Disclaimer: I do not own any part of BBC's Sherlock. I am not making any money from this story.
Now betaed by the wonderful yalublyutebya.
Lead Me
A/N: This was written for the first challenge of "Let's Write Sherlock". The prompt was "After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…"
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John's patience was at an end. He was furious as he rushed up the stairs behind Sherlock. He had almost managed to kill himself and John, again, just out of his bad habit to neglect what Mycroft told him; or ignore him totally. He'd also ignored Lestrade, who had warned them that there would be at least one more man in the old warehouse and they should wait for back-up. But the great and infallible Sherlock Holmes always worked alone, because no-one else could compete with his massive intellect.
With clenched hands, John gritted his teeth. "I'm wasting my breath! Did you even realise how dangerous the situation was? If Lestrade hadn't acted so quickly, we'd both be dead by now!"
Sherlock was already on his way into the kitchen. He hadn't eaten for two days now and the case was over. Usually they would have stopped for a takeaway at the chinese restaurant near their flat, but it was almost 5 am and John was obviously not 'in the mood for food'. Sherlock grinned at that thought and his terrible rhyme, not really listening to John's complaining. When he grabbed the handle to open the fridge, suddenly John was behind him.
Although John was tired to his bones, seeing Sherlock grin was enough to shoot the adrenalin and the anger through his veins. With one swift and smooth motion he forced Sherlock's arms behind his back, then spun him around, bent him over and pressed him face down onto the, thankfully fairly empty, kitchen table.
"Sherlock," he asked in a dangerous calm voice, "Were you listening to me?"
Sherlock froze. He was shocked from the turn of events, didn't understand what had just happened and why his head and shoulders were pressed down so hard.
John stood behind him and he increased the pressure on Sherlock's chest, as he bent down and whispered into his ear. "Sherlock, I asked you a question and I think I deserve an answer. Were. You. Listening?"
This time Sherlock shivered, but he was too confused to go back to his normal arrogant behaviour. "John, I ... I was looking for - "
"Shut up!" John interrupted him harshly. "I didn't ask you what you wanted to do. It was just a simple question. Do you think you'll be able to answer me properly, or is that too much effort for you?" His voice was dripping with sarcasm, as he emphasized each syllable with a squeeze of Sherlock's arms.
Sherlock's breath quickened. He had never seen John acting this way and he still didn't understand what was going on. But most of all he was confused about his own reaction: he was excited and aroused. John's dangerously quiet, dark and rough voice made him shiver; John's breath, ghosting over his ear, sent a chill through his body. He stuttered. "I ... I don't know, John." John growled. "No," Sherlock admitted quickly, "I wasn't listening." He could feel John somewhat relaxing and his face wasn't pressed so firmly to the table any longer.
"Good boy," John muttered. "This could be interesting, very interesting." He spoke into Sherlock's neck, his nose buried deep in Sherlock's dark curls, while Sherlock was very quiet and hardly dared to breathe.
A few seconds later it was over. Suddenly the weight on Sherlock's back was gone, the pressure had left his arms and shoulders, and he felt - empty? His confusion increased.
John had been overwhelmed by his anger, his fear about losing Sherlock at the warehouse, and he had been high on adrenalin when he saw Sherlock grinning. Grinning! This arrogant git! Not caring what John was talking about. John knew he had a temper, but in all the time he had shared the flat with Sherlock he had been able to control himself. Until tonight.
As the rush of adrenaline faded, he suddenly realised what he was doing. John let Sherlock go and jumped back as if he had burned his hands; his face was hot from shame and he stumbled backwards until he bumped against the countertop. "Sorry, I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I didn't mean to - I just - I wanted - I - I better go now." He turned on his heel and fled upstairs to his bedroom, before Sherlock even had the chance to lift his chest from the table.
A few minutes later Sherlock lay in his bed; tired, exhausted and confused. He repeated the scene from the kitchen again and again in his head, catalogued John's behaviour and his own reactions. With little effort he should have been able to deduce what had happened and, more importantly, why it had happened. After all, this was John. John was easy to deduce, so predictable, how could it be that he had missed this side of John? What else had he missed? And what about his own arousal? With these disturbing but, nevertheless, exciting thoughts, Sherlock finally fell asleep.
