Title: Lose Yourself
Disclaimer: Sherlock is owned by Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC and other associated parties. Original story belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not make any profit from this story and the plot is purely fiction.
Summary: slash/het, pre ASIP, J/OMC/OFC, John's first time.
Rating: R
Warnings: slash/het, D/s, BDSM, bondage, some whipping, Sub!John, threesome/moresome, voyeurism.
Pairings: OMCxJohn, OFCxJohn
Word Count: 3,924
Author's Note: …no idea where this idea came from. It just happened. Anyways, this is my first attempt at D/s, BDSM. As I am not an expert in this area, something might be wrong, just go with the flow.
xXx
The first time he learned of it was soon after coming home from Afghanistan. In his therapist's waiting room, he met up with a fellow soldier back on permanent leave, like him, wounded in action. They had spent the last thirty minutes reminiscing about the army, the war, where they were stationed, comparing what they had seen, the difference between infantry and medical soldiers.
It had been so long since he had last seen a soldier, let alone talked with one, that it was like some release valve had been hit, some tension in his body letting go. To this day, he didn't know what prompted it, something in his face, his stance, he didn't know, but then the man, Gordon was his name, started talking, low and fast.
At first it didn't make any sense, but as it dawned on him what he was saying, the man stood, sliding a business card into his hand before he shuffled away, his therapist beckoning him to his office, leaving a stunned John Watson to stare at the card in his hand, mind still trying to come to terms with what the man had offered.
He didn't have any time to contemplate it as his own therapist called out to him. Stuffing it into his jacket pocket, he stood and grabbing his cane, limping over to her door, pushing the card to the back of his mind so he could concentrate on his session.
He'd forgotten all about the card by the end of the session, body stiff and on edge from his session as he took a taxi home, not wanting to deal with the hustle and bustle of the Tube during the rush of people returning home. At his flat, paid for by the government until he got back on his feet, he paid the taxi driver, mind elsewhere as he slowly limped his way up the three flights of stairs.
Inside, he shed his jacket and shoes, lining the footwear up with the rest of his shoes in a neat row. Chucking his jacket onto his bed to go through the pockets later, he limped through his tiny, bare flat to an even tinier bathroom, the shower a stand-in only, a small metal handle in the wall so he didn't slip and fall in the limited space of the three by three stall.
He showered quickly, water as hot as he could stand, washing away the nervous sweat that had collected on his body during his session. He hated going, but in order to keep his flat, for now, he was required to go and since he had no job and only the little money the army gave him weekly, he did what he needed to stay warm, dry and fed.
Changing into a slightly baggy t-shirt, he'd lost weight while away and none of his clothes fit like they used to, and an old pair of sweatpants, he limped back into the room, falling heavily to sit with a bounce on the bed, mattress dipping with his weight.
His jacket is next to him so he drags it closer, digging in his pockets, pulling out random receipts and some change. In his other pocket, his fingers close around something papery, but thicker then what the receipts are made of. Pulling it out, he stares down at the business card, replaying the hurried conversation.
He hadn't noticed before, but on the back are Gordon's name and a number scrawled messily over the pure white back of the card. The front is simple, just an address, number, and someone else's name. It feels surreal at the moment.
He'd never thought of it before, never known that there were people out there who might like something like that, though he'd been trained, by his teachers in medical school and the army, that he must always have it: control.
It had proved true during surgery in both a hospital and on the battlefield. People looked to him as an officer and a doctor for guidance, for reassurance that everything would be alright. Patients wanted to know that they were in the hands of a doctor who was sure of himself, who knew what he was doing.
He sat there, staring at the plain card as his mind turns the idea over and over in his head, trying to imagine what it would be like. He can…see the appeal of it. To relinquish all control, to let someone else decide for him, to be free of the burden, if only for a brief time. It strikes him then, that this is a part of himself that he never knew about and yet a relative stranger saw a side of him he had never considered.
Had it been obvious, or had Gordon had practice looking for the sign, some spark in a person's eyes that made them stand out among the rest of the people. For the first time in weeks, months, he feels…not alive, but awake maybe, more alert to his surroundings, the fog on his life lifting somewhat to let him see more clearly.
