Gosh, it's been such a long time since I've been on fanfiction as a writer, but, alas, I'm back. And I've been bitten by the writing bug. I can't promise or even tell you when the next update will come, life is too busy for constant updates. I hope you enjoy this, and drop me a comment or review.
It all started with a case. Lestrade had called them like he had hundreds of times before. At first glance, Sherlock had scowled, dubbed it a four, and dismissed it with a dramatic turn, his blue dressing gown flaring around his knees. It was a poor substitute for his thick Belstaff coat.
Lestrade had returned a few days later, claiming it was imperative that Sherlock take on this case, that it was really closer to an eight than a four. Sherlock once again scoffed and turned the Detective Inspector away, turning his focus back to the colony of god-knows-what currently growing in the bottom of their coffee cups. John shrugged apologetically and walked Lestrade down to the door. It was there that Lestrade rubbed a hand over his weary face, handed a manila envelope - presumably the case - to John, and stepped outside.
John closed the door and flipped through the file, taking in the names of the victims as he walked up the stairs to 221 B. He stopped, his hand on the doorknob when he saw the pictures taken of the two bodies. "Sherlock," he called out, stepping over the threshold. "We're taking this case."
Sherlock looked up from his microscope and frowned at John. "But John, it's a four. I don't take cases under a six, and don't leave for anything below a seven. You know that," he said, turning back to focus the lens.
John set the file down on the coffee table and set about making tea. "There's a brand involved, Sherlock. I know how much you like cases with those," he said, filling the kettle with water. John grew annoyed when the kettle whistled before his flatmate acknowledged his words. He became frustrated when Sherlock was still silent after he dug out his box of tea from its weekly hiding spot behind the sleeves of biscuits he favored. When John found out that all of their mugs were currently incubating bacteria, he was furious, stalking out of the flat with his doctor's coat slung over his arms. He would be safe at the clinic, and Sarah always seemed to have some shift he could fill. After all, he'd need the extra money to buy a new set of tea mugs.
It was with the arrival of the third dead body that Sherlock upped the rating of the case to a seven. He pulled John out of their apartment at an indecent time in the morning, barely allowing him the time to pull on proper clothing. They were silent in the car, Sherlock shifting his weight every thirty seconds or so. John fixed his flatmate with a stern stare. "Sherlock, be still, please," he said, rubbing the space between his brows.
Sherlock sat still for a few minutes before he was practically vibrating in his seat again. Just as John was about to speak up again, the taxi came to a stop, and Sherlock bounded from the black car, his strides long and surprisingly springy. "Hurry up, John!" he called, making a beeline for the yellow police tape. "It's like Christmas!"
For John, it was nothing like Christmas. He grimaced as he took in the body, this killer was particularly brutal. Cuts and bruises littered the corpse's cold flesh, the blood nearly brown in the scarce, artificial light provided by the lone lamp in the corner. The bruises were every shade of blue, purple, and brown that John could imagine, and a few shades he'd never seen before.
"The victim was male, mid-thirties," John said, leaning forward to inspect the smattering of bruises. "Died from asphyxiation," he added, pressing a finger to tilt the corpse's head, revealing a set of bruises around the neck.
"Good, John," Sherlock said, bending down beside John. "What caused the asphyxiation?"
John looked back at the body again, and frowned. "I'm not sure. Something about as thick as a belt."
Sherlock frowned. "Keep going, John. Tell me more about what it isn't," he urged, looking around the room.
"Wasn't rope," John said, pushing on the corpse's shoulder, exposing more of the neck. "Wasn't anything string like, really. There's nothing resembling rope burn. So, belt?"
Sherlock shook his head. "What's not consistent with a belt strangling?" he asked.
Running his hands over the corpse's neck again, John was surprised there wasn't an indent where the buckle must have been… "There's no buckle indent," he said. "So something leather, but not a belt."
"She used her purse. We're looking for a female killer, likely in her mid to late twenties. Petite. With a shoulder bag," Sherlock said, stalking out of the room. "Come along, John. We're finished here."
