I'm not hesitant," John cut in. Hesitance implied he would change his mind. "I'm certain. The answer is no." There was a bite to the last syllable, an obvious venom, and he tossed the papers onto the coffee table beside Sherlock's bag.

Sherlock went on as if he hadn't heard him.

"—but I believe I can persuade you." Sherlock stepped closer to him and John narrowed his eyes. He could see the inhale cross Sherlock's chest, a deep breath that caused his shoulders to twitch up—followed quickly by a whiplash of syllables, quickly but somehow slowly, gently, as if his tone could convince John on its own merit. "I owe you far more than I care to admit. You've asked for nothing in return—" there was an edge of curiosity in his voice, a slow disbelief and hint of fascination—John's eyes searched his face. "And this is, as I've said, an offer. Nothing more, nothing less. You may not have asked for repayment but I am indebted to you in a way that demands it." The refusal was pressing against his lips again, hard and certain—this was ridiculous, ludicrous—completely and utterly preposterous. What sort of person thought this up? Before he could reply, Sherlock was exhaling and continuing, pressing on with: "Without you, I would still be on the streets—without this—" he motioned to the papers John had so carelessly discarded, "—I may very well be again."

With that last statement came an eerie silence, a shocked pause followed by a sharp scoff on his part.

"That's a bit of a leap, don't you think?" John quipped, mouth turned into a slight frown. As tempting as it was at that moment, especially after this preposterous offer—as he so delicately called it—John wasn't going to give Sherlock the boot. Not only did it go against everything in his nature to push away someone in need, John had obviously grown accustomed to having the other man in his life. Sherlock had, it seemed, burned a path through his consciousness with all of the blazing glory a mad man should. "You can stay here as long as you need. I've never said otherwise."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, shaking his head—adding insult to injury.

"I'm an addict, John," he pointed out. The words were louder, far louder than need be, and John knew he was cutting himself short in order to sell his cause. Irritation pricked at the back of his eyes, near his temples. "Few avenues are open to someone with such a history—and relapsing is far more likely than—"

"Is that a threat?" John bit out, shaking his head. His fingers pressed hard against his palms. He was more intelligent than Sherlock was giving him credit—he could recognize a blatant attempt to manipulate him when he saw one.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched.

"Statistics," he replied simply.

It was John's turn to roll his eyes.

"Statistics," he repeated, rolling his tongue against the inside of his mouth. "Right. Yeah. Okay." He shook his head again. The irritation had yet to fade. This entire conversation was grating at his nerves, causing adrenaline to needlessly rush through his veins under the guise of anger and hurt. "Look—you're my—" he stopped, hesitation rupturing his irritation. Sherlock was what? His friend? Could he really call a homeless man that grew mold in his favorite mug and ruined his best jumper a friend? A sobering addict that offered nothing in return for his hospitality save for a few sleepless nights and the occasional cuppa—and a poorly brewed one at that? They had little in common. Their conversations, while easy, were light—lacked depth, specifically on Sherlock's end. Was that what his friendships amounted to then?

As if sensing his thoughts, Sherlock continued for him: "Friend?" The word sounded bitter coming from his lips, accompanied by another pinched look and raised eyebrows. "I'm your friend?" The question was almost mocking. John shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Impossible," Sherlock scoffed, forehead smoothing. "I don't have friends."

John pressed his tongue to the inside of his bottom lip, the rejection burning as he swallowed. There it was, loud and clear. Confirmed.

"I wonder why," he countered, giving Sherlock a pointed look.

Sherlock's expression soured, his eyes pinching at their corners. John rolled his fingertips against the palm of his hand and said, quite plainly, and before Sherlock could say anything else, "No. I'm not—we're not—just no." A pause that lasted no longer than a second and, "And this conversation is over."

To enunciate his point, John turned abruptly on his heel and retreated to the kitchen.

He tried to find his sanity in the screeching of a kettle minutes later, drowning the idea in murky liquid as if the conversation had never happened.

---

He never did find out what was in that bag.

He suspected drugs.

The idea burrowed through his cortex, crawled under his skin and made him itch.

Sherlock was blatantly and deliberately refusing to meet his eyes. It was impossible for him to interpret the cold shoulder, to label it embarrassed or ashamed—or if Sherlock was simply doing it to be an annoying, immature dick. The latter seemed most likely. And so, out of sheer spite and maybe—possibly—a little bit of worry—John stared. A lot. And with rapidly decreasing tact.

Sherlock continued to ignore him.

The quiet was unnerving and left him far too much time to think. Their last conversation presented itself at every opportunity, his thoughts becoming increasingly self-destructive. It wasn't that he was considering it—oh God no. Never. He just thought—well—something felt off about it all. He couldn't pinpoint Sherlock's reasoning. His attempts to persuade had been fruitless, half-thought—few of which touched base; his reasoning didn't connect and if there was one thing that John knew about Sherlock—without a shadow of a doubt—was that his logic was linear. It was fluid. It fit together, piece by piece, twisting and turning to blend and shape a complete picture.

His logic wasn't the only thing bothering John.

He couldn't think of a single person that he thought would willingly relinquish their freedom to another person—would willingly turn over their thoughts and choices to become another person's puppet, twenty-four seven—and even if he could Sherlock would not be that person. He had a silent sort of strength about him, a brooding resistance; he was quite obviously very head-strong—stubborn—characteristics hardly befitting a slave.

With the silence, at least, came the end to his attempts to persuade—well, for the rest of Friday night. And for the better part of Saturday morning. But then—then the slavery documents appeared on John's laptop. And later that night, after he had thrown them in the rubbish bin, they reappeared on his bedside table. In a fit of irritation John tore the papers into several pieces and tossed them again. They appeared whole—completely intact and unharmed—in the folds of his Sunday morning newspaper.

He told Sherlock to knock it off.

Silence answered and then, after shredding the documents—again—they reappeared in the fridge beneath the milk.

He was starting to think that it was nothing more than a game, an attempt to drive him as mad as the man himself was.

Another copy awaited him in bed, beneath his pillow.

By Monday morning John was seething.

He left with the cold fear—and acidic hope—that the flat would be empty when he returned.

He came home to find Sherlock napping on the couch, a sight rarely seen.

His anger nearly deflated upon the sight and he was careful to be quiet.

He started a fresh cuppa and changed into something warmer, shaking the London rain from his hair. His fingertips prickled and he checked beneath his pillow. There was nothing there. He returned to the kitchen to finish fixing his tea—beneath the milk was nothing more than a shelf. He sipped the steaming liquid and settled into his armchair to check his e-mail, pleased to find his laptop unharmed and paperless.

Several minutes later his eyes drifted to Sherlock.

Why had he said that—why had he cut John down with a few barbed words and twitch of his brow?

What if John did consider him his friend?

What harm did that do?

And was it really so irrational for him to think—hope, even—that their connection was more than one-sided?

Sherlock could have left.

John didn't have him under lock and key.

He had proved that, really. He could have left and John would have been powerless to find him. He would have tried, yes—obviously. But in the grand scheme of things, in the vast network of streets and alleyways, Sherlock Holmes was nothing more than another shadow. London would have eaten him alive.

To think that there had to be something that anchored him to his flat—was that really so far-fetched or irrational?

John blew out a slow breath, his eyes tracing the dark line of Sherlock's eyelashes against high cheekbones.

According to Sherlock yes. Yes it was.

He didn't have friends.

And he didn't want any from the sounds of it.

No—instead he wanted a master. He wanted to be owned. John nearly rolled his eyes at the thought but then his eyebrows twitched. What if it was really that simple? The thought was dismissed as quickly as it developed. He doubted anything about Sherlock could be so simple—could be explained so easily by base wants or needs. No, Sherlock seemed to have an inherent ability to make everything complicated.

His eyes skipped down to Sherlock's mouth—his lips lacked their usual edge or pucker. He was completely relaxed. John thought he should savor the moment.

"You're staring."

The statement was so nonchalant, so abrupt—the words took a moment longer than they should to process and then John was tensing, straightening in his seat, eyes pivoting back and to the floor, a silent am not, his face heating. The color drained over the course of several seconds, a pregnant silence falling between the two men. John forced himself to break it by flicking his eyes up and in Sherlock's general direction, almost challenging him by meeting a steadfast gaze. Not napping then—just thinking. Of course. Embarrassment pricked at his cheeks but John held his gaze.

"I've seen the way you look at me, John," Sherlock continued slowly, his voice quiet. "Reconsider."

And so their gaze was broken again, John's eyes quickly returning to his laptop screen, skin coloring a brilliant pink.

There was the barely audible whisper of cotton and polyester, Sherlock shifting into a sitting position, forearms draped casually over his knees. He was leaning forward, toward John, and he could see the other man clearly in his peripheral, imagine his exact expression. The splotches of color along his jaw darkened.

"Reconsider," Sherlock repeated, a hesitant and far more quiet, "please," tacked onto the end.

John's reply was quick, unrelenting: "No." And with it he was pushing his laptop from his lap, sliding it onto the floor so that he could move to his feet. He wasn't having this conversation again. He had made himself perfectly clear. Sherlock simultaneously moved to his feet, stepping forward twice to block John's attempted exit to the kitchen. John glared, his tone clipped: "Move."

"John—" his name was said softly, delicately. Sherlock was careful to taste each letter and he could hear it—a chill wormed into his spinal column and he straightened, resolutely clearing his throat. He spun on his heel but Sherlock moved with him, blocking him with a quick movement and another gentle, "John."

His eyes hardened and his fingers curled into his palms.

"Move," he repeated.

He wouldn't be saying it a third time. Either Sherlock was going to move or he was going to move him—the thought was cut off as Sherlock did the former, stepping forward to raise his hand in a fluid, continued motion, his fingers settling against John's cheek. The touch was gentle and a spark skipped through him from the point of contact, fizzled out and to his toes. He stiffened, glare turning wide-eyed. Sherlock's fingertips trailed further back, to the dip of his jaw and ear. He inhaled sharply. Sherlock's eyes were fixed firmly on his own.

"I've seen the way you look at me," he repeated.

Regaining his senses, John withdrew, stepping back and mustering another glare.