He doesn't realize that his phone is in his hand until it's at his ear, the ring of a connection trying to be made jolting him back into the present. It's too late, the connection going through and Gordon's voice is on the other end and in that one moment, he doesn't hang up, decides to at least see what it is that has for the moment, alleviated the deaden existence his life has become. "H-hello." His voice hitches in nervousness, anticipation, he can't tell. "It's John."
Two days later, he's in a taxi next to Gordon, stomach in knots and hands fisted and clammy as the taxi speeds towards some unknown destination. He knows he willingly agreed to this, but for a second, his doubt wars with his curiosity, his craving for the small relief from what his life is that he is sure this will give him.
For his part, Gordon says nothing, realizing that John needs to think, remain in control for the moment or else he will bolt like a startled horse. So he is silent, occasionally throwing a small smile in his direction, trying to be reassuring to his nervous companion.
The house they pull up in front of is large, four stories of a sort of modernized Victorian era architecture. A wall surrounds it, vines and hedges peeking over the top of the very tall wall, affording privacy to the occupants in the building and their doings. A wrought iron gate, twisted into swirling vines with sharp thorns welded on blocks the only entrance.
Gordon rings the doorbell hidden among some vines and they wait as someone walks over from the other side of the wall. They are in shadow and hard to make out, besides the black three quarter coat, crisp white shirt, and pressed pants. The man seems to recognize Gordon, nodding in his direction, but watching John as he stands there, shifting his weight from his good leg to his cane and back.
"This is John. His first time." Simple sentences, but they say more than one would expect. The man nods and even smiles in his direction.
"Welcome. I hope you enjoy yourself." He opens the gate, stepping aside and its only then that he notices the gun in a side holster and the way the man holds himself. He is another military man, though probably not for some time since he seems more relaxed the he and Gordon.
He disappears back into a small building set to the side of the gate, the door shutting firmly behind his retreating form. John doesn't have long to contemplate the guard and what it could mean because they're at the front door and its opening, a woman standing there with a smile on her face. "Gordon." She steps forward, enfolding the man into a warm embrace. She's tall, even without the four inch heels. Her skin is a soft tan color that is too natural to be anything but lucky genes. Waves of dark hair curl around her face and shoulders, accenting the curve of her cheeks and neck. She steps back, looking at John. "And you brought someone…another military man." She arches a brow at him.
"This is Doctor John Watson, of Her Majesties army until a few months ago." She smiles warmly at him. "He proclaimed some interest and I have agreed to be his guide tonight."
She held out her hand and he shook it, feeling the warmth seep into his skin and the supple strength in those graceful fingers. "A pleasure, John. I am Shera, the hostess of this little gathering. I hope you enjoy yourself and maybe we will see you again."
She waves them in and shuts the door behind them, leaving them in the semidarkness of the front hall. Walking after the woman, the hall opens up into a sort of parlor, easy chairs and sofas are scattered across the room, lamps giving off a warm glow. There are a few others, seated and talking, but they don't look up as they enter.
"Your coats, gentlemen." A man in a well cut suit stands behind them, hand held out for their coats. John shrugs out of his slowly, resting all his weight on his good leg, the cane resting against his side to free his hand and arm. Coats in hand, the man walks off to a side door and disappears inside the room.
"Since you are playing guide tonight, Gordon, I'll leave you to it, but come get me if you need anything." She turned to John. "It was nice meeting you, John." She walks away quickly, up a staircase he only just than noticed. It's large, with dark, polished wood, the stairs carpeted and making no sound as she ascends them and disappears around the curve they make.
Gordon turns to him, questioning eyebrow raised. "We can stay here for a little bit, let you relax, or…if you want we can head straight up, let you observe, see if anything catches your interest." A small smirk curves his lips at that and John can't help but smile in return remembering similar conversations in boot camp during weapons training as they went over different guns, seeing what 'caught their interest'.
"I…we can head up." The man nods and leads the way to the stairs and for a moment, he has no idea what he will see, what he should brace himself for.
"This floor consists of demonstration rooms. The one below is where you can go to catch your breath, talk with Andrew if you are hungry or thirsty and he will bring you something from the kitchen. The top two floors are private rooms, all equipped for use, though each varies in items." John nods, following slowly up the stairs, Gordon stopping every few steps to let him catch up. "Shera's office is on this floor." He points down the hall to a closed wooden door, a golden name plate inlaid in the wood.
