ac·com·mo·da·tion (-km-dshn)
n.
1. The act of accommodating or the state of being accommodated; adjustment.
2. Something that meets a need; a convenience.
3. accommodations
a. Room and board; lodgings.
b. A seat, compartment, or room on a public vehicle.
4. Reconciliation or settlement of opposing views.
5. Physiology The automatic adjustment in the focal length of the lens of the eye to permit retinal focus of images of objects at varying distances.
6. A financial favor, such as a loan.
A/N: This story was started right at the end of the 2012/2013 season is now AU. Will be two chapters. I've had to cut out A LOT of text to keep this within 's policies. If you want the entire smutty version (which I recommend) it's over on Archive of Our Own under the same username and title.
Joan knew intellectually that Holmes was a little too attached to her. It was obvious in the way his eyes tracked her as she walked a crime scene, in how he seemed to know when she'd had a rough night sleeping, or when he'd asked her to stay. She knew they were getting too close, too close for a sober companion and a client. She'd justified it - their relationship had changed, it was a mentor/mentee dynamic now, it was normal they'd be closer after so much time under the same roof. She'd hedged - don't friends watch out for one another? She'd evaded - they were used to each other's company, and it's perfectly normal for two roommates to comment on each other's sleep patterns. But the truth of it was that while her mind knew that her former client was overly attentive to her, in his own strange and often rude way, she knew that on another level it just felt right.
It was somehow comforting to have him waiting with a cup of tea for her when her own demons kept her awake half the night. It certainly didn't happen often, the tea - not the demons- and his acerbic nature and inherent rudeness made the small gesture a welcome relief from what often felt like blind indifference. Only Joan knew that Sherlock Holmes was many things, but blind wasn't one of them. While he often pretended not to notice the needs of the people around him, she knew he had in actuality cataloged each and every one and made the conscious choice to behave otherwise. She knew he'd have sacrificed his life for her, for the Captain, for most of the people they came into contact with; he'd proven it, time and time again. Why he felt the need to shield himself from the more normal, sane, and less likely to end in his death, forms of human bonding, of friendship, wasn't much of a mystery, not after her terse texting conversations with his father and meeting his not-quite-dead ex. Whatever demons Sherlock possessed from his past, they surely outstripped hers and who was she to judge how another person found solace from such things? He wasn't turning back to the drugs, and that was all that Joan could ask of him as his former sober campaign and as his friend. So she took what fleeting signs that he cared for her, even slightly, and held them dear - even if she would never admit as much to anyone, even her own therapist. And slowly she learned that they were indeed friends, of a fashion, and she drew strength from the bond they were rapidly developing as partners.
She wasn't sure when the real transformation from friend to this sort of amorphous and dangerous thing happened. She knew when she'd gained her own addiction to the manic detective - fairly early in their association if truth be told - but she'd not been able to pin point the moment when Sherlock had fallen victim to his own addictive personality in regards to her. Was it when she'd fallen for his ploy at sending an actor to impersonate his father? Or was it when she practically force feed him her mother's flu remedy? She didn't know. But she knew for sure they were in trouble when he listened to her plan to capture Irene. And any small lingering doubts were put to rest when he named that damnable bee after her. This was no luke warm cup of tea in the middle of the night when he was already awake and sitting next to a pot. This was something he'd planned out - invested effort in.
She liked it. She liked knowing that he depended on her. She liked having him need her to calm his rampaging mind and to see to it that he stayed on the path he'd set out for himself. And in the first few weeks after Irene's betrayal had been unearthed, he'd needed her the most. He was like a seed set loose on the wind, unsure where to go and having precious little control over it. They tried to keep him busy - case after case - but nothing seemed to bring him back down to rest. He was a frantic bundle of energy, zipping across their house destroying most things in his path. It was obvious he'd not slept, barely eaten, in days and if she'd not been constantly by his side she'd have thought he had to have fallen back into old habits. But she knew that it was only his intellect driving him, unable to stop because he knew that the moment he did his brain would turn to thoughts of her.
Joan should have known that he'd need her to take a larger role. It shouldn't have come as a shock when she found him, eyes red and overly large, parked like a shamed puppy outside the bathroom door when she emerged from a shower. He was so tired, she could see it in the way the muscle twitched by his left eye, but he couldn't calm down, couldn't rest... he couldn't turn his mind off enough. He didn't say anything - just held them out to her.
