SUMMARY: Sherlock has no reservations about breaking the law. In this case: a bit of light stalking and prostitution (impersonation).
AO3 TAGS: Canon Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, POV Sherlock Holmes, Stalking, but really light non-intrusive stalking, Prostitution, but really he's just posing as a rent boy, BDSM, Dom/sub, Dom Sherlock Holmes, Sub John Watson, Shibari, Kinbaku, Top Sherlock, Bottom John Watson, Anal, Anal Fingering
AN: This is not a current piece, but rather one that's a little over a year old - it was written for the toplockfanbook tumblr, and as it's been about a year since said fanbook went out, it's time that I publish this to AO3. Apparently I could have published it like a month after it went out but I just straight up forgot.
If you've read this in the fanbook already, very minor edits (a punctuation or word here and there) have been made.
The crime scene was an average six, but for once, it wasn't the lack of interesting components that kept pulling at Sherlock's attention.
There was a man standing on the fringes of the crowd gathered outside the police tape and though everything about him - his face, his hair, his clothes - screamed 'average', his posture was military-perfect and his face was tanned an unusual shade for a London-native. Something about that combination, normal and ex-military, suited the man and simultaneously piqued Sherlock's interest at the incomplete picture he was too far away from to make clear. He nearly pushed through the crowd to get to the stranger, but Lestrade, inopportune as always, chose that moment to grow impatient.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock. Is our victim boring you?" he sniped, temper shorted by too little sleep and too much subpar coffee over the last three days, judging by the state of his tie.
"She's only a six," Sherlock scoffed, but returned to his work nonetheless.
He decided to sate his curiosity only if the man was still there by the time he'd finished, but he would go no further. Though the man's face appealed to Sherlock, relationships of any kind, including one night stands, were not Sherlock's area; he had a club for that, one that understood his needs. He could learn without needing to chase.
He needn't have worried.
Sherlock happened to be facing the crowd when he rattled off his findings for Lestrade's incompetent team, and he found the man was already walking away well before he'd finished speaking. The posture was still perfect, the man's spine a hard line and his shoulders back and stiff, but he was limping with the aid of a cane. Psychosomatic injury. Interesting. Pity that he was leaving so soon. He was already walking around a corner and would be too far gone even for Sherlock's long legs to catch up by the time he finished educating Lestrade's team on all that they had missed.
He left Lestrade and Scotland Yard's finest scratching their head and archived the man as he caught a cab back to Baker Street.
Bart's was blessedly silent in and around Sherlock's laboratory, leaving him alone to conduct his experiment. Lestrade had managed to find him an eight earlier in the night and now the hour was late, too late for the staff and students to be causing their normal disruptive commotion. And yet, there were two pairs of footsteps echoing in the hallway, the pace too mellow to be business. There was an odd, heavy but hollow thump accompanying every other step that tugged at something in Sherlock's memory, and he looked up as the footsteps neared. Mike Stamford passed by the door, visible through the small window, as was a stranger. A stranger who walked with a limp.
Suddenly, Sherlock remembered the six Lestrade had given him three weeks ago and the man at the edge of the crowd that had piqued his interest. He was up and off his stool in a flash and striding to the door, opening it silently to stick his head out into the hall. Blond hair, tan jacket, tanned hands, limp and cane. It was the same man. Sherlock quickly snapped a picture of the man's back and sent a text to one of his Irregulars that tended to sleep near Bart's with instructions to shadow the man once he left. He'd do it himself if his experiment, and the case, weren't time sensitive, but he'd get his information regardless. Despite what his brother and Lestrade tended to think, he could be patient when the situation called for it. He'd have what he wanted soon enough.
Sherlock updated his file on the stranger to add 'doctor' alongside 'retired soldier wounded in Afghanistan or Iraq', and returned to his seat and his experiment.
As the next two months progressed, Sherlock learned through his Irregulars as well as his own shadowing that the man's name was Dr John Watson, he lived alone in a bedsit he had a hard time paying for, had breakfast with his alcoholic sister every other Sunday, was having poor luck finding a permanent position at a GP's, was a bit suicidal, and a lot attracted to crime scenes. Sherlock spotted him on the fringes of an active scene no less than five additional times, though he didn't see him at Bart's after the first time. Despite the added notes to his mental file, Sherlock was frustrated that he was no closer to solving the puzzle that was Dr Watson.
It took another six weeks before he caught a break in the form of a text message from one of his Irregulars who spent his days pickpocketing businessmen and his nights taking more of their money in exchange for the use of his body:
His doctor was trolling the rent boys.