"This way." He leads him down an intersecting hall, doors lining it. There is some noise, but the rooms must be sound proofed because he can't make anything out. "For now, we will start light with viewing. We happen to have a few other beginners at the moment besides you." He turns back, grin on his face. "Brace yourself; this won't be what you're used to."
It isn't. There's a man in the center of the room, arms bound in leather and chains which tie him to the floor. He is stripped down to nothing, sweat beading on his dark skin, long black hair hanging around his face in clumps.
There is a woman behind him dressed in lingerie that barely covers anything and shows almost everything. She's in stilettos, the heels like six inch spikes on her feet. She's wielding a ridding crop in her hand, held loosely at her side as she stalks, there's no other way to describe it, around her prey. There are others in the room, seated at the few tables, or standing. Some have someone kneeling at their feet, collars and leashes connecting them with chain and leather.
The man shifts on his feet, the chain links clicking together. There's no warning as she strikes out, whip connecting with the flesh on his back with a loud crack, nearly covering up the surprised gasp that escapes his lips. "I told you no moving." She warns him, running the crop back over the welt that is rising on his back, drawing out a hiss, but he remains still. "Good." She moves in front of him, his form towing over her even in the heels, and she stands on tiptoes, bestowing a kiss on his mouth. She pulls back, talking as she starts to unlatch his arms from the floor. "When one is in control, you must be firm in your orders. A sub will not follow if you lack the control they want held over them. You may have to prove you are dominant, using a little pain to drive the point home is good, don't be afraid to punish."
She stepped back and the man stepped forward, bending down to kiss her before he knelt on the floor next to her. As she runs a soft hand over his shoulder, he spoke. "A sub must always listen to their dom. They not only control you, but protect you from other doms. A little rebellion is nice in a sub, but most doms will go for the more submissive subs." The crowd starts to clap as he finishes and she starts to walk away, the man following on a leash, when had she put that on him?, and it's almost comical the way he towers over her small frame.
"Gordon, it's been a while." Someone calls out, spotting his guide. John stays back as the man talks with the friend, eyes roving over the rest of those gathered. The pairs, and sometimes groups, all vary. Some are hetero, some same sex couples, most have some sort of leash on their subs, and some don't though the sub sticks close to their side. He can understand the protection part, can feel the undercurrent of tension in the air.
He can't help but notice the few stares being sent his way, but tries not to look back in case he give some sort of signal he didn't mean to. It doesn't seem to be working as one man breaks off from a group and starts threading his way through the crowd towards him. His heart starts to flutter, panic starting to rise when he feels a hand at his elbow.
He nearly jumps out of his skin, turning quickly to see Shera standing next to him, a few inches taller than his average height. He gulps at the steely look she is sending the man who had started to come over, but doesn't look to see what the man is doing.
Gordon finally seems to figure out what is going on, walking quickly back over with a guilty look on his face. "Shera, I'm…"
She cuts him off. "A guide should never leave their charge unattended." She snaps at him.
His whole demeanor changes seeming to shift and give under her ire. "You're right. I'm sorry for leaving you alone, John."
She guides John out of the room, Gordon following silently behind and shutting the door, cutting them off from the room. "What did you think?" She asks quietly, leading them down the hall.
It takes John a second to catch up and realize she was talking to him. "Um…" He can't stop the heat rising to his cheeks as he admits this. "It was…nice." It had been nice, seeming to tug on something inside him.
They stop in front of her office and she opens the door, beckoning them in. It is nice, well furnished with book shelves, the wood paneling on the wall contrasting with the burgundy of the painted walls. "Sit." He jumps as steel creeps into her voice, directed at both of them and for a moment his mind rebels. But his body has other ideas, taking him over to the chair and lowering him to the cushion, cane leaned against the side.
Gordon has done likewise; grin fit to split his face in half. She is also smiling, though it is more subdued and she pulls her chair back, lowering herself into it. It's only then that he notices the leather and silk getup she's wearing and for the life of him, he can't remember if she was wearing it when they first met.
"Now John, before we go any further, there are some things to know about this sort of establishment." He nods, letting her know he is following. "We have rules set up, for your safety and others and should you break them knowingly, you will be escorted off the premises and never allowed back on. Is that under stood?" He feels a moment of Déjà vu as the voice of his old drill sergeant overlays hers and it is distorting, but his body has been trained to respond to the command in that voice.
"Yes, Ma'am, it is perfectly clear."