One floor up, John lay in his bed, unable to find any rest. He was deeply ashamed of his actions. What had he done? What was wrong with him? How was he supposed to meet Sherlock's eyes ever again? He felt exhausted and knackered, not only physically but also mentally. Sherlock had plundered his last reserves, without even noticing that he consumed John completely. That was probably the price you had to pay for living with a genius, he thought bitterly. However, the thought that he obviously meant so little to Sherlock hurt more than he wanted to admit.
He had to calm down, he told himself. If there was something he could learn from his flatmate, then it was his immunity to feelings. He would have to make clear to Sherlock, that he had only had a tantrum. Nothing more! It had been only rage! Sherlock might find it strange, but he would accept his apology. Then they could return to their normal daily routines. "Just stay cool, Watson," he muttered under his breath before he fell asleep.
Since he hadn't slept for almost two days, John slept deeply and without any nightmares for more than ten hours. When he awoke in the early evening he still felt tired. He put on a pair of old jeans and a t-shirt and shuffled down the stairs. The flat was very quiet and he wondered if Sherlock was there, but when he opened the kitchen door he found him, sitting in his pyjama pants, an old t-shirt and the blue dressing gown in front of the microscope, examining some samples of whatever.
"Hey," he greeted him, and Sherlock ignored him as usual. So perhaps he had wasted far too many thoughts about the incident. Maybe Sherlock had already forgotten about it, deleted it, because it was so irrelevant to him, John thought. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed about Sherlock's reaction, but in the end it was probably for the best. He made two cups of tea and put one next to Sherlock on the counter. Sherlock gave him a brief glance with one raised eyebrow, and then he went back to his slides and Petri dishes.
John took a deep breath. "Sherlock, about last night. Um, I want to apologise." Sherlock didn't move. "I was tired and worn out, it will not happen again." John sighed. Now he was sure that Sherlock hadn't deleted the incident, but obviously he wouldn't want to talk about it. He went into the living room and turned on the telly. After a while he sat down at the table and opened his laptop. There was only crap on the telly, so he could also take care of his blog, which he had neglected during the last days.
The next few days were quiet and nothing happened, but the atmosphere in the flat was kind of awkward. John realised that Sherlock watched him furtively, when he thought that John wouldn't notice. Once, he had caught Sherlock in action; he had stared back until Sherlock had finally glanced away and had even left the room. But he hadn't said one word.
A couple of times John had gone to the pub with Mike, just to get out of the flat, or he wandered through London for hours. But after a week of awkward silence something had to be done. So he took the next opportunity to talk to Sherlock.
"Sherlock, we have to talk. I don't know what's going on in that genius brain of yours, but you have to stop ignoring me." Sherlock lay on the sofa and stared at the ceiling. "Is it about last week? You know, I already apologised and I meant what I said, it will not happen again." Sherlock gave no sign of noticing John, who was sitting in his chair. "Can you please talk to me? Sherlock, are you listening to me?" John sighed. "Ok, I've got plenty of time, I can wait." Pursing his lips, he settled back in his chair and crossed his legs.
Sherlock sat up with one swift turn and focused his gaze on John. Then he cocked his head, still not talking. John waited. Several minutes passed by, and John could see that Sherlock was going to say something. His hesitation and his obvious insecurity made John curious. So he began. "What is it?"
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably on the sofa back and forth. "Last week, the, uhm, the thing you did - You apologised, but I don't understand why you did it." John looked at him incredulously. "Seriously, Sherlock? You almost got us killed with your ignorant behaviour, and when I wanted to talk to you about it, you just grinned, as if it was all a joke. But it is not a joke when it comes to life or death, not to me." John's voice had been calm at first, but it got harsher to the end. "Since the ... since you ..." John ran his hands over his face. His voice threatened to fail and he cleared his throat. "I couldn't bear to lose you again," he said very quietly, his eyes fixed on the animal skull with the headphones at the wall. He couldn't watch Sherlock now, impossible, and he was glad that Sherlock was sitting on the sofa and not in his chair opposite him.
Sherlock didn't answer for so long that John thought he should give up, but then Sherlock sighed. "I'm sorry, John. I didn't grin because I thought the whole thing was a joke. And I didn't want you … I wasn't listening, because my mind was already at another point, I was thinking about something else. I apologies."
John looked at him in surprise; an apology was not what he had expected, rather a detailed analysis of what had been so funny, and more about what he, John, hadn't seen of course. Then he frowned. Sherlock's eyes flickered restlessly back and forth, there was something else. "Sherlock." John tilted his head to one side and eyed Sherlock thoughtfully. "What else?"