It had been months since Sherlock had last visited the club - he hadn't felt the urge, but now, knowing that his doctor was looking for company, his body started to heat and he flew to his room to get ready. An indecent pair of leather pants, a shirt that was more messed sleeves and slashed vest, and a helping of black eyeliner and hair product later, Sherlock was in a cab and headed towards Dr Watson.
He spotted the man limping slowly along the sidewalk, eyeing the wares and delivering smile after declining smile as his limp got worse and the tension ratcheted in the lines of his body. Sherlock had the cabbie drop him off around the corner, out of sight, and he slunk silently and unnoticeably through the shadows to the end of the line, so to speak. He found himself smirking as Watson moved slowly but steadily closer, and he leaned against the brick to wait. He didn't have to wait long.
His doctor slowed when he spotted Sherlock, the last rent boy on the sidewalk, and frowned, confusion clear on his face. Sherlock belatedly realized that it was possible Watson might recognize him, but nothing for it now. It might even help.
"How long has it been since someone has taken control, Officer?" he said when the man was close enough. His doctor stilled, his attention caught, but Sherlock needed the man's actual title. "Lieutenant? Sergeant? Captain?" That one. A quick inhale of breath and a minor pupil dilation. "Captain, then." His heart started to pound in his chest, but now was the moment of truth. "Or would you prefer 'Doctor'?"
Watson glanced sharply around and then moved quickly forward into Sherlock's space, the limp apparently forgotten, confirming his original hypothesis of 'psychosomatic'. Sherlock's smirk widened.
"I've seen you before. Swanning about crime scenes in that coat of yours." Watson's voice was surprisingly not as deep as Sherlock had anticipated, but it was low and demanding, suspicious. Lovely. "Are you following me?"
"Considering it's you I've seen at my crime scenes, I'd suspect that it was you doing the following, Doctor," Sherlock replied, evading answering the truth with his own accusation, unfounded though it was. Not that the captain would know.
Watson huffed. "I am not following you. It's hardly my fault people are being murdered near where I travel. And you didn't answer my question."
Sherlock's smirk morphed into a smile. Even if the man was as likely blind as the rest of the world, he appeared to have moments of astuteness. Perfectly lovely. "And if I was?"
The soldier rocked back on his heels, hostility, surprisingly, melting into surprise. "Then I want to know why. I have no money, no possessions, nothing you could want from me…"
"Oh, there's something I want from you," Sherlock said vaguely, sliding his eyes down the man's body, wondering what wonders were hidden beneath.
Watson didn't reply for a moment, and then he seemed to realize either what Sherlock meant or where his eyes were trained, or both. "Oh." The word was soft and surprised, and Sherlock raised his eyes again. "Really?"
"You never answered my question, Doctor," Sherlock said by way of answer. When Watson just gave him a blank look, Sherlock reiterated. "How long has it been since someone has taken control?"
Watson blinked a few times, and then his mouth fell open. "Ohhh," he breathed, eyes darkening. "You want- Ohhh."
"Problem?"
His doctor's- his soldier's posture straightened suddenly once again, like a man preparing to go into battle. His chin raised and he looked Sherlock dead in the eye. "Not at all."
Sherlock grinned, wide and triumphant, and he stepped into Watson's space, leaving little room between them, but just enough to be teasing as he dropped his chin to keep eye contact. "Excellent."
He stepped away just as Watson started to lean into him, and strode to the sidewalk, hailing one of the cabs lingering down the block. Watson looked dazed and wrong-footed when he finally turned around to look at Sherlock while the cab pulled up behind him. He opened the door and gestured inside. "Mine's closer."
Watson didn't even question how Sherlock knew, or that he did, just shook his head and got into the cab. Sherlock followed after him, sliding in a bit closer than propriety typically allowed, and laid a hand on his thigh. "221B Baker Street."
Watson took one look at the piles of coiled rope - all a deep blue that matched Sherlock's scarf - on Sherlock's bed, the safety shears next to them, and the suspension rigging in the ceiling, and asked "This isn't going to end in my murder, is it?"
Sherlock laughed, surprised by his own amusement and just as delighted in Watson's gallows humour and his presence in 221B. "I certainly hadn't planned on it." He stepped up behind the other man and wrapped his arms around him, unashamedly running his hands up and down his chest, avoiding the temptation of the buttons. He leaned in close to brush his lips against the curve of Watson's ear. "Although, if you're interested in a bit more fun, I'd be more than happy to retrieve my knife and gun?" Watson turn his head to give Sherlock a flat look over his shoulder. Sherlock hooked his chin over firm muscle and solid bone and grinned as he nipped a tempting lobe. "Another time, then."
He could barely contain himself - his expression or his body. He felt like he was