Obvious amusement filtered across Sherlock's expression, touched with equal parts confusion; there was a crease above his nose, eyebrows furrowed, a sharp contrast to the tilt of his lips.

"Stop resisting."

It was a statement that sounded like a question, that rang through John's ears and tacked itself onto his confusion; John's lips puckered. It shouldn't have been surprising, really—the realization that perhaps Sherlock thought his logic sound. Sometimes the man's mind was too twisted—it was in that way that he radiated logic and yet simultaneously repelled it. He was brilliant, yes, seeing connections he shouldn't be able to and yet sometimes those connections were vague, their strands threadbare and reaching, curling and wrapping this way or that.

John's face prickled where Sherlock had touched.

"This could be a mutually beneficial arrangement—" Sherlock started.

"How?" John interrupted, cutting his logic short in an attempts to expose its insides. "What would you gain?" The question made it sound as if he were considering it—Sherlock's offer—this madness. He found he was beyond caring. He needed to understand and hoped that Sherlock's answer would light the pathway to his reasoning, illuminate his logic like beacons. He clarified, voicing his confusion aloud—the idea itself sounded ridiculous. "A place to stay? I'll say it again, Sherlock: you can stay here as long as you need to."

"Partly," Sherlock admitted, scoffing around the next word: "but..." his mouth twisted into a smirk. The movement caused the pits of John's stomach to churn and he was careful to keep his eyes on his. Sherlock shook his head. "John," he said slowly, his voice lower then, almost sultry. John swallowed, trying to convince himself that the way Sherlock's eyes raked across his person then was less intimate than it felt. When their eyes met, Sherlock finished with a gentle, almost scolding, "Don't ask questions you already know the answer to."

John pressed his tongue to the inside of his bottom lip, his eyebrows furrowing. He was surprised his head wasn't spinning from the mixed signals—the looks and then the rejection, the stinging reminder that they weren't friends, that Sherlock didn't want to be friends, and then this—this seduction, dare he say.

It was obvious that Sherlock could see him trying to process everything, trying to sort things out and put them in a proper order as he spoke before John could reply.

"Think it over at least," he tried, his expression softening, smoldering only around its edges. He carefully tacked another word to his request, soft and almost begging, "Please."

John averted his gaze, looking to the floor. He shook his head. He couldn't. Mixed signals aside—he couldn't. It went against his very character to use someone in such a way and he had taken Sherlock in to help him. Nothing more. He just—he couldn't... could he? The thought was but a mere whisper, bitter and acidic, tacky, and disgust curled around his cerebellum. He shook his head again, eyes flicking up to Sherlock's as he moved to step around him, a final no on his lips—but Sherlock moved with him, blocking him, reaching out to touch his forearm. John tensed. Sherlock's grip loosened and then there was a pucker of his eyebrows, the bridge of his nose seeming to lengthen as his eyebrows angled upward.

"Please, John," he tried again, searching John's eyes.

John pursed his lips and blew out a hard breath, looking away to say, "Fine. Sure."

The words were as bitter as the thought had been.

A lie, he told himself. An attempt to bide more time, to think of some way to put the idea from Sherlock's brain and out of their lives. He could feel Sherlock studying him, weighing the validity of the agreement, and no matter what John had to tell himself, it worked. Sherlock's grip vanished and then he was stepping away to let John pass.

---

The next three days passed without issue.

And by issue, John meant mention of a certain topic. Every time John thought Sherlock was going to broach the subject again, be it because of an awkward pause in conversation or a raking look over John's person, Sherlock went on as if nothing had changed. He began to wonder if he was being paranoid, if Sherlock had finally realized that his life wasn't negotiable and neither was John's answer.

It was on the fourth day, after dinner, John realized Sherlock had lulled him into a false sense of security.

The papers were tucked carefully between his laptop's screen and its keyboard.

Heat shot through him, adrenaline colored by anger, and he moved his laptop to the floor, moving to his feet with the papers in hand to yell, "Sherlock!"

He was going to put an end to this once and for all.

Hearing the bathroom door close, John turned, his grip tightening on the slavery documents.

"Sherlock, this—" he stopped, his words cut short by the sight of Sherlock standing unclothed in front of him. His gaze swept across his body, able to see the beads of moisture traveling across his skin, mapping out contours of muscle and settling in pale valleys. John was quick to avert his gaze, face heating. Several seconds passed with John resolutely staring at the floor with no reply or movement from Sherlock and so, with the idea that this might be another attempt to persuade him, John cleared his throat, managing, "Go put some clothes on."

The words sounded choked to his own ears and he pursed his lips, looking to the ceiling, the warmth spreading, drizzling down his throat in waves.

"John," said Sherlock finally, the sound of his name sending a chill down his spine.

John rolled his tongue against the inside of his cheek and repeated, "Go put some clothes on."

He could see Sherlock take a step closer in his peripheral and he added a strangled, "Please," to his request.

Sherlock shook his head.

"John—" his name was softer then, burrowing somewhere in his cortex, and another flash of heat shot through him, shivering but warm, "—John, look at me."

John kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling, mouth thinning into a tight line.

Sherlock moved closer yet.

"John," he tried again, amusement lacing his voice. "Look at me." A pause and then, "Come now—it shouldn't be hard. It should be quite easy, I would think, if you're really not interested in my offer."

He closed his eyes briefly, recognizing his words for what they were—a challenge—and then seized his courage by its bootstraps, hauling it up and holding it close so that he could open his eyes and deliberately meet Sherlock's hawk-like gaze. His blush had yet to fade but it was a start—or so he reasoned.

"There," he said deliberately, clenching his jaw. "I'm looking." Sherlock raised his eyebrows, another challenge, but John pressed on. "Now—will you go put some bloody clothes on?"

Sherlock's forehead smoothed, a smile touching his lips. Grinding his teeth together, John's nails scratched against the paper, the fingers of his other hand turning into his palm to form a loose fist.

"You're looking," Sherlock agreed, nodding once, his head lulling to the side, "but not seeing." Despite its absence, John could hear the smirk. "Am I making you uncomfortable?"

"Don't ask questions you already know the answer to," John bit out, throwing his words back at him.

Sherlock's smile widened, his voice sickly-sweet, "Have you asked yourself why?"

He knew what he was getting at. The implement was clear.

His lips turned into a small scowl.

"Because we're not in a bloody nudist camp," he answered, the heat from his face slowly draining, sinking through his skin to add to the fire in his veins. "Now go put some damn clothes on."

Sherlock chuckled. Chuckled. And dammit if the sound of that voice, low and thick, reverberating from his chest and into the air didn't line John's limbs with a warmth he chose not to analyze, a temptation he thought best ignored.

"Ja—ohh—wnn," he sung, dragging the single syllable out and into the fire, "don't be like that." His smile had softened, melted into a slight tilt of his eyes and nothing more.

John could hear his heartbeat. He rolled his lips together, shaking his head.

"We're not—" he stopped, trying again, flexing his fingers out and into the air, pressing down as if that would emphasize his point, "—not having this conversation again."

"You promised to think about it," Sherlock reminded him, his smile fading completely then, weighted silence passing between the two.

John blew out a sharp breath.

"I didn't promise anything."

There was a miniscule twitch of Sherlock's brow, a flash of utter vulnerability—still protected, masked by an otherwise stoic expression—but reflected in his eyes. "Am I not adequate?"

John's own brow furrowed, slow, dawning realization mixing with disbelief. His anger partially deflated. That was what it came down to, what he was concerned with—not with being a slave, with losing his freedom, but with being inadequate—rejected. Sherlock was, as literally as metaphorically, stripped of his disguise, standing naked and exposed in front of him, opening himself to judgment's cruel ring. John shook his head, stepping forward, fingers curling into his palms. "You're more than," he answered simply, voice dry, like sandpaper. He sighed. "That's not what this comes down to, Sherlock."

He was tired. Tired of fighting, of trying not only to convince Sherlock, but himself. Sherlock swallowed hard, Adam's apple pulling the shadows down his throat. "Then what?"

John sighed again, closing his eyes in frustration. He opened them a moment later to find Sherlock had moved closer, was now standing directly in front of him. Startled, John's breath caught in his throat.

"This could be a mutually beneficial arrangement," Sherlock repeated, eyes visibly devouring his features. "You're asking nothing of me John—there is no coercion. I'm offering myself to you—you need only to take me." John knew the words to be true and yet hesitance still pulled at his heartstrings. He had believed slavery to be wrong for so long, falling firmly in black in a world with far too much gray but now—but now the sands were shifting and he was struggling to regain his footing. As if sensing the chink in his armor, Sherlock continued smoothly, velvet encouragement: "Stop resisting. I know you want me—" his eyes were dark and dissecting, almost hungry—or was that John's own lust reflected? "Dilated pupils. Accelerated breathing—" as Sherlock said those last few syllables, he shifted closer, angling his face toward John's, causing his breath to stutter as if on cue. "Tense—too tense—posture—" a slight pause followed by a scoff, a quiet reprimand, "—you're still resisting—" a twitch of his brow and a miniscule shake of his head, "—shame—" and then Sherlock's hand was twitching forward, long, slender fingers wrapping around his left wrist, pressing to betraying veins, "—accelerated pulse." Another pause, a quirk of his lips that drew John's attention, and, "Am I putting you on edge, John?" His tongue, which had caressed John's name in such a sickly sweet way just moments before, then passed over his lips, a long, deliberate swipe, fleeting but persuasive. John swallowed, forcing his eyes to return to his. "I could show you how to fix that." The statement was so simple—flat, voice level, sultry and warm, smooth and sweet, slow and steady. As thick with innuendo as it was, Sherlock said it in a way that made the words simply exist. It wasn't too much of an assumption—even though it should, by every right, be just that. It wasn't too forward despite the fact that John had had women walk away or slap him for less. And it was far—far more tempting an offer than it should have been.

Sherlock's hand twitched, long fingers loosening their hold to slip up his sleeve and ghost delicately along the inner flesh of his ulna and radius, tracing covered veins. He could see Sherlock's eyes straying from his, gaze sliding further down, making him feel very much exposed despite the protective layer of clothing the other man lacked. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, eliciting another slight twitch of his lips, a teasing smile, arrogant and cool: "How to fix me."