Eventually Sherlock fixed an irritated glance on John. "You said something when you held me down on the table. You said, and I quote you: 'This could be interesting, very interesting'. What did you mean? What could be so interesting?"
John stared at him open-mouthed; he blushed immediately and was fighting for his composure. 'Shit' was all he could think for a moment. He had hoped that Sherlock hadn't noticed. "It was nothing," he stuttered, "Nothing important. Forget it."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed and John knew he couldn't fool him, not for a second. "John, these words have occupied my mind all week. These words, and your actions. It wasn't irrelevant; otherwise we wouldn't be talking about it now. My body responded to both, to your actions as well as to the words, and I do not understand these reactions. Explain it to me, I know you can."
John watched Sherlock carefully, wondering what he should do. Sherlock's look of bewildered frustration told him that to fob him off with a general stereotype wouldn't be a good idea. Sherlock wouldn't rest till he found out, John knew. He would have to show him what he meant, whether he wanted or not. "It is somewhat difficult to explain," he said, standing up from his chair, "But if you really want to know why your body responded the way it did, we can try something. An Experiment." With a smirk, he went up to his bedroom. He knew that Sherlock would follow him; he was far too curious and he loved to experiment.
Actually, it took only a few minutes before John heard his friend climbing the stairs and Sherlock appeared with a wry smile in the doorway. John still wasn't sure what exactly he wanted to show Sherlock, or how much, but he should get a first impression what it meant to be a sub. Therefore, he had put only a collar, some leather handcuffs and a riding crop onto the bed, so that Sherlock could see them from his place in the doorway. John watched every movement, every twitch of his muscles, everything Sherlock's body told him involuntarily but so obviously.
With wide eyes Sherlock stared at the things on the bed, and then he stared at John. "What is that?"
John couldn't suppress a smirk. "I thought you would know these things, at least the riding crop. It looks a bit different than your own, but Irene Adler had one very similar."
"Do you want to beat me?" Sherlock's gaze flickered incredulously between the bed and John, who seemed to be very calm.
"Only if you ask me to. That's something we'll have to find out, if you want to," John answered. The colour of Sherlock's face switched between white and red, but he didn't say anything. John continued. "If you like, we'll find out together. If you want to and if you trust me."
"John, you know I trust you, totally, completely, with my life. But this is..." His voice ran dry.
"New? Unexpected? Exciting? Sherlock, we don't have to do anything. You could just turn around, go down the stairs and we'll forget the whole thing." Sherlock's head snapped up and he looked almost disappointed. "Or," John continued, "You take the step into my room and do exactly what I tell you to do. You'll obey without any question, without discussions, even without hesitation. Would you like that? Do you want to give up the control, the responsibility for a short time, to me? I will be responsible for each of your movements and actions during this time, so it's important that you really trust and obey me, do you want that? Could you do that?"
Sherlock swallowed hard and John could see him struggling with himself. Sherlock trusted John, no doubt, but to give up control, that sounded dangerous. Without thinking about anything, could he do that? Not think? The idea was tempting. Would John manage to stop his thoughts, to silence them? Sherlock took a deep breath and walked over to John. He stopped in front of him, an uncertain expression on his face, and swallowed again. "What should I do?"
"First of all, listen to me, is that clear?" Sherlock frowned, but nodded. John put a couple of fingers under his chin and turned Sherlock's head slightly. "If I ask you a question you answer with 'Yes, John' or 'No, John', is that clear?" Sherlock hesitated a moment before he answered "Yes, John." John's grip on his chin tightened. "Without hesitation, without thinking, alright?" This time the answer came immediately. "Yes, John."
John seemed satisfied and the grip loosened, instead his fingers stroked along Sherlock's cheek and jaw now. "You need a safe word. Do you know what that is?"
"Yes, John."
"Well, I'm waiting."
It took him only a moment. "Sugar."
"Sugar? Ok, yes, that's good. Now undress."
Sherlock froze for an instant, and then he began to unbutton his shirt slowly. John sat down on a chair by the window and watched him. When Sherlock stood stark naked in front of him, John stood up and circled him slowly. He stroked gently over Sherlock's shoulders and collarbones, ran his fingers across his back and chest, then one down his arm. Sherlock shuddered; his whole body shivered and was covered with goose bumps.