"Good. Now the first rule you must know, is that every person has a safety word. Ignoring this word will not be tolerated. It is something personal to you that will tell the person you are with that you wish to stop. With each new person you are with, you must ask, or they must ask what each other's word is. These are games and not everything that is said has the same meaning, thus the safe word is needed. If you wish to continue here, you must think about what your word will be. Be sure it is not something you say in the heat of the moment." She smiled indulgently at him as he nodded.
"Rule two: respect peoples boundaries. I will not tolerate you forcing yourself on someone…unless it is in the parameters of your game, of course." He felt heat washing over his face again.
"And rule three: you have the right to refuse anyone if you are uncomfortable with them. Other than that, any other rules are made between you and the other party. As you become more accustomed and adept at this, things may change, but for the moment, no one will do more than you are comfortable with unless you say so. Now, do you wish to continue?" He nodded.
He jumped as a thin strip of leather slipped around his neck securely, but not so tight that is hurt or cut off air. He tensed, out of his depth as Gordon stood behind him, when had he gotten up?, and Shera came around her desk, heels clicking against her hardwood floor. "Relax, John." Gordon whispered in his ear and he shivered at the sensation. "Just let it all go. Let us take care of you." She was standing in front of him, waiting silently to see if he gave willingly to them.
As she stood there, he let the thoughts in his mind slip away, any resistance or scruples against this fade. As his mind cleared, and the fog lifted, he felt his body relax as he submitted himself to these two. It was going to be a long night.
He woke the next morning groggily, shifting slightly on the soft bed, sandwiched between two warm bodies. He could feel the simple leather collar, warmed from his body heat, supple and strong, reminding him of what he had let go of last night.
His shoulder ached a little, though mostly from the slight workout it had gotten and not from the injury. Shera and Gordon had made sure he didn't hurt his shoulder anew. Parts elsewhere did ache though, reminding him what exactly it was he had done last night. Someone shifted behind him, he couldn't tell who with his eyes still shut, and curled closer. Flat chest met his back and he knew it was Gordon, the man spooning behind him even as he himself curled around Shera.
For the first time in a long time, even before he had gotten shot, he felt…safe. Sheltered. Hidden from the reality of the real world outside these walls and he didn't want to rise, to get up and leave. But he had to, his mind wouldn't let him give up his control forever and already it was at work, waking the rest of his body up.
With a sigh, he realized he was fighting a losing battle. With a soft groan, he opened his eyes, soft morning light filtering through the crack in the curtains of the third story private room that they had commandeered last night. Another sigh escaped his lips and he forced himself to sit up, disentangling himself from their lose limbs.
Reaching up, he undid the collar, feeling his old self settle back into place as the leather left his skin. He was looking for a place to put it when a tan hand settled on his own. "Keep it." Shera said softly, sitting up next to him. She was devoid of any of the leather and silk she had worn last night, her skin still soft looking, and her breasts perky and well rounded, shifting with each breath. "You will need it for when you come back." She smiled up at him and then kissed him softly before sliding off the bed and walking naked from the room, unashamed of her nudity.
A work roughened hand slid along his thigh, squeezing gently. "It was fun. Maybe next time." Gordon asked unabashed by his request. John couldn't help but smile and nodded. He slid from the bed, looking for his cane. It was leaned up against the wall nearest to the bed, his clothes neatly folded next to it.
Forcing himself up, he limped towards them, picking up his clothes and grabbing his cane. Another door led to a simple, but lavish bathroom. He took a quick shower, washing away last night as he braced himself to face the day.
By the time he stepped out, Gordon too had left, the room empty, the only evidence of what had gone on last night was the rucked up sheets and blankets. Sighing again, he pulled out his phone. No new messages or texts, the understatement of his life. The fact that this was his sister's phone, a gift from her wife, was irony unto itself. He glanced at the time before pocketing it again.
Six AM. It was going to be a long day of nothing to do. It did seem a little brighter though. If he wanted, he could come back here again. That alone made this place a sanctuary for his battered body and mind. Maybe he would come back tonight, or maybe tomorrow would be better…he'd figure it out later. He needed to get back to his empty flat to change. Maybe later, he would go out. His therapist was always saying he needed to get out more.
Squaring his shoulders, he made his way out, nodding to others just emerging from other rooms. He waved farewell to the guard at the gate, a different man from last night, and started to limp his way up the road, looking for a taxi to hail down.
End.