She eyed the dangling cuffs with trepidation. Sherlock couldn't meet her eye, but the need was making him tremble. How could she turn him away when he was so desperate for some form of solace? She'd taken away his drugs and she'd promised to offer support to help him find things that could replace them. But in this time of such emotional trauma, she only had herself to offer and he needed her.
"I don't know what to do." She said softly, reaching out to take the cool metal from his hand. "I don't know what it is you need or expect."
"I am not asking for sex." His voice was unusually rough. "I'd have called someone for that. I just..." He looked up at her for a second before returning his gaze to the floor. "I just need help to sleep and I'm rather disinclined to trust a stranger at present." He did not need to elaborate on why. It was written plainly in the dark circles under his eyes and in the slump of his shoulders. He was at his most vulnerable and it was no wonder he couldn't find it in himself to trust anyone he wasn't completely sure of.
Joan nodded and ran a hand nervously over the waist band of her pajamas, still damp from the shower. "I take it you need restrained? Any specific stimuli?" She tried to keep her voice neutral, falling back onto the calculated clinical tones she'd used so often in her past life.
His head snapped up, his gaze unashamedly grateful. "If you could..." He trailed off, a small self-deprecating smile starting at the corner of his mouth,"...if you could find it in you to apply various pain stimuli I would find it most helpful."
Joan took a steadying breath. "What are my limits?"
"No lasting damage, anything that will take longer then three days to heal could become inconvenient." Sherlock's body relaxed as he explained. "Normally I'd suggest a blind fold, but considering recent circumstances, I would prefer to be able to see you."
He left it unsaid, but Joan had a sudden vision of Irene and a bound Sherlock and it gave her chills. The idea that he might sink so far into himself that he could forget exactly who it was hurting him - she didn't want to think on that too much.
"I haven't actually done anything like this."
"But you've read about it at least. You knew to ask for limits." Sherlock looked at her, a question behind his eyes. "What has stopped you before?"
"I'm afraid I might like it a little too much." Joan shrugged, the cuffs tapping lightly against her leg where she'd rested them. "Doctors do like control. I never thought it wise to give that side of myself more free reign. I've always been afraid that I wouldn't be able to turn it back off."
"I would not normally ask it of you." His tone was light but she could see the pain behind it in his eyes. "I can't promise you I won't like it a little too much either."
She smiled ruefully. "Great. It's not a sex thing but we're both likely to respond to it with arousal. Wonderful."
"Well," he smiled cheekily, "I didn't say it couldn't be a sex thing. It just needn't be. As you well know, I am not opposed to sexual intercourse and I do not attach the same emotional baggage to the act that most of our species seems to. If you would like me to return the favor by assisting in releasing any of your endorphins..."
"Don't press your luck." She snapped back, cutting him off, rather harsher than she intended. "Men have to earn a spot in my bed." Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, smiling manically at her tone.
"That, right there. Keep that going and I'll be down in minutes." He said softly.
Joan eyed him and then the cuffs. "I hate to have to ask, I know how exhausted you are, but what in the world do you get out of it?"
Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and he shrugged, leaning against the door frame. "I have a particularly powerful response to certain endorphins that allow me to enter into a rather deep subspace. Call it a natural high if you will, but the after affects are of the main interest to me."
"You sink so deep your brain shuts off." Joan murmured softly.
"Essentially." Sherlock agreed, his eyes holding hers. "It's the only time in my life where I'm not constantly calculating things. If my mind is a computer, think of it as a system restart. I need to power down completely so that my mind can update itself and process the new information that's been collecting in my RAM."
Joan licked her lips. "And, assuming you can teach me how to get you there, do I have to do anything to hold you in it? And how do I bring you out?"
Sherlock stood up straight and held out his hand. "Why don't we take this where we can get more comfortable and I'll try and talk you through it, at least the beginning parts?"
Joan nodded and took his hand. He was practically vibrating, she could feel the muscles twitching under his skin. He was the living embodiment of wired, she thought, and for the first time she started to truly understand why he had turned to drugs. They walked slowly to his room and Joan watched from the doorway as he retrieved a frighting number of various instruments from scattered locations to lay them out on the old sideboard that served as his dresser.
"I'd best give you the basics." He said, his tone back to it's typical over excited loudness. "You see, Watson, it's quite possible for the human mind to sink so far into itself it almost shuts down." He looked up at her briefly before going back to laying out what looked like a leather bundle of strings with knots on the ends. "That is of course the goal of this exercise." He bent to the floor of his closet and stood up with several bottles of electrolyte water which he set on the nightstand. "In order to get me to that point, several things must happen."