"You're beautiful, you know that?" As there was no answer immediately, John buried his right hand deep into Sherlock's dark curls and pulled his head back roughly. "Answer me," he demanded with a harsh voice.
Sherlock gave a startled gasp, then he hastened to respond: "No, John."
John let go of his hair and fondled his neck, it took him a moment to handle his surprise. "No? Are you saying, you've never been told by anyone how beautiful you are?"
This time Sherlock replied quickly. "No, John." He didn't know whether or not he was allowed to say more, so he stayed quiet.
"Oh, my poor boy." John felt sorry for him. Sherlock listened distrustfully, but there was no mockery in John's voice. "I mean it," he said softly, "You know you can trust me." John cupped Sherlock's face and caressed his cheeks; he looked straight into his eyes. "You're gorgeous. Don't let anyone convince you otherwise." Then John kissed him for the first time, and it was all sweet and soft and warm and Sherlock closed his eyes and melted into the kiss and into John's hands. He felt dizzy when John pushed him back gently.
"Sherlock." John looked at him a little uncertainly, "Are you still a virgin?"
"N-n-n-no, John."
"That didn't sound very convincing. Have you ever had a relationship?"
"No, John."
"But you have had sex?"
"Yes, John."
"When and with whom?" Now John wanted to know more, because if Sherlock was still so inexperienced as he feared now, he would have to start very slowly.
"At university, a fellow student. She was older than me, John."
"How often?"
"Twice."
"Twice, John!"
"Yes, John."
"And that was all?"
"Yes, John."
"All right." John stroked Sherlock's face again. "Oh Sherlock," he sighed, smiling, "You have so much to learn. Let's begin. Kneel."
Sherlock gave him an uncertain look and John put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him gently to his knees, buttocks on his heels, hands in his lap, head down. "This is your position whenever I say 'kneel', understood?"
"Yes, John."
"This is also your position whenever I send you to my room and order you to wait for me, understood?"
"Yes, John."
"That was good, Sherlock, very good. Would you like to go on?"
"Yes, John." Sherlock had raised his head and looked at John, eager for anything new.
John gave him a resounding slap that made Sherlock almost lose his balance. "I didn't allow you to raise your head," he said harshly. "You really have to learn a lot."
Sherlock gritted his teeth and lowered his head. His cheek burned from John's hand, but more than the slap, it was John's cold tone that hurt. Tears burned in his eyes. He wanted to do everything right, he wanted to be praised by John; he longed for it so much it scared him.
John stood behind Sherlock, massaging his tense shoulders. "Relax, Sherlock, you just began to learn, mistakes can happen. I'm sure you're an eager student and a fast learner; but you have to understand that I have to penalize every mistake." Based on the tight muscles and the rapid breathing, John could judge pretty well how excited Sherlock was. "Understood?"
"Yes, John."
He gave him a small peck on his curls, then he took the chair by the window and watched Sherlock. One of the most important and most difficult things that Sherlock had to learn was patience. John wanted to help him to clear his mind. He thought that this could be exactly what Sherlock needed to slow down his brain and get some rest.
Sherlock stared into the void, wondering what he was doing there. How could it be that he was kneeling naked in John's bedroom in front of his bed? He felt vulnerable, but also curious and aroused. What would John do? How long was he supposed to kneel here? What had John meant when he said 'whenever I send you to my room and order you to wait for me'? Just the thought made him shiver again, and his arousal grew. How much longer, John?
After nearly 15 minutes motionless on his knees, John thought it was enough, bearing in mind the fact that it was Sherlock's first time. He began to undress slowly. First his shoes and socks, then his jumper, shirt, trousers, until he was wearing only his boxer shorts. Then he went over to Sherlock, who had been watching him from the corner of his eye all the time, and held out both hands. "Stand up."
Somewhat shaky, Sherlock rose to his feet. John pulled him onto the bed where they sat down next to each other. "Are you all right, Sherlock?" John wanted to know first of all.
"Yes, John," Sherlock said quietly.
"Sherlock, listen to me carefully. I'll tell you now what I'm going to do to you." The choice of words alone made Sherlock shiver. "If there is something you don't want me to do, I expect you to tell me, is that understood?"
"Yes, John." Sherlock was excited now, and he couldn't imagine refusing anything John wanted to do to him. Just the thought of what John could do to him was so stunning that he was already half hard.