John cleared his throat, attempting to jump-start his larynx into working order, swallowing thickly afterward. He licked his lips, eyes fluttering across Sherlock's face as he managed, voice far rougher than he had intended—body betraying him again—"You don't need to be fixed." His reply was intentionally dismissive—shallow, as if Sherlock's innuendo had but skimmed the surface of his ear canals without pushing itself into his brain—and earned an amused scoff, the corners of Sherlock's mouth turning up. John knew he was really quite transparent. At least to him. Always to him.

"We'll have to agree to disagree," Sherlock replied lightly, his fingertips retracing their path down John's inner wrist, idly stroking his skin. Sherlock's eyes moved across the length of his face, causing his skin to heat and prickle—he knew he should pull away and yet he was anchored, kept in place by his gentle touch.

He sucked his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

"I—" he stopped, stuttering, "we—can't—"

"Says who?" Sherlock interrupted, pinning John under his unwavering gaze. The change in topic was flawless.

He swallowed thickly.

"Me," he muttered, the word a mere breath.

"Why?" Sherlock countered easily.

John opened his mouth to reply but drew a blank, the words refusing to surface, to slide from his mind and into his mouth.

"Why?" he pressed, taking advantage of John's silence. "We're not hurting anyone—and I want to." His other hand twitched up, coming to rest gently against the curve of John's jaw, his fingertips cool in comparison to his own skin, sending a jolt of contradicting warmth fluttering through his veins. "I want this," he continued, dragging his fingertips lazily across the curve of his cheek. "You." Another shiver skittered through his body, leaving a pool of warmth in his stomach, prominent and quivering. "I want to be yours." John could feel his resolve buckling, was aware of his reasoning escaping him, slipping through his proverbial fingertips and into nothingness. He was far too aware of his heartbeat, the valiant little muscle quickening its dance, trying to beat its way from his chest. "And you want it too. Me, rather." He paused, the corner of his top lip curling into a slight smirk, voice seemingly lowering itself, "You're imagining what you could do to me. And what I could do to you in turn."

Sherlock rolled his lips together, the smirk vanishing as he switched to an opinion that sounded more like a fact: "I've been told I'm really quite good at it." Raising his eyebrows, he continued, "Why don't you find out for yourself?"

John meant to reply, to politely decline—again—but the single syllable caught in his throat to form a stuttering noise, a twisted scoff.

Sherlock tutted, his tongue visibly curling to meet the inside of his teeth, and John struggled to keep his eyes on his. He was picking him apart, dragging the process to its end, "Even now, you're trying to convince yourself otherwise—why?"

John averted his eyes, looking just past Sherlock's shoulder, his gaze focusing on a thin bit of air. His reasoning abandoned him, drawing itself short, and he e struggled to force some semblance of sense into his mouth, over his tongue, and into the air.

"This isn't... normal," he managed, his lips twitching, the line of his mouth broadening into a grimace, "what you're asking. It isn't... normal."

Sherlock sighed, his breath tracing John's features and coaxing from him a stuttering inhale. Silence answered his explanation and then Sherlock's touch was withdrawing, his hands disconnecting, drawing John's eyes to his in a flurry of confusion that should have been relief. A switch had been flicked.

Sherlock was expressionless as he muttered, "Perhaps I should be entirely honest."

The statement had been quiet, had been said somewhat begrudgingly and with a thoughtful look to the nearest wall, as if Sherlock were only just considering the idea. Incorrigible. He was absolutely incorrigible. John's eyebrows raised in disbelief and a choked scoff fell from parted lips; nodding, he muttered, "You think?"

Sherlock's eyes flicked up and toward the ceiling and then around, a sharp roll to the right. John pursed his lips. Sapphire eyes settled on his person and he could feel the tension lining his spine, weaving in between and around each vertebrae to draw him up.

"Ninety seven days have passed," he started after a long moment, his eyes fixed resolutely on John's.

When three more seconds had passed and it became clear that Sherlock thought that sentence completely adequate, John prompted, quite shortly, "And?"

Sherlock's mouth thinned into a tight line. His Adam's apple bobbed furiously, catching the words in its quiver. Another second passed before he managed to continue.

"And," he said pointedly, a muscle in his jaw twitching, "should my previous... master—" the title was spit into the air, said flatly but with an acidic edge, a line of venom that cut through the air and dropped into John's gut, "fail to locate me—or sufficiently support an attempt therefore made—his ownership is revoked—that is, of course, if my..." there was a slight, barely noticeable pause—so slight that it could have been imagined—"status is reinstated by another's proprietorship."

John furrowed his brow, his mouth relaxing, turning slack-jaw—he had been less imaginative than thought, or so it seemed, and with that realization came its crashing repercussions. He waded through Sherlock's explanation with either foot firmly weighted, bags of sand around his ankles, pulling him back. Oh. Oh. He was nothing more to Sherlock than a possible out, a way to be free—in some semblance of the word—because surely, surely, this brilliant genius of a man would know—could see—sense—read—what ever it was that he did—John's stance on slavery.

Previous stance, rather.

He had been manipulating him the entire time—this, all of this—it was just a game, an attempt to coax from John a signature and little else. What would he have done, then, once John had signed the papers? Would he have been honest? Would he have had a good laugh at John's expense? Worked some sort of underhanded clause into the documents—some sort of backhanded trickery to go against their deal?

The idea punched at John's heart.

He was a fool. He had been falling for it—hook, line, and sinker.

Sherlock wasn't interested in John at all.

Not really.

It should be a relief, really, and yet burned more than it should.

Embarrassment flooded his cheeks, scalding red that caused his skin to tingle and eyes avert toward the floor.

"Right—" John started, voice forced—flat—he cleared his throat. "A 'mutually beneficial relationship'," he quoted, nodding once. "Of course." It was, as Sherlock would say, obvious. It was hard to swallow, his heart as loud as before, but for other reasons. "What—" he waved a hand dismissively toward Sherlock, the movement stiff, "what's all this, then?"

He could see movement in his peripheral, followed by a sharp command: "Look at me, John."

There was no fight, then, as his eyes swept up and to Sherlock's—he was tired of fighting.

He was pathetic.

Sherlock had cocked his head, a small, understanding smile playing at his lips

"My offer still stands—strings and all." He searched John's eyes. "I was being honest—albeit partly," his smile faded, brow furrowing as he added, "a minor technicality, I assure you." Sherlock's hand then returned to the curve of John's face, causing John to stiffen, the touch enunciating his next words. "I do want you." His neck straightened, smile returning briefly, but twisted, darker, nose scrunching along its bridge as he muttered, "Don't you see? It's perfect. A win-win."

Sherlock leaned in, the heat from his body causing John's stomach to churn, to twist this way and that, flip upside down and tipsy-turvy. John lifted his chin and straightened, eyes slipping past Sherlock and focusing on a glittering dust-mote dancing through the air near his left ear. His face was close to his—so close—and anticipation clenched at his stomach, kicked his intestines up and toward his heart. "All you need to do," Sherlock murmured, leaning closer yet, his lips brushing against John's ear, "is ask." John swallowed hard, wondering just /how/ Sherlock expected him to find his voice.

"Stop resisting," Sherlock urged, his lips brushing against John's ear again, tickling its shell. John closed his eyes as Sherlock's breath penetrated his mind. Sherlock wanted this—him—and perhaps more importantly, he needed him—John had seen the bruises firsthand, had helped tend his wounds. And while the odds of Sherlock's previos owner finding him seemed low, they were still there, pressing themselves against the forefront of his mind and digging into brain matter. He worried on his bottom lip, inhaling sharply when Sherlock's lips brushed against sensitive flesh. Before he could second guess his sudden lapse of restraint, John found himself nodding.

"Okay," he breathed, opening his eyes to say it with more certainty—with more certainty than he felt, certainly, "okay."

A small, absent part of John wondered if he was simply trying to convince himself of Sherlock's plight to justify his own desires—but the part was brushed aside easily, discarded with the touch of Sherlock's smile to his ear. John let out a short breath, a weight removing itself from his chest. It was freeing, giving in.

"Perfect," Sherlock murmured, the word rolling from his tongue to burrow into John's ear canal.

John licked his lips, his heart quickening its drumming roll, beating hard against his ribs.

"Business first," Sherlock practically purred, although he contradicted himself by remaining where he was, his face tilting slightly in John's peripheral so as to press his lips against the juncture of his jaw, just below his ear. It was more of a nip than a kiss, a gentle, teasing swipe of lips and teeth that made John roll his shoulders, a hard shiver wracking his body.

And then Sherlock was straightening, stepping back and away, his movements fluid as he stepped around him to fetch a pen from the coffee table. John turned on his heel, watching the other man move, his eyes skirting across his body—splotches of color cropped up along his jaw and he looked to the floor, looking up only when Sherlock was standing in front of him again, long fingers offering a pen. He eyed it for a moment, his fingers twitching around the needed papers. There was a moment of doubt, a flash of hesitance, his walls attempting to rework themselves, crumbling brick-work trying to hold against his decision. The pen twitched, a slight shifting of pale digits, and John's eyes moved to Sherlock's.

His other hand twitched up to take the offered pen, a smile hiding behind Sherlock's eyes.

---

His thoughts were an incoherent mess.

It had been more than a bit surreal, sitting next to a naked Sherlock—who refused to put on clothes—as John signed the necessary paperwork. He had read everything, his eyes scanning over dark print and struggling to send it over the proper pathways and to his brain. It had been more than a bit too much to take in and then there was Sherlock, idly stroking his upper thigh as silent encouragement. Even then, moving to stand, the documents sitting on the coffee table brandishing fresh signatures, he felt as if he were going to buckle under sensory overload.

As soon as he had moved to his feet, Sherlock was against him, encouraging the loss of restraint.

The taller man wasted little time, cupping the side of John's face and demanding his attention, his fingertips expertly playing against flushed skin, latching beneath the juncture of his jaw and skull. John let out a startled breath, his gaze reeling up and to Sherlock's. The eye contact was brief. Sherlock was leaning in, then, his lips tickling John's ear.