Sparing one last look at the corpse, John followed after his flatmate, hustling to keep up with Sherlock's long strides.
When they returned to Baker Street, Sherlock immediately picked up his violin, raised his bow, and tortured the strings. John sat through it for all of twenty minutes before he was running out of the flat and off to the clinic. He could always catch up on his paperwork, as much as he hated it.
Three days passed before Sherlock stopped cycling between playing his violin, and lying on the couch with three different classical songs playing in the background all at the same time. John had come home from the clinic to a strangely silent flat. It was even clean. He was even more surprised when he saw Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table, two plates of take-away between them. John sat down and raised an eyebrow when Sherlock picked up a fork and ate the contents of his plate without complaining. Sherlock was up to something, and John could feel it.
"Out with it, Sherlock," John said, setting his fork against the side of his plate.
Sherlock stared at him for a moment, swallowing thickly. "Lestrade found a connection between the victims," he said. They sat in silence, John waiting for Sherlock to finish filling him in.
"Stop stalling and tell me the connection, please," he said, fixing his flatmate with a tired look.
"They were all last seen at a club called Leather," Sherlock said, his eyes avoiding John's, choosing instead to focus on his mostly empty plate. "It's a BDSM club, and we need to go there to gather information. You'll be acting as my submissive, so we'll have to go over-"
"No," John interrupted, narrowing his eyes.
"But John, the case depends upon it," Sherlock protested.
John held his flatmate's gaze and crossed his arms. "I will not act as your submissive, Sherlock. I can't pull it off," he said.
"How would you know, John? I think you'd fit the role just fine. After all, you follow me around London all the time."
John stood up from his chair and took a deep breath. "Because I am not a submissive, Sherlock," he murmured, his voice dropping low. "And more over, the owner of Leather has never seen me as a submissive, only with one."
Sherlock froze and watched as John cleared their plates.
"If we are going to Leather, we'll have to prepare for it," John said, turning on the kettle.
"How do we do that?" Sherlock asked.
It was silent in 221B for a few minutes, the quite thick and nearly tangible. The kettle whistled and John prepared two cups of tea, adding a splash of milk to his and a spoonful of sugar to Sherlock's. Carefully, John carried both teacups to the small side table that sat between their chairs. Stiffly, he sat down, his posture rigid despite the comfortable cushions.
"Comer here, Sherlock," John said, his voice calm and even.
"John, I don't see how this will help-"
"Do you trust me, Sherlock?" John interrupted.
"Of course I trust you, John. You've saved my life-"
"Then come here. I will not ask again," John said.
Sherlock huffed and stared at his flatmate for a few moments, attempting to deduce the doctor. He tried not to panic when he couldn't get much of a read on John; he couldn't tell if he was mad from their dinner conversation, or if he was frustrated from his day at the clinic. Whatever it was, it was making John act odd. To Sherlock's memory, he'd never seen his friend act like this, and he didn't need to worry about John's mystery when he already had a case.
John sighed and sipped his tea, the sound pulling Sherlock from his frantic mindset. Oh. John wasn't telling him no to the case, nor was he mad. John was a dominant, and had asked him to do something…
Sherlock stood beside John's chair a few heartbeats later, an apology falling from his lips.
John smiled, set his tea down, and turned to look at the detective. "Kneel," he murmured, his voice just loud enough for Sherlock to hear.
The beginnings of a blush burned across Sherlock's cheeks as he sunk to his knees beside John's chair. He squirmed in the position, feeling strangely bare and very much out of place.
"Good boy," John said, his right hand gently carding through Sherlock's curls.
Sherlock shivered and seemed to sink in on himself when he heard John's words. It scared him to think about how natural this felt; how kneeling beside John's chair while the doctor stroked his fingers across his scalp was so comforting. The thing that scared Sherlock the most, however, was how he didn't care that he was afraid.
"Sherlock, are you okay?" John asked, his hand travelling to rest on the brunet's shoulder.