"First, I'll put you over my knees, then I'll spank you and then I'm going to fuck you thoroughly." John spoke in the same calm tone, as if he was dictating the shopping list, and Sherlock was dumbfounded. "If you fidget too much, I'll tie you with the leather cuffs." Sherlock's mouth fell open, but he didn't say a word.
"Ok, so lie down here on my knees, you can put your head on the bed if you want." Sherlock obeyed without hesitation. The attitude should have been humiliating and embarrassing, but he was too excited to have such thoughts. His hard and swollen cock hung entirely unnoticed between John's legs.
Sherlock's forehead was on the bed, and he steadied himself with his arms. When John stroked tenderly across Sherlock's backside, his body quivered. John caressed the solid curves, his hand squeezed the flesh firmly and his fingers explored the cleft between Sherlock's butt cheeks. Sherlock gasped, he moved his ass unconsciously back and forth. "Calm." John's voice was soft and low and Sherlock's movements stopped abruptly. All he could hear was his blood rushing in his ears.
Then the first beat hit him with a loud clap from John's hand and Sherlock winced. It wasn't so much the pain that made him wince, but the sudden force of John's hand. The second blow hit him harder, and he had to grit his teeth to be quiet. Sherlock focused so hard in anticipation of the next blow, it took him some time before he realised that John was talking to him. "Sherlock. Sherlock! You shall listen to me. Sherlock, do you hear me?"
"Y-y-yes, John." Sherlock's voice was hoarse and a bit shaky.
"Sherlock, I told you to count, didn't you hear me?"
"N-n-no, John."
"Then I'll tell you again now. You'll count every stroke out loud, in total there will be ten, each stroke that you missed, I'll repeat. Since you've missed the first two, you'll start with the 'one', understood?"
"Y-y-yes, John." Sherlock was breathing heavily, trying to prepare himself for the anticipated next beat.
And again John's hand slammed on his butt. John waited for a moment, and then he raised his hand again. At the last moment Sherlock remembered what John was waiting for.
"One, John," he nearly cried out.
"Well done," John praised him and his hand stroked Sherlock's inner thigh. A groan broke from Sherlock's throat; startled he bit down on his lower lip.
John smiled. "You like that?"
"Yesss, Johnnnn,, Sherlock hissed. He could hardly breathe.
"Then let's go on," he stated and another blow hit Sherlock, this time a little lower.
Smack! - "Two, John." - Smack! - "Three, John." -
For a while there was no other sound than the steady 'smack!' of John's hand and Sherlock's obedient counting.
Smack! - "Four, John." - Smack! - "Five, John." -
As Sherlock focused on his task, the pain receded into the background. He waited for the next blow, had to be careful that his count was correct, wasn't allowed to make a mistake.
Smack! - "Six, John."
Each blow was a current surge which went directly to his groin, and Sherlock began to enjoy it. As he closed his eyes, he only saw the next number behind his lids, there was no space for anything else in his mind.
Smack! - "Seven, John."
Sherlock's voice got hoarse and urgent, and he could feel that John was also aroused, could feel John's hard cock pressing into his side.
Smack! - "Eight, John."
"Only two more, Sherlock." John's fingers ghosted over the red pattern in front of him. "Only two more beats, the two additional because you didn't pay attention at the beginning. I'll make sure that you are more attentive the next time, all right, Sherlock?"
Sherlock raised his head slightly; he was breathing heavily and needed both arms to steady himself. "Yes, John."
"Good boy, you're a quick learner, I knew it." And his hand slammed hard on his butt.
Sherlock screamed, that had hurt. "N-n-n-nine, John", he whimpered. The pain was sharp, but his arousal only increased.
The final blow was just as tough and ruthless and made him cry out again.
"T-t-t-ten, John." Sherlock's voice trembled, his body quivered and he spoke through his gritted teeth.
John was breathing hard, his erection pressed into Sherlock's ribs. "You've done really well," he praised Sherlock and ran one hand through his hair, while the other caressed the red, hot curves of his ass gently. Sherlock couldn't suppress a loud groan, when John's hands moved over his body; he was so hard and wanted nothing more than John's hands to finally touch him properly. But John just grazed his shoulder and told him to kneel on the bed. With a huff Sherlock followed the instructions and John grinned.
"You're so impatient. Everything has to be right here, right now." His gaze slid over Sherlock's gracefully bowed neck. "I'll teach you patience. You will learn that anticipation can be something wonderful, and that sometimes the process of getting there is all the fun."