"What would you like me to do, master?" he breathed, wetting his lips on the last two syllables to send another chill down John's spine.

John blew out a slow, deliberate breath, attempting to regain his bearings. Sherlock had been right before—he had imagined what he could do to the other man, what Sherlock could do to him—but such images had been pure fantasy and little more. He had never thought they would come to fruition, that /this/ would be his new reality. Something acidic burned in his stomach and he swallowed thickly, color rushing to his face.

"I... don't know," he admitted slowly.

Sherlock chuckled, dipping his head down so that his breath traced John's jugular.

John pressed his lips together, inhaling sharply.

"May I, then?"

Confusion flashed through him, lingering in the form of a wrinkled brow and fluttering eyes.

"May you...?"

Sherlock straightened, the corner of his mouth twitching and demanding John's attention, lips quirking ever so slightly to the right. John swallowed.

"Be of assistance," was the only answer he received, said so casually, too casually to be of any solace. Before he could ask for further clarification, however, Sherlock was shifting, taking a half-step back and crouching in front of him. His face heated with the realization, splotches of color cropping up and sprinkling themselves over his jaw and cheeks. A mere second later Sherlock was reaching forward, his fingers against his belt, light touch grazing across the underlying fabric. Surprised and somehow dazed, his heart a hummingbird, John could to little else but stare, watch in muted fascination as Sherlock made quick work of his belt, fingers slipping down to undo his trousers, languidly dragging the zipper down its track. There was a twinge of his gut that told him to object but his tongue was fixed in its spot.

Sherlock's face angled toward his, his eyes flicking up to look through long eyelashes, and there was a sharp tug of his trousers that made John's breath hitch and weight sway. The fabric pooled above his knees and then, with another twitch of his lips, Sherlock's eyes were focused on his pants, black reflected in his irises—John could feel himself twitch in anticipation, his body betraying him, and Sherlock dragged a finger lazily along his clothed length, eliciting another twitch and a swallowed grunt. His hand swept to the left, fingertips dragging across John's bare thigh, leaving in their wake a flurry of gooseflesh, and his arousal ached at the loss of contact, no matter how brief.

Already Sherlock was making it increasingly difficult to focus on anything but his hands, long, stylized digits drawing idle, swirling designs over bared flesh with alternating pressure, gently and then firmly, teasing his nerve-endings to spit and sputter, fire sparking beneath his skin. He could feel his body aching to lean in, to encourage his touch with a slight, stuttering movement of his hips, but John refrained, trying desperately to remain still. He knew that if he lost himself then their encounter would be far more brief than preferred—there would be no regaining of control or dignity, no scraps of pride to collect and burrow in. As if Sherlock were aware of his struggle, the man leaned in, tilting his face to press a small, open-mouthed kiss to the edge of his inner thigh, half-way between his knee and arousal. John inhaled sharply, deeply, and Sherlock's mouth traveled further up, his neck straightening, a rising mop of dark curls and hot breath. Before John could reconsider loosening his hold on his restraint, Sherlock's hands were gripping either leg, his fingertips slipping beneath the line of his pants, firmly gripping his upper-thighs and butt, holding him in place. John's lips twitched into a tight line as Sherlock's teeth nipped at heated skin, his tongue darting out to sweep across and collect the color that stained him. He forced the breath through pursed lips and Sherlock shifted, his mouth skipping over his arousal and to his other leg to retrace its steps on uncharted territory.

John's hands twitched and his left stuttered toward Sherlock, coming to rest a top his head—the mouth against his skin stilled and he could feel him tense, his vertebrae straightening, but John's touch was light, existing solely to anchor, not to pressure, and in impulsive reassurance, John's fingers idly stroked his hair. He could feel Sherlock relax and then there was another nip to his inner thigh, a bite that was far harder than the his doubts had vanished, his focus solely on Sherlock, on the moment and his touch, his anxiety melting away beneath a fl John blinked, eyelids weighted, and his fingers curled into Sherlock's hair. Sherlock's mouth drew closer to his pants, his tongue and breath ghosting along the line of thin fabric—John could feel his heat, so delicious, so close, and his arousal twitched, jerked toward warm breath. He could feel Sherlock's nose brush against his pants as he shifted, dropping to his knees, and then there was another bout of heat—something in John's stomach shifted, squirmed, and he bit his lip, his eyes on Sherlock. The other man leaned forward and there was a touch of his tongue to the skin peaking beneath the line of his pants—the knot in John's stomach tightened and expanded—and he could feel his teeth graze his skin through the flimsy cotton, cotton that lifted a mere moment later, cool air rushing beneath its surface to wrap around his length. He swallowed hard, biting back a startled gasp that came anyway, a wet, squeak of a moan. His face heated and Sherlock shifted back, tugging on his pants before letting go, elastic snapping back into place to cause his hips to jerk against his touch. His skin burned and tingled and then Sherlock's mouth was retracing its course, hot kisses that made John's weight sway. urry of heat and want. Sherlock shifted and John could feel his breath again, hot and wet, and he tensed in anticipation, breath stuttering in his lungs, but instead of teeth against cotton John was rewarded with a slight brush of his lips against his covered length, a sweeping kiss designed solely to tease.

He swallowed against another groan and seemingly in reward, Sherlock's hands stirred, slid up and to the hem of his pants, fingers slipping beneath its line to pull the dark fabric down. In his shifting movement John caught a glimpse his lithe body, his own arousal half-hard, jutting from his body, and the sight caused John's erection to twitch as much as the electric anticipation filling the cool air did, his pants joining his trousers near his knees. Sherlock shifted forward and his view was lost, to be replaced by a dark head of hair hovering in front of his head, lips parting to blow a deliberate breath against swollen glands. John blew out a sharp breath of his own, eyes closing, sensation wrapping itself around him and leaking through his skin, burrowing under tissue to worm into his stomach.

The breath traveled across his erection, swirled down his length, and John could imagine Sherlock shifting, angling his face to ghost his breath across his arousal in its entirety—he opened his eyes to confirm the image, to imprint it in his mind, and then Sherlock's mouth was hovering in front of his head again. His grip on John's legs had returned, fingers pressing into his skin harder than before, forcing him to remain steady; John could feel as much as see Sherlock looking at his cock, the attention causing his skin to prickle and flush, his stomach quivering. Sherlock drew closer and then there was a slight, bare touch of his tongue against his slit, tentative and exploring, and John's cock jerked up, lips pursing against another unwanted moan. Sherlock had barely touched him, really, and already he felt himself slipping toward the edge, toeing its line with shaky balance and a racing heart.

He certainly hadn't been exaggerating, or so John thought absently—he really was good at this.

The thought was struck from his mind as Sherlock's lips brushed against the side of his length, his tongue dragging lightly against stuttering flesh, his cock twitching with each touch, aching and hot.

The moan came on its own accord, low and unyielding, sprouting from his lungs and into the air.

He blinked slowly and then Sherlock was in front of him again, his mouth opening, and he could see him lowering his lips toward his erection—tension lined every limb and then bliss crashed through his veins, wet warmth enveloping his head. Sherlock's tongue licked at the underside of swollen glands, his mouth swallowing more of his length, and John's fingers tightened around his hair. God—God that was amazing. Another moan crept into his throat but stayed there, wet and thick, and Sherlock swirled his tongue around his cock, eliciting a rushing fire, a roll of heat that crashed into his stomach.

Without realizing it, John had closed his eyes, color blossoming against black as Sherlock's mouth bobbed up and further down, lips pressing against untouched skin, the prickle of cold air quickly replaced by sheer heat. Sherlock sucked in and John could practically imagine the slant of his cheeks, cheek-bones further enunciated, and his right hand twitched forward blindly, coming into hesitant contact with his hairline. There was no pause, no tension, and John opened his eyes to find Sherlock's directed up, fixed on his. He inhaled sharply and then the moan was ripping itself from his throat, spilling unbridled into the air.

He could see full lips encircling his engorged member, storming blue-green irises focused solely on his. There was a deliberate brush of his tongue against his head, a touch that sent a hard chill rippling down John's spinal column to settle at the small of his back, his cock twitching appreciatively. His right hand slipped down, fingertips brushing against Sherlock's temple as the man's face bobbed up and then down again, pulling from him another small grunt, a rough keening noise he felt hopeless to control. His stomach tightened, pulling him closer to the edge, and he tried instead to focus on the feeling of Sherlock's skin against his fingertips, warm and soft—on the feeling of his hair as his left hand weaved into dark locks, silky curls that slid over slightly calloused skin to compliment each touch of his tongue. Eyes half-lidded, John's hips strained against Sherlock's grip, and Sherlock lowered his mouth in response, swallowing around his cock. His curls slid over his hand as his other fluttered down, fingertips tracing the curve of his face.

The words fell from his lips without conscious decision, impulsive and honest, a low, muttering growl: "Extraordinary—" his fingertips slid over the sharp swallow of his cheek and then further down, along the curve of his jaw, "—beautiful."

It was soundless, felt rather than heard, a noise reverberating through his counterpart's throat, its waves crashing into the heat consuming his stomach. John inhaled deeply, biting at his bottom lip again, and the wrinkle that had touched Sherlock's brow vanished—he sucked harder, sliding his mouth further down, nearly to the base of his erection. John's heart stuttered and then Sherlock was bobbing his head again, quicker than before, his mouth and tongue and teeth sweeping up in a flurry of movement to quickly swallow his length again, to envelop him in heat. John's fingers curled into his hair again, twisting around dark strands, and his hips rocked against his grip and into his mouth.

The pressure around his cock became more firm, teeth grazing against sensitive skin to send sparks skipping along his length and into his pelvis—he groaned lightly and his hand shifted down, to the back of Sherlock's head; almost unknowingly, John answered his challenge, fingers tightening, gently pulling on his hair to guide his mouth, to slow his pace into something more gentle and less maddening. Another noise plucked at his nerves, a low growl in Sherlock's throat, and John's right hand swept up to his hairline. The heat in his stomach was beginning to boil. It appeared Sherlock wanted it a bit rough, that he wanted to be controlled—his cock twitched at the idea and, after smoothing his fingers along Sherlock's forehead, John's touch swept down and to his nose.