"I'm listening."
He kept his back to her as he explained, his posture more rigid than she was used to seeing. "I find it necessary to be tightly bound." He stated in his too calm voice. "An authoritative voice, one that is particularly..." he trailed off as if searching for the right word, "... on edge is best." he finished softly. "Those two things alone, if done properly, can usually get me to the go under slightly - more so if there's some edge of subjugation to it. To fully reach the state I require for proper rest, I need to go all the way under and it is during the resurfacing that I typically find myself able to finally recharge. For that, I need to be pushed to the brink..." he paused again, "...and then guided over." He waved vaguely towards the sideboard and the rather dire implements laid out across it.
"Sherlock, I don't know if I can hurt you." Joan stepped into the room and eyed the laid out instruments warily. Some she'd only seen in Criminal Minds reruns. "Tie you up and smack the hell out of you is one thing - I've been wanting to hit you since I met you." She could practically feel his smile even though his back was to her. "But from the looks of these, you're asking for quite a lot of...pushing."
"My safe word is Marrakesh. If you go too far, I will use it. At which point you stop what you are doing, and I will let you know what was too much." He shifted slightly on his feet, still not looking at her. "Since this is new for you, new for us together, it will not surprise me if we do not achieve the maximum effect. I haven't..." he paused again, his shoulders slumping slightly, "...haven't trusted anyone enough since...well you can deduce the cause as well as the timeline, I'm sure." His voice went very soft. "But I've trusted you with my life, Watson. I'm positive that for you, I will fall fairly quickly - and deeply."
"And what do I do when this happens? Will I know?'
"It will be fairly obvious. I will be unable to respond in any meaningful way. At most a yes or a no." He tensed further. "I do have a few limits that I ask you to not cross. They are printed on that sheet, over there." He waved vaguely in the direction of the nightstand. "If I go as deep as I expect I won't be in any condition to give meaningful consent. If you are as good at this as I suspect, I will likely find it difficult to safeword past a certain point. Not impossible, mind, but not easily accomplished and I will struggle to surface long enough for status checks. If you avoid anything on that list it will save us both considerable angst."
Joan walked further into the room and picked up the list. He'd checked marked nearly everything as being okay - nearly everything. Blindfolds were a clear no as was any sort of electrical or chemical play. He'd stared a few things as being of particular interest - most dealt with some form of pain on his part, but a few were achingly simple. He'd put a rather large star next to the option of 'prolonged physical contact' under the Aftercare heading.
Seeming to read her thoughts he finally met her gaze again. "The part you will likely find the most distasteful is the fact that," his voice nearly cracked, "I am usually rather tactile afterwards, until I fall asleep. And sometimes even then."
Joan nodded. "So, if I'm understanding this right, you need me to order you about, cuff you to the bed, chastise you verbally, and flog you senseless then cuddle with you until you wake up in the morning?"
"Yes." He kept his gaze carefully on her and for once there was only sincerity in his eyes. She saw the look of relief that passed over him as she made her decision to do as he asked. Before she'd said a word, he'd stepped closer to her and sunk down onto his knees before her.
She couldn't help reaching a hand out to run through his hair and he leaned into the touch. "I suppose it's only natural for me to ask what's in it for me?"
"I've a very talented tongue, if you decide for the optional sexual elements." he offered up cheekily before adding - almost as an after thought, "m'lady".
"Hum." she murmured, still petting his head. "Not sure that quite worked."
"Mistress?" he tried, his tone still playful. She shook her head.
"Mummy?" he tried again, this time sounding a little worried.
"How about we just stick with doctor." She could feel him smile as he practically nuzzled into her hand.
"Does the doctor have any orders?"
REMOVED SECTION FOR RATING – Missing text is available under the same username at Archive of Our Own
He nearly collapsed as his weight was released and she had to steady him on his feet, half dragging him to the bed.
They fairly tumbled to the mattress, his greater weight making it hard for her to maneuver him. He was shaking, murmuring words over and over again into her neck as he clutched at her and it took all her strength to get him under the covers so he wouldn't' freeze to death. She climbed in with him and he plastered himself to her instantly. She stroked his back slowly, trying to calm him down, only to have his murmurs turn into gut wrenching sobs. She finally made out his words just as he started to drift into sleep - "thank you thank you thank you thank you..."