Then John punched Sherlock's hands away so that he was propped up on his elbows and his knees. Sherlock gasped in surprise.
For a while nothing happened and Sherlock got fidgety and nervous. What was John up to? How long was he supposed to stay in this position? He felt so exposed, as he virtually presented himself. But the thought of not knowing what would happen next; the idea of his appearance to John, of how John could watch him, aroused him more than he wanted to admit. He began to think about -
"Stop it!" John's voice was calm but demanding, nevertheless Sherlock winced. "Stop thinking, I determine what will happen next. Just focus on your task, you're doing very well so far." Sherlock heard a click, then the sound of hands rubbing together and a few seconds later he felt John's wet and slippery fingers at his most sensitive spot.
At the same time he could feel John's lips on his ass, his tongue tracing the lines left by his hand. Sherlock bit his lower lip, the sensation was so intense. Then he yelped at the sudden invasion of John's first finger.
Twenty minutes later, Sherlock was reduced to a quivering, begging mess. John had taken his time; he wanted Sherlock's first time to be perfect. Sherlock had only one thought left and could hardly articulate it. He groaned and gasped every time John worked him, with three fingers now. John curled his fingers slightly and found Sherlock's prostate. Sherlock whimpered in sweet agony, until John withdrew his hand. Now he whined because of the sudden emptiness he felt, and John kissed his lower back and these beautiful curves in front of him.
"You're so beautiful in your desire, Sherlock. Turn around; I want to see your face when I fuck you." Sherlock obeyed quickly, then growled loudly and arched his hips in anticipation. His left hand clutched at the sheets, while the right hand wandered to his throbbing erection. He needed the contact; John hadn't touched him during his preparation. And now his hand was pushed away roughly.
"No, Sherlock. I decide when and how you'll come, and if you'll come at all. So behave and put your hands above your head, hold on to the headboard."
With a groan Sherlock obeyed, but this time he begged, "Please, John, please, I can't - please ..."
John rolled a condom over his own throbbing erection and covered himself and Sherlock in more lube, then he put Sherlock's leg over his right shoulder and kissed his inner thighs gently, his tongue playing with the fine hairs.
Sherlock shuddered and groaned. "Please, John! Pleasepleasepleaseplease..." Again one of Sherlock's hands was on its way down. John slapped it away and bit Sherlock's leg hard, so that a red mark of his teeth was visible. Sherlock startled; his hand was back over his head.
John growled. "If you can't keep your hands still, I'll have to tie you up, Sherlock, do you want that?"
Just the thought was almost too much for Sherlock and he shook his head and howled at the same time. "Oh God, yes, no, please, oh God, John ..."
John chuckled in surprise; he hadn't expected Sherlock to respond so quickly so well. He let the leg slide off his shoulder and reached for the leather cuffs on the bedside table. Without another word, he laid the first cuff around Sherlock's right wrist and fixed it with a carabineer to the bedstead. With Sherlock's other hand he did the same, so that in the end Sherlock's arms were spread wide, bound to the head end of the bed. The cuffs were padded so that he couldn't hurt himself. Finally John put the collar around Sherlock's neck and fixed a thin metal chain at the front, which he held in his hand. He pulled lightly on the chain and Sherlock's head followed the movement, but due to his bound hands, he couldn't move very much.
"That looks quite good already." He kissed Sherlock and loosened his grip on the chain, so that Sherlock's head sank back into the pillows. Sherlock hadn't stirred during the whole procedure, but his arousal had grown immeasurably. Now he tugged at the shackles and moaned loudly. John put Sherlock's leg back over his shoulder and enjoyed the view for a moment. He let his tongue and his teeth slide delicately over Sherlock's inner thigh, making him gasp, then John began to penetrate him gently.
Sherlock fell silent and stilled, completely taken by the new sensations. He tried to relax and John spoke soothingly to him, but his only thought was 'Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!' That could never fit, panic hit him and he tensed until he felt John's soothing hands on his stomach and his legs, and John's words pervaded his daze.
"Quiet, Sherlock. Relax, I won't hurt you. Sherlock, look at me." Sherlock opened his eyes and fixed them on John's, while John's fingers eased Sherlock's entrance again and Sherlock relaxed noticeably. After a few minutes Sherlock was ready; he was breathing hard and bit his lower lip to suppress a moan. John looked him straight in the eyes, holding Sherlock's gaze with his own, as he slowly pushed himself forward. Sherlock held his breath.