Experimentally—tentatively—he held the tip of Sherlock's nose between his thumb and forefinger, gently closing his touch around his nostrils, pinching them closed—in sync with the movement the guiding touch to the back of Sherlock's head became lighter, giving him an out should he have misinterpreted the noise and an escape be needed. Sherlock didn't try to pull away. Instead, another noise answered John, a low, keening sort of moan, barely audible—felt rather than heard—and Sherlock guided his mouth further down his length, pushing himself onto his erection so that John's head touched the back of his throat.

Permission.

John's lips parted, his breathing ragged, and his touch became firm.

He gave Sherlock's hair a sharp but somehow gentle tug, his fingertips brushing against his scalp, leading his mouth up his length for breath—Sherlock complied, sucking in a greedy mouthful around the head of his cock, his eyes still focused on John's, sparking with want. John pressed against his head, his fingers tightening around his nose, and pushed Sherlock's mouth down his length—he rocked against him, touching the back of his throat with his head, and he could feel Sherlock's fingers tightening around his hips, throat constricting, swallowing around him. Another moan was torn from his chest and John held him there, heat lapping at his lungs.

He counted silently—waited ten seconds—and then pulled on Sherlock's hair, guiding his mouth further up, teasing him with the prospect of air much as Sherlock had teased him minutes before. Before Sherlock's lips widened, stretched around the head of his cock for air, John pressed against his scalp, guided him back down to the base of his cock. His throat convulsed around his arousal, struggling to relax again, and John kept his eyes on his, his cock twitching as Sherlock half-swirled his tongue around him. Fifteen seconds then and he gave Sherlock's hair another small tug, loosening his grip, guiding him up his length to take another breath.

Much like before Sherlock's inhale was loud and greedy, his body preparing itself, and John licked his lips. He inhaled three times, exhaling twice, before John pressed against the back of his head, guiding his mouth down. He tugged on Sherlock's hair, encouraging his head to bob up and down four times before he pressed more firmly, guiding full lips to the base of his cock.

John began to count again. One second. Two seconds. His eyes swept across Sherlock's expression, over the hard lines of his nose and brow, across the curves and angles of his cheeks. Twelve seconds. He met Sherlock's eyes, mesmerized by churning blue and green, Persian and cerulean mixed with specks of citrine and emerald, eyes blown open with want. Nineteen seconds. His fingers twisted around Sherlock's hair and his lungs were filled with steam. Twenty six seconds. Sherlock's tongue pressed against the underside of his his cock, lapping at sensitive skin and another shiver skittered down his vertebrae. He inhaled deeply, Sherlock's fingers twitching against his skin. Thirty nine seconds. John licked his lips and then he could feel Sherlock's throat constricting, pushing against the intrusion as his lungs ached for air. Forty four seconds. Sherlock's eyes slipped closed, dark eyelashes settling on high cheek-bones. He did not try to withdraw or pull away and two seconds later his throat relaxed again. John swallowed a groan, his cock throbbing appreciatively. Fifty three seconds. Sherlock's right hand stirred, dropping from his hip to touch the inside of his inner thigh, his eyes opening as his fingertips made contact. Liquid fire coursed through his veins and Sherlock's touch fluttered over his testicles. Sixty seven seconds. John's own eyes slipped shut and Sherlock gently massaged swollen glands, his throat constricting again—seventy two seconds. John's grip loosened around his hair. He was giving Sherlock another out but the man didn't seize it—seventy nine seconds passed. And then eighty. Eighty one. Eighty two. He could feel Sherlock's throat convulsing around his cock, struggling to suppress his gag reflex, feel the stuttering of his lungs as he exhaled and fought the urge to inhale, to choke himself—eighty four seconds. God that felt amazing—he could feel his muscles tightening around him, pressing against him just so. John gave his hair a sharp tug, far harder than the last, and pushed his hips back, forcing Sherlock to withdraw as he opened his eyes. A sunset had painted itself across Sherlock's expression, sea-shell pinks and coral roses dribbled over his cheeks and forehead, a rise of color that made John's breath catch. Sherlock drew in a greedy breath—and then another—his breathing ragged—as he opened his eyes to peer up at John, his hand dropping from his testicles.

His eyes were nearly black.

John let out a sharp, stuttering breath of his own, his cock twitching at the loss of contact, bobbing pitifully. His fingers loosened their grip and his fingertips gently touched Sherlock's scalp, a sweeping apology. His other hand moved from Sherlock's nose to gently trail across the curve of his face, a sparking contradiction of his previous touch. Perhaps it was his imagination again but he could have sworn Sherlock leaned into the touch, sought it out with a slight fluttering of his eyelids and a twitch of his lips.

And then Sherlock was trying to lean forward again, to take him in his mouth—the corners of John's mouth quirked up and a quiet, "Eager, aren't we?" slipped from his lips. Sherlock's eyes narrowed a fraction of a breath in a silent reply and then John's fingers had returned to the tip of his nose, forcing him to take in a final inhale through his mouth before guiding his head down with his other hand, fingers threading through his hair. He guided Sherlock's head down slowly, encouraging him to swallow around each part of his cock before moving to the next, his tongue massaging the underside of his arousal. Sherlock's eyes were fixed unwaveringly on his and John let out a breath of a moan, the heat in his stomach twisting and tightening, waves of pleasure crashing into his abdomen. He pressed Sherlock's mouth further down, until his cock was fully enveloped by wet warmth, and then gave his hair a quick jerk, drawing him up his length—another moan, unbridled, expanded in his lungs, and he swallowed against it, guiding Sherlock's head toward the base of his erection again, more quickly now, forcing Sherlock to fuck him with his mouth. There was a stifled nose, something akin to a chortle, as Sherlock's throat worked to compensate the intrusion, working around him as his head bobbed up and down—up and down—throat convulsing. He swallowed against him and the moan was tore from John's throat. Amazing. He was amazing. And three thrusts later, John rewarded Sherlock with another mouthful of air, tugging gently on his hair to withdraw his cock from his mouth—Sherlock seized the release, gulping in a quick, hard breath, before John guided his mouth to his cock again.

Sherlock had yet to look away and a thrill of pleasure trickled from their silent connection and surged down his vertebrae.

"Amazing," John muttered, earning a quiet groan that reverberated through and up his length to the base of his cock. "You're amazing."

He pressed against the back of Sherlock's skull, guiding him to swallow him whole, and began counting again. One second—two—Sherlock half-swirled his tongue against his length and tightened his lips, pressing them fully against throbbing veins—six seconds—already his throat was convulsing, lungs robbed too quickly of their attempt to draw in air, and John jutted his hips forward. Ten seconds and Sherlock's teeth scraped against his length, skin absorbing the tickle of pain and shooting it up into his stomach, practically punching him, and he let out a whimpering sort of moan. Sherlock blinked and then did it again, deliberately then, and seventeen seconds had passed when John swallowed against another moan, the pain buried under an avalanche of pleasure. The knot in his stomach pressed down, tightening, and John gave Sherlock's hair a sharp jerk—sharper than intended—suddenly very and maddeningly close.

His cheeks darkened and he averted his eyes, fingers idly stroking through his hair in a silent apology.

Sherlock turned his head and pulled back. John let go without complaint, a sudden rush of anxiety coursing through his veins, of self-consciousness and embarrassment. He could see Sherlock move to his feet in his peripheral—he turned to look at the other, his hands reflexively moving to his trousers and pants, to tug combined fabric up and over his erection—but before his hands could jerk upward, Sherlock's fingers were wrapped around his wrists, cutting the movement in its tracks. Their eyes met and the knot of arousal in his stomach jumped up to punch his left lung. He let out a skittering breath and Sherlock smiled.

He stepped closer to him, his fingers tightening around his wrists, twisting to touch either pulse-point.

John swallowed thickly and then Sherlock's face was angling, tilting and leaning forward to press his mouth against his neck.

He sucked in a deep breath and Sherlock's lips trailed up and to the juncture of his jaw; the feeling of his breath against faint hair caused a shiver to wiggle from his head to his toes—John's eyes fluttered shut and then reopened, his arousal twitching pathetically.

"Come now John," Sherlock practically purred, his mouth switching to his earlobe, lips gently tickling sensitive flesh, "is that all you've got?" The corner of John's mouth twitched up as he scoffed. "How... disappointing," he continued, dragging out the third syllable. "Hardly an impressive start." To add insult to injury, Sherlock bit at John's earlobe, gooseflesh erupting in a spiral around his neck and earning another twitch from his aching cock. "Perhaps we should rethink this arrangement?"

It was an empty threat—obvious—Sherlock's own body betraying him, his cock hard and pressing into John's upper-groin, brushing against his lower stomach as John twisted his wrists in Sherlock's grip, reversing their fortune; his embarrassment had been swallowed by the challenge, by the heated adrenaline twisting around his arousal. He quickly stepped back and spun on his heel—only just compensating for the lag of his trousers—pushing Sherlock back and to the nearby wall. He earned little more than a short laugh for his efforts, a smirk touching the line of Sherlock's mouth: "Finally rising to the occasion, I see," he muttered.

John said nothing, choosing instead to pin Sherlock's hands to the wall, his own knuckles grating against plaster.

"Maybe I should put that pretty mouth of yours to use again?" he countered, leaning his weight against the other man to keep him pinned. He shifted his footing, his knee jutting out to lodge between either of Sherlock's legs to better secure his position. He kept his posture straight, back erect, legs bent—not locked. He could feel Sherlock's cock twitch against his stomach, tugging at his jumper. "You're doing far too much talking."

Sherlock's expression darkened at the idea, his mouth straightening, lips parting.

John seized his opportunity, leaning forward to press his lips against Sherlock's collarbone. He started with a tentative kiss, teasing, and then trailed his lips across his jutting clavicle, his tongue sweeping across its ridges. Sherlock's skin tasted of soap. He gave the edge of his collarbone a gentle bite, smoothing the mark with his tongue afterward.

---

He discovered several things as they made their way across the living room and into his bedroom: the juncture below Sherlock's ear was hypersensitive, eliciting a breathy sort of moan that bordered on laughter; a deliberate touch of his lips and tongue to his Adam's apple invoked a knee-jerk reaction of his hips jutting up and against John's (a theory John had tested three separate times); and clamping his hands around either of Sherlock's hips to push him back and against the wall, to rut his hips into his or ravish his neck, earned a low growl and his nails against his back. Sherlock, it seemed, genuinely enjoyed being dominated. And John found himself enjoying being the one to dominate, to strip another of their defenses and make that person quake with lust.

Somewhere along their path to his bedroom, Sherlock had proven how clever his hands could be, a trail of clothing appearing in their wake almost unnoticed by the doctor.

It was at the foot of his bed that Sherlock managed to partially untangle himself, placing what felt like solid air between them. John gave him an impatient look that bordered irritation, Sherlock's arms locked between them to hold him off.

"Look," Sherlock said simply, his breathing the sort of uneven only a doctor could notice. There was a slight jerk of his head to the left and John resisted the urge to roll his eyes as his gaze swept toward the expected bed, catching instead on the rucksack placed carefully on its end. Sherlock had managed his way into John's bedroom without him noticing—the idea no longer bothered him.

"Open it," he prompted.

John pressed his lips together but did as asked, a seed of curiosity carefully disguised as impatience sprouting. Taking the bag in hand, John unzipped its flap, taking in its contents: a carefully labeled bottle of personal lubricant, a thin, black strap, and a bundle of rope. His eyebrows twitched. Sherlock had assumed he would change his mind—what would have happened if John had held his ground and then happened upon this bag? Yelling and another attempt at persuasion, he imagined. He looked to Sherlock, who was watching him carefully with blown eyes, and easily decided he liked this ending better.

John pulled the bottle of lubricant from the bag and tossed it haphazardly onto the bed—the rope followed—and then he picked up the leather strap which, or so he then discovered, was a collar, its silver buckle catching the light. A wave of uncertainty lapped at his arousal and his eyes found Sherlock's.

Before he could speak, Sherlock quietly muttered, "I believe I would like it."

John licked his lips, wondering if Sherlock's previous master had ever made him wear such an ornament.

"Why—I mean—?"

Sherlock's mouth twitched into a thin line and then, with a slight lift of his chin, he interrupted, "I trust you."

John swallowed, knowing his reply but remaining quiet for a long moment, weighing the leather in his hand, his fingers absently flicking across its edge. Finally, he wordlessly fumbled with the clasp, undoing it before looking to Sherlock again. He gave him a short nod and then Sherlock was turning around. Carefully, John looped the collar over his head and around his neck, pressing the leather to pale skin. The contrast was startling. His stomach flipped and he slipped the end through the clasp, slipping his pinky between the nape of his neck and the collar before putting the pin in place. Slipping his finger from beneath the collar, John's touch skirted across the small, dark hairs trailing from his hairline before both hands fell to his sides.

Sherlock turned, head angled so that he was looking at John through his eyelashes.

John blew out a deep breath, his eyes lingering on his collar, on his mark, before skirting across Sherlock's face.

His stomach flipped again and his cock gave an appreciative twitch at the look in Sherlock's eyes, raw and predatory.

"The bed—" John instructed quietly, "—on your back."

Sherlock searched his face before doing as instructed, stepping toward the bed once and then turning so that the back of his legs touched the mattress. He blindly fell backward and onto the mattress, his body bouncing and then dipping, causing John's heart to stutter and stomach drop. John moved closer to gently trail his fingertips across his knee, his eyes lingering on Sherlock's half-hard cock. His fingers twitched and his touch retracted.

He thought for a moment before bringing his eyes to Sherlock's and saying, "Hands above your head."

Sherlock wordlessly obeyed, shifting to lay on the bed properly and easily slipping lithe hands between the slots of his headboard.

Grabbing the rope from beside Sherlock's leg, John rounded the side of the bed, making quick work of binding Sherlock's wrists. He chose a military knot. He could hear the predictable in Sherlock's barely audible hitch of breath when his fingertips brushed skin.

When the rope was properly secured and Sherlock's wrists stationary, John straightened to command, "Tug."

Sherlock gave his wrists a sharp tug, wriggling against the restraints—they held—and John nodded absently in approval, very aware of Sherlock's gaze picking him apart. He forced himself to keep his feet flat against the floor, legs nearly locked, steady and unmoving. His eyes swept down to meet his and another rush of warmth added to the heat simmering in his stomach. There was something breathtaking about Sherlock lying there, a collection of stardust against green sheets, a strange, shimmering sort of contradiction. John's arousal twitched and so did the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

It was a breathless sort of smirk that spurred John into movement.

He looked away and cleared his throat, moving to grab the bottle of lubricant.

He moved onto the bed, his fall far more deliberate than Sherlock's, more stiff—thought out—less careless and elegant.

John was laying on his side, the arm and hand clutching the bottle of lubricant carefully cradled between their bodies, not quite touching, his elbow tucked beneath his own side. He lifted his other hand, his touch hovering above Sherlock's cock; his eyes traced the veins standing against pale flesh as his arousal twitched at the proposal, growing before his eyes, blood rushing forward in an attempt to urge contact. John swallowed and shifted his hand, fingertips instead ghosting against his navel, tickling the small trail of hair leading to his stomach. He could see the flex of muscles, Sherlock's body instinctively tensing, and then their eyes caught again.

It was a bit silly, his next realization.

There was a step, wholly natural and automatic, often taken for granted, which they had skipped—in their dance of hands and hips and tongues, they had forgotten the simple, sensual connection that was a kiss. Nothing more, nothing less. And so John shifted up and forward, his arm straightening to lift him slightly from the mattress so that he could lean over Sherlock.

As he closed his eyes, leaning in and down, his nose pressed against Sherlock's cheek.

He startled, brow flinching, eyes opening and neck straightening.

"I don't kiss," said Sherlock flatly. His face was as emotionless as his face. "Not on the lips."

John's eyebrows pinched at their center, a statement of his disbelief. He shook his head, a scoff falling past parted lips. "You don't—" he blinked, searching Sherlock's face. "You don't what?"

Sherlock's lips puckered into a grimace. He dragged the words out, repeating them slowly—too slowly—each syllable dripping with patronization, with an underlying obvious. "I don't kiss on the lips."

John's eyebrows crawled upward. He had heard him right—and Sherlock's expression was deadpanned, irritated—he was serious. Just minutes ago Sherlock had been gagging around his cock and yet now he was unwilling to press their mouths together? To kiss?

The word came on its own accord, loud and cutting.

"Why?"

And an obvious mistake, as the moment it had fallen into the air, Sherlock's expression had darkened, features becoming forced. Stiff. The corners of John's mouth turned down and he fumbled out an apologetic, "I just don't understand."

Sherlock tried to manage a shrug but his shoulders were tense, arms fixed firmly above his head.

"You don't need to," he said simply.

Following impulse, John leaned into him again, his palm flat against Sherlock's abdomen. He could feel the other tense beneath his touch but he didn't try to shift away or shrug him off—he didn't object. Something hard and possessive had already wedged itself near his heart and Sherlock met his eyes, his gaze challenging. John stared unblinkingly back. Seconds slipped through his fingers, his eyes searching his, mind attempting to process the statement for what it was. He knew, somehow, that he could force Sherlock if he wanted to. He could take his preference, his objection, and chuck it. And there was something about the way that Sherlock's eyes followed his, followed the trailing sort of flicker, and how the line of his lips relaxed that told John he would let him.

He would behave if John chose to ignore his wishes.

He owed him that much—had said it himself.

This was a form of repayment.

Little else.

And yet it was everything.

John's eyes returned to his. More words pressed themselves against his lips, pointless and babbling and confused—and as if sensing that they would be nothing but nonsense, Sherlock's expression shifted, changed again. The moment had passed. He knew—could read it on John's face—that while he was hesitant to drop the subject, there would be no forced intimacy, no demanding lips and a plunging tongue against his own.

The notch of Sherlock's hip bumped deliberately against his erection when he shifted.

John inhaled sharply, the words dying on his tongue.

He left his mark on Sherlock.

There were several splotches of color along his throat.

Three blossoming bruises on his chest.

Six more sprinkled around his lower abdomen, trailing to his hips—smudges of pink that were slowly and simultaneously darkening and brightening.

Two on his left inner thigh.

John had deliberately skipped over the bit of anatomy that begged for his attention, that stood proudly then in solute, drawing his eyes into focus and a tongue across his bottom lip.

Sherlock had yet to make a noise—had yet to let out a single moan.

It would have been absolutely infuriating if not for the almost peaceful look touching his features—almost peaceful. There was a bit of strain along his brow, his eyes half-lidded and peering down at where John had managed to plant himself between his legs, laying on his stomach with his fingers drawing sightless lines against the sprinkling of hair leading to the sides of his right knee. That underlying strain—John recognized it. It pulled at him, added to the heat rupturing his lungs, to the arousal that touched each breath. He shifted, drawing himself further up the mattress, situating himself further between Sherlock's legs and prompting him to spread them, bottle of lubricant deposited carelessly beside Sherlock's left knee. Sherlock spread his legs to grant John further access and then there was a flurry of tongue and teeth and lips against sensitive flesh, a mixture of delicate, teasing kisses and playful nips. As his mouth neared the juncture of his thigh and groin, he felt Sherlock shiver, his body twitching beneath him. John sucked gently on soft skin, lightly grazing his teeth against oversensitive nerves. There was a slight hitch of breath from his counterpart. John couldn't be certain—it was possible that it was imagined—and so he switched to Sherlock's other leg and repeated his ministrations, moving to lick at the skin along the fold of his pelvis, his breath close to Sherlock's arousal, teasing, and then there was another hitch of breath and a stuttering sort of exhale followed.

John smiled against his skin and then he was withdrawing, shifting so that he was propped up by his elbows, his eyes on Sherlock's.

"Legs spread further," he instructed, "and knees up."

There was a bit of a spark, a twitch of Sherlock's features that John couldn't quite describe, and his legs moved to close.

He was challenging him again. Testing him. Something inside of John flared and he blocked the movement with firm hands against either knee. He didn't say anything. Without knowing how he knew, John knew words would be pointless—if anything, they would only encourage Sherlock's disobedience. And so he let go of one of Sherlock's eyes and delivered a sharp swat to the inside of his right thigh, against the slowly developing splotches of color. He could see Sherlock swallow, his arousal twitching, and his legs moved to close again. John gave him another swat, a bit harder than the last, his skin barely changing color. The second swat was followed in quick succession by a third and then a fourth—Sherlock's legs stayed parted, his lips pressed together in a slight line, and John was careful to keep his eyes on his as his hand shifted, his touch hovering above swollen testicles.

"Legs spread further," he repeated, his voice low, drenched in arousal, "and knees up."

Sherlock swallowed again but did not move.

John brought his hand down, firmly swatting at sensitive glands—there was a involuntary jerk of his body, a fraction of a moan tearing itself from his throat, and John moved to swat the inside of his left thigh. He gave him four quick swats, earning another fraction of a moan—a whimpering sort of noise that caught itself in his larynx and refused to relinquish itself.

"I won't repeat myself again," John muttered, ending the last syllable with another firm swat to Sherlock's testicles.

There was another jerk of his body and an extended noise, an unbridled moan that lasted for no longer than a second and a half, a noise that underlined the contradicting pain and pleasure. John's erection jerked against the mattress and he resisted pressing his hips into his sheets, his body craving friction. Sherlock willingly spread his legs, then, knees bending, lifting into the air, his lips parted and expression heady with want.

John found himself mirroring it as he shifted, blindly reaching for the lubricant as he slid up and into a crossed-leg position between Sherlock's legs. "Good boy," he praised, a bit of teasing lacing his tone, fingertips smoothing themselves over the light pink touching his inner thighs. Sherlock shivered. He leaned to the side and pressed a gentle, chaste kiss to the inside of his right knee, easily flicking open the bottle's cap. He looked to his hands as he squirted a liberal amount of lubricant onto his fingers. He closed it by pressing it against his stomach and dropped it haphazardly onto the bed, rubbing his fingers together to warm the liquid with friction. His eyes were on Sherlock's again, turning away only to glance at his entrance, to carefully position his fingers, hand hovering as their eyes met. He pressed his index finger against Sherlock's hole, easily sliding it into the first knuckle. There was a slight twitch of Sherlock's right eyebrow, a subtle sign of discomfort, but nothing else—John slid his finger further in, pressing into him until he devoured his second knuckle. He shifted his wrist so that his palm was up and a muscle along Sherlock's jaw twitched.

Twisting his finger a bit, John pumped his finger out and then back in, jolting forward—Sherlock inhaled sharply but remained otherwise quiet. His touch withdrew so that he could add another finger, pushing in more slowly than before, his eyes searching Sherlock's. The air against his own arousal tingled and anticipation tugged his hand forward.

It took considerably longer for John to press two fingers into him, to his second knuckles, than just one—but then he was slowly pumping his fingers in and out of him, the warmth spreading up his hand and shooting through his arm and body to pour into his stomach. He swallowed thickly, licking his lips, and began scissoring his fingers a bit, doing his best to stretch the other man. Sherlock's cock jerked and John jolted his fingers forward again, pressing them in as far as they could go. There was another hitch of breath, Sherlock's eyes seemingly black, and John rolled his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He pulled his fingers out to add a third finger, a process longer than the last, Sherlock's expression touched by a slight grimace. John took his time, knowing that he could afford to prepare the other man as well as he could—Sherlock certainly wasn't going anywhere.

He prepared Sherlock for few seconds longer before his touch withdrew, a knot working its way into his chest—a nervous sort of anticipation—and then he was reaching for the bottle of lubricant again.

His hands were steady despite his trickling anxiety as he opened the bottle and squirted more lubricant onto his fingers. He simultaneously shifted up and onto his knees, his cock jutting forward, and rubbed his fingers together before palming his own erection, pressing the cap against his stomach to close it. He swallowed down a moan, his body welcoming the contact, and gave his cock two quick jerks, dropping the lubricant near Sherlock's side. He could see Sherlock's eyes focused on his erection and then he gave himself a more teasing sort of jerk, his hand twisting around his cock to thoroughly coat flushed skin, a bit of precome spreading.

He couldn't remember the last time he had been so aroused—and all because of Sherlock, the brilliant mad man he had found on the street. The knot in his chest jumped up and into his throat and then John was shifting further forward, his fingers pressing into Sherlock again to better coat him—just a quick tease of a movement—and he was clearing his throat in an attempt to find his voice. "Feet up," he ordered, his hands looping under his legs to grab the outside of his thighs. Sherlock didn't challenge him then, his lips still parted, and he instead did as instructed, lifting his legs into the air—John shifted, moving forward so that Sherlock could rest his calves against his shoulders.

He asked if he was ready, not with words, but with a searching look of confirmation—there was a fluttering sort of blink and then John was leaning in and down, angling himself over top of Sherlock and simultaneously drawing his hips up to position himself at his entrance. His head easily found wet warmth and a hard, steamroller of a shiver shot down his spine. As he shifted, so did Sherlock, lifting his legs a bit higher so that the inside of his knees were nearly draped over John's shoulders, legs drawing him closer in preparation. John steadied himself with Sherlock's hips for a bit longer, pressing into him—barely—just enough to keep his cock where it was—and then his hands were moving to brace his weight on the mattress, a low moan bubbling up his throat. Fire licked at his stomach, lava trickling down into his arousal, and John pressed further in, his eyes on Sherlock's.

Sherlock was breathtaking.

Absolutely and completely, extraordinarily beautiful; his eyelids were half-lidded, eyes barely focusing on his, pupils blown open—his skin was flushed, a pastel sunset painting itself across the high-spots of his cheeks and melting down to touch parted lips. He was gorgeous and warm and wet and oh, John pressed in a bit further, going as slow as he could manage, a knot forming at the small of his back, his body fighting with itself. Instinct encouraged him to jut his hips forward, to push in as hard and as fast as he could but he turned his fingers into the sheets, gripping tightly, and kept his pace steady. He forced himself to remain go slow despite the ache in the back of his thighs and boiling encouragement rushing through his stomach.

Sherlock licked his lips and then there was a low, breathless sort of moan that sounded more like a growl than anything else and just as John was processing it, Sherlock was shifting, jutting his own his forward and simultaneously up and down into John's own, spearing himself onto his cock. John's own hips reflexively jerked forward and then he was in Sherlock completely and oh God if that wasn't magnificent and Sherlock was obviously in pain, his discomfort drawing lines across his forehead and pinching the corners of his mouth but fuck and John was moaning and bloody Hell. He let out a stuttering exhale, his moan drawn out but fading, and forced himself to keep his hips still, leaning his weight onto his knees and one arm so that he could reach up and gingerly touch the curve of Sherlock's neck, anchor him in place—tether them together.

"You're okay," he muttered roughly, the words sheer instinct, "I've got you."

Sherlock's brow flinched, smoothing and then creasing again, but he said nothing, instead letting out a deliberate breath of his own, a hissing sort of exhale as his eyes slipped shut.

There were several seconds of silence and John could feel Sherlock relaxing around his cock and his arousal throbbed—he let out a sigh of a moan, his fingertips smoothing the curve of Sherlock's throat.

Sherlock's eyes were opened, then, and John barely realized he had closed his own at one point, and then Sherlock was shifting, rolling his hips up and into his.

The action was completely experimental and John could tell that there was still considerable discomfort, but he could feel Sherlock's cock bump his abdomen, jutting proudly between their bodies, and so he experimented himself, lifting his hips to slowly pull out and then push back in. Laval flooded his veins and another shiver skipped down each of his vertebrae. He found himself shifting closer to Sherlock, pressing in further, as far as he could, his body leaning down to sandwich Sherlock's cock between them. His head dipped down, forehead brushing the line of Sherlock's jaw, and he pulled out to thrust back inside of him, a bit quicker than before. Sherlock's body jerked beneath his and there was a low, unbridled moan then, their bodies providing him with a delicious sort of friction. John shifted a top of him so that he could better see the other man, their eyes locking as he lifted up and then thrust back into him. His movements were a bit jerky but gentle, his willpower battling with his instinct.

Sherlock's lips were pursed, Adam's apple bobbing excessively, but his expression remained otherwise unchanged—focused, stoic, and a bit unnerving. John repeated the movement, his arousal swelling, eyes becoming half-lidded at the feeling of his slave around him. Sherlock shifted again, pushing his hips into John's, another sign of impatience, and so the next thrust came quicker, harder, and elicited a choked gasp, a noise he was undoubtedly trying to keep to himself.

John turned his face to press a chaste kiss to Sherlock's chin before their eyes locked again.

He pulled out and pushed in, hard, and let out a low, short moan of his own.

"Amazing," he muttered, breathless. "You feel amazing."

"Far too much talking," Sherlock managed, his voice a bit strained but low, rough.

The corner of John's mouth twitched and he pulled out to thrust back into him, the movement quicker, harder—he was grappling with his control and coming up short.

Sherlock was so tight and warm and God that was amazing—John thrust into him again, harder, and Sherlock let out a whimpering sort of moan. Groaning, John began working toward a slow, consistent rhythm, white-hot bliss coursing through his veins. Their bodies slid against one another, sweat painting their skin, and John's other hand found the duvet, tightening around fabric as Sherlock regained his leverage, pushing his hips up and into his. Shifting slightly, John jutted his hips down, and then Sherlock's body was tensing beneath his, trying to arch against him as his prostate throbbed. He felt as if Sherlock was simultaneously trying to bring himself closer and escape, wriggle away; John lifted himself up a bit, moving so that he could properly look at Sherlock, commit his expression to memory as he drove himself into him.

He was no longer focused.

He had lost the battle himself, his lips parted and throat bared, a crease marking the bridge of his nose as his eyelids squeezed shut.

John leaned in as he thrust up, grinding against Sherlock, and closed his eyes, pressing his lips against his.

It was but a brush of lips, a touch borne from instinct, from pleasure and sentiment. He wanted to be as close to Sherlock as possible, to burrow under his skin and stay there. Nonsense, all nonsense.

Sherlock's lips were unmoving but compliant beneath his—soft in an uncertain sort of way. His movements were precise, deliberate—gentle—lips puckering slightly around Sherlock's bottom lip. A soft, chaste kiss that announced everything he wanted but knew he couldn't have. He touched his tongue to Sherlock's bottom lip but when no permission was granted, he pulled away only to unknowingly bring Sherlock with him, the other man straining against his restraints to chase John's lips with his own. There, there was his answer, Sherlock's lips stirring against his own, slotting easily against his. There was a touch of tongue to his bottom lip and John answered with an eager movement, their mouths a sharp contradiction of their bodies, of the friction between them as John continued to pound into him. There was a moan—be it from Sherlock or himself, John was uncertain—and then John was exploring the cavern of his mouth, savoring his taste, heart pounding in his ears.

Maybe he wasn't as doomed as he thought.

John carefully lowered his face, guiding Sherlock's head to his pillows, his fingers curling against his neck, tucking between warm skin and the mattress. The fire was quickly consuming him, sparks of electricity skittering through his limbs and swirling in his stomach, shooting to his arousal. Sherlock's discomfort, his pain, had melted into pleasure and it was so obvious then as he bucked up and into John as best as he could with each thrust, breathing shallow and uneven, falling into his mouth and filling his lungs. There was the occasional whimper, a keening noise or moan and damn it if each noise didn't push John closer to that edge, a knot cropping up and pressing hard against the pits of his stomach, the pressure almost unbearable.

Sherlock wiggled his hips beneath him and their lips disconnected.

John found Sherlock's eyes with his own before he abruptly stilled, wanting more, needing more, needing to be closer and was that even possible? He pulled out and Sherlock whimpered, his expression shifting into some semblance of a pout—he wasn't the only one invested, then. Sherlock needed this too. John shifted, moving to his knees so that Sherlock's legs could fall around his body. He was quick, eager, and then Sherlock's legs were settling on either side of his hips, looping around him as he repositioned himself, breathing ragged in his ears. He pushed in, easier then, leaning over Sherlock and trapping his erection better between their bodies, precome smearing against his abdomen as he covered Sherlock and thrust into him. Sherlock wiggled his hips beneath his again, his legs nearly wrapping around him, wrists straining against his bonds, and John worked to find a steady pace. One hand settled against Sherlock's side and the other managed to tangle itself in his hair, just moments before he caught his lips with his again. Their second kiss was considerably more ardent than their last, a clash of teeth and tongues, walls crumbling to leave them unrestrained. John brought his legs closer to Sherlock's body and then Sherlock was jerking beneath him again, pleasure washing over his form; John brought his hips up and slammed back into him, harder then, and Sherlock's lips slid from his, his throat baring as he pressed his head against the pillow and moaned.

He was almost quivering and if that wasn't the most delicious, amazing feeling—sight—sound—everything John had known then what was?

"Amazing," he repeated, barely aware of the word falling from his lips and into the air. "Fucking amazing."

His eyes devoured Sherlock's expression, tracing the tight line of his mouth, the gentle dip of his cupid's brow, sliding up and over the arch of defined cheek-bones to his furrowed brow. His lips were parting then, mouth opening into a definite O and he could feel him tightening around him and oh God. John let out a low moan, unbridled and muffled to his own ears, drowned by his blood rushing and his heart pounding and he was shifting just slightly to slip a hand between their bodies, his fingers quickly wrapping around Sherlock's abandoned cock. Sherlock's moan mixed with his own and John twisted his hand around him, jerking up and then back down and the fire in his veins was too much, too much and oh fuck he was close—

Sherlock jerked beneath him, body straining against his, simultaneously lifting and pressing itself into the mattress as his cock throbbed in John's hand, his entrance tightening as come splattered John's abdomen. He tried to focus, tried to watch Sherlock and lock that expression away, keep it forever but he was right there and Sherlock was so wonderful and tight and fuck—he thrust into him again, hard, his face slamming down and into Sherlock's shoulder, teeth gnashing at skin as he came with an uncontrolled moan. John pounded into him a few more times, riding out his orgasm, his hand jerking in a stuttering sort of motion between their bodies to drag out Sherlock's—the movement was an afterthought, inconsistent with the slam of his hips, but Sherlock was still moaning beneath him, wiggling and bucking as if he were trying to escape from the onslaught of sensation and fuck. Everything was a white-wash of pleasure, of more, and please and Sherlock, the man's name falling from John's lips in mock-worship, syllables twisted with pleasure.

His hand slowed and then stilled, his hips following but a moment later, and John's mouth disconnected from alabaster skin—a quick glance to a quickly blossoming bruise and he delivered a chaste, apologetic kiss to broken capillaries before turning his face in and tucking into Sherlock's neck.

He shifted, his body still covering Sherlock's own, but hand sliding away from his weeping erection.

Heat radiated from his core in waves, an intense afterglow, and John pressed his lips to Sherlock's pulse-point. He lifted his face to look at Sherlock, to seek out a mirrored expression of pleasure and relaxation but then Sherlock was talking and it was wrong, all wrong.

"Sorry," Sherlock muttered, eyes closed, his eyebrows pushed together, forehead wrinkled—strained. The word was breathless, quiet—completely unexpected, firmly tugging John from the afterglow of his orgasm and to the bed, to Sherlock—grounding him. His eyebrows lifted on their own accord and he gave Sherlock a surveying glance; Sherlock's face was a light pink, a mixture of embarrassment and exertion, and as if to confirm the former, another broken apology fell from his lips: "Sorry—" a pause and then, "I shouldn't have but—I—sorry—" John cut him off with a soft, "Shh—Sherlock, shh," his fingers trailing from Sherlock's knotted hair and to the line of his forehead. He slipped from Sherlock's body with a slight grimace, sensitive tissue throbbing, and found himself shifting to comfort the other, his other hand reaching up and toward his face. The movement had spurred Sherlock's eyes to open, expression puckered, almost confused, and then John's hands were cupping either cheek, fingertips burrowing again into his hairline. "Why are you—" he stopped. It didn't matter why Sherlock was apologizing, what had provoked the dancing opposition, had coaxed him to be timid—not right then, at least. Why could come later. John continued with softer words, eyes searching his face in an attempt to convey concern, "—don't. Don't apologize." A hesitant, small smile and, "It's fine. What ever it is—it's fine." Another pause, his fingertips stroking his skin, smoothing the high arches of either cheekbone and then, "You're okay."

That assurance seemed to bring Sherlock to the present, much as his initial apology had brought John—it seemed to ground him, to remind him of his surroundings and even himself as his expression smoothed, hardened into a stoic mask.

John knew it to be a mask, knew it to be a cover—it was too abrupt to be anything but.

Sherlock gave him a short nod and shifted beneath him, clearing his throat.

"Of course," he drawled smoothly, his eyes surveying John in return. "I know."

John's brow furrowed then, wrinkled at its center, and he gave Sherlock a blatantly confused look.

But still, hesitantly, John gave a corresponding nod and then shifted, withdrew some to move to the bed beside Sherlock instead of constantly covering his body with his. Sherlock gave a deliberate jerk of his restraints and then him a pointed look; the corner of John's mouth twitched and he shifted, moving to untie him. It was easy, undoing the knots. Automatic. Practiced. Done in a but a few seconds and then Sherlock was sitting up, his back imprinted with the creases of his duvet, wrists branded with the fading marks of rope. John wordlessly reached forward and took Sherlock's wrist in his hand, smoothing the marks with his fingertips.

Sherlock pulled away and John's lips pressed together, his eyes sweeping up to settle on his.

The word fell on its own accord, sharp and uncertain: "Sorry."

Sherlock said nothing, instead flexing his fingers a bit and rolling his wrists, his eyes turning down to his hands. John locked his jaw. There was a twitch of his lips as he sucked his tongue to the roof of his mouth and then added, "Are you okay?"

Sherlock's reply was short, clipped—flat.

"Fine."

John swallowed, knowing he should be accustomed to the tone by then but unable to suppress the flinch of his brow at its distance. He turned to toss the rope to the floor and when he looked back to Sherlock, rolling onto his back—the other man was moving from the bed and to his feet.

"Where are you going?"

He could see the lines of Sherlock's back tense as he stilled, hesitating where he was.

Softening his voice, John repeated the question: "Where are you going?"

Sherlock turned his face to the side, looking at John through his peripheral: "Obvious," he muttered, the lines of his shoulders still taut: "To clean up."

It took but a moment for John to weigh Sherlock's words. Instinct told him that if Sherlock were to leave his bedroom at that very moment it was unlikely he would be seen until the morning—if then. And everything in his body at that very moment rebelled against that idea, pushing the word from his mouth and into the air: "Stay."

Sherlock's head twitched further toward John.

"What?"

Sitting up so that his weight was suspended on bent arms, elbows pressed into the mattress, John offered a fleeting smile and, "I thought you hated repetition." As teasing as the remark was, it came with an attached, "Stay—please—" but two seconds later. A moment of silence passed directly after, almost as if Sherlock were struggling to process the request, and then his counterpart was begrudgingly turning, sliding back into the bed, knees propelling him from the edge of the mattress and toward John. The movement was haphazard at best and yet annoyingly languid. John shifted, moving closer to the other and settling back onto the bed, onto his side.

He quickly draped an arm around Sherlock, tangling himself around him so as to prevent escape. Sherlock gave him an almost sour look and John simply smiled, a bit of amusement bubbling into his chest as Sherlock stated, quite plainly, "I'm sticky."

John nodded and replied, "Me too."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and tried again: "And I smell."

Grin growing, John nodded again and said, "Me too."

There was a moment's pause as Sherlock simply stared at him, weighing the absurdity of his request—to stay—to do this of all things—cuddle—quite obviously trying to translate the sentiment attached. It was John that broke the silence with a quiet command, light and teasing, a smile in his voice: "Relax. And that's an order."

Another moment of silence and then a sharp roll of eyes, a silent submission, a sign that he would stop trying to understand—for the moment—and obey, with Sherlock muttering, "Yes, master."

John smiled and leaned in, pressing a chaste kiss to Sherlock's bare shoulder.

"There's a good boy," he teased, draping a leg across his for good measure.

Sherlock scoffed.