Sherlock nodded, not trusting his tight throat to form words.
"I'm afraid this is the only way I'll be able to investigate Leather with you," John admitted, squeezing the base of his flatmate's neck. "If you still want to go, I should probably teach you some etiquette so that you don't draw as much attention."
Sherlock nodded. "That's acceptable, John. Unexpected, but definitely acceptable," he replied, chancing a glance up at the doctor.
John met his eyes with a kind smile, his hand resuming its pull through Sherlock's curls. "Within the club, you will essentially belong to me, Sherlock. You will need to defer to my wishes at all times without question. I won't do anything to harm you, nor humiliate you, but I will act as the situation demands. Do you understand that?" he asked.
"That will be difficult for me, John," the detective admitted.
John nodded. "I know. Which is why, with your permission of course, I'd like to show you the ropes, think about some rules, and maybe establish some tasks for you to do before we visit the club," he explained.
Sherlock swallowed audibly and nodded. "How do we start?" he asked.
"First, why don't you sit in your chair and drink the cuppa I made you," John replied, reaching for Sherlock's tea. "You can use this time to gather your thoughts and ask any questions you want."
Sherlock quickly took his seat and drank from his tea. It was the perfect temperature, and just sweet enough. He liked the way it seemed to warm him from the inside out, just like John's touch had, not that he would mention it. "I've done some basic research," he said after a moment.
"What did you read?" John asked, picking up his own teacup, cradling the warm porcelain in his hands.
"Basically that there are two parties involved in a BDSM relationship. The Dominant takes control of the submissive, and they are usually sexually involved," Sherlock said, his cheeks pinking up ever so slightly. He averted his eyes to study the floor, the yellow smiley face on the wall, even back to the contents of his teacup; basically anywhere John's eyes couldn't lock with his. His head snapped up incredulously when John laughed.
"Well, that's the most basic description I've ever heard," he said. "It's not wrong, but it's not entirely right, either."
Sherlock frowned, his eyebrows furrowing. "Then do explain it to me, John," he snapped, setting his teacup noisily on the side table, not paying attention when some of the tea sloshed over the side.
"Well, it's more that just giving and taking power," John started, rubbing the back of his neck. "The base of any BDSM relationship is trust, Sherlock. That's why you would have to listen to my instructions in the club. You would trust that I would make the decision that is the best for you, even if it is not the one that you would have made."
Sherlock fidgeted in his seat, still avoiding John's eyes.
"However," the doctor continued, "if this is just going to make you uncomfortable, I'll call up an old ex and see if she'll go with me. I can wear camera glasses and you could watch the live feed."
Sherlock wasn't sure why he blurted out a loud no so quickly, and he was confused by the way his stomach clenched uncomfortably. John seemed to understand though, for he was bent down in front of Sherlock, his sturdy, calloused hands gently stroking over the detective's pale face before Sherlock could even register that something was wrong.
"Sherlock? When was the last time you slept?" John asked, his voice changing to the tone he often used with his patients at the clinic.
Blinking hard, Sherlock tried to remember when he last slept so he could answer John's question. "I don't know,"' he admitted after a moment. He didn't register nuzzling into John's hand, nor the frown on his flatmate's face.
"Go to bed, Sherlock. We can finish talking about this tomorrow," John instructed, helping the detective to his feet.
Sherlock nodded once and hazily stumbled down the hallway to his room. He absentmindedly stripped to his pants and crawled into bed, staring up at the ceiling. He felt floaty after being the center of John's attention for so long. Instead of panicking, like he would do if he were in his right mind, Sherlock let the floaty headspace carry him away. He didn't hear John take care of the night's dishes, he wasn't aware when the doctor stepped into his room to pull the covers up over his shoulders and add an extra blanket, and he was sound asleep by the time John made his way to his own bedroom, the fourth step from the top groaning under his foot. That night, Sherlock felt safe and warm, his mind was at peace, and a smile was on his face. Nothing could touch him.