"Breathe," John demanded, and Sherlock obeyed, still caught up by John's gaze.
Then John filled him completely, and Sherlock threw his head back with a growl and closed his eyes. John waited a moment; he withdrew a bit to thrust again, this time a little harder. Sherlock's mouth was open wide, but no sound emanated from his throat. This sight alone took John's breath away; he bent down and kissed Sherlock's neck and his collar bones. Then he let his tongue swirl around Sherlock's nipples, which made Sherlock gasp loudly.
"You like that, Sherlock? Shall I go on?" John nibbled and sucked harder now and Sherlock moaned and squirmed beneath him, his hands desperately tugging at the leather cuffs. "Yes, John, yes, yes, oh God, please, Johnnnn ..." John thrust again and again into the wet hot hole, harder and deeper. He changed the angle and hit Sherlock's prostate with each thrust, and Sherlock accompanied every thrust with a moan. Eventually John's hand covered Sherlock's throbbing length, which was trapped between them, and moved his hand in time with his hips.
"Will you be mine. Sherlock?" he whispered in a hoarse voice. "Then come for me, now."
That was all Sherlock needed as encouragement. He tensed, arched his back and it was John's name on his lips as his orgasm rolled over him, one wave after another. Sherlock's muscles clenched around John's cock, he thrust hard a few more times, then he followed Sherlock and they both lay trembling on the bed.
Sherlock was still shaking uncontrollably and John gasped for air. He leaned on his elbows and kissed Sherlock gently on the chin, then pulled back from him carefully, threw the condom in the bin and cleaned them both with a damp towel, before he took off the leather cuffs and the collar.
Sherlock lay on the bed with his eyes closed, breathing heavily. Suddenly John felt insecure. Was he supposed to lay down with him, take him in his arms, which was his first impulse?
He looked down at Sherlock's face - it was relaxed and calm, and he almost looked like he was sleeping. But it was Sherlock, and no one could say how Sherlock would respond. The sex was over, their little game of obedience and submission. Then Sherlock opened his eyes. When their eyes met, John saw a slightly confused but quite satisfied Sherlock, which made it easier for him. He climbed back into bed and opened his arms invitingly. Sherlock hesitated only briefly, then turned around and snuggled into John's open arms, cuddled like a big cat to his chest. John smiled and gave him a kiss on the dark tangled curls.
Sherlock raised his head and looked at him. He was suddenly overwhelmed by an unfamiliar, dumb, almost painful tenderness. He wanted to kiss John's eyelids, his temples, his neck and shoulder, his scar. He blushed and he buried his head at John's neck.
"Hey," John frowned. "Are you okay?" He stroked Sherlock's back gently and waited for a response. He had to wait for a while, but finally Sherlock looked at him angrily. "Of course I am," he snapped at John, who flinched, startled. Sherlock cringed inwardly, he hadn't meant to say it this way, but his feelings had unsettled him, and he hated it when he was uncertain. It made him angry.
John had let him go, his hands lay motionless on the mattress and Sherlock could feel how John had tensed. Sherlock's gaze softened; he hadn't wanted to upset John. "No, John, I didn't mean it."
John didn't answer, but he answered Sherlock's gaze with a look that asked what the hell was going on. And Sherlock suddenly found it incredibly difficult to answer him. He laid his head back on John's shoulder, because it was so much easier when he didn't have to look at him.
"John, I - I don't know what's going on. I'm okay - and that - what you've done to me - that was - great, I have never experienced something like that, I didn't even know - . But - I suddenly - I realise that I have feelings, for you. I've never felt anything like this and I don't know what - I don't know how - I don't know anything, and that drives me mad." Sherlock had become louder, angrier and agitated. But strangely enough, John had relaxed at his words; he caressed him again, which puzzled Sherlock even more.
When he looked up again, John smiled at him. He cupped Sherlock's face in his hands and kissed him tenderly on his eyelids, his forehead, and finally on his lips. "Yes," he said confidently, "I think I'm falling in love, too."
His tongue traced Sherlock's lower lip, then his teeth nibbled at it before he kissed him again, this time more passionate, more intimate. With a flourish, he turned them both so that Sherlock was on his back and John was on top. He kissed him again and Sherlock melted in his arms. He didn't care anymore whether he understood it or not, John obviously understood, he would lead him, and Sherlock would be led by John, only John, only ever John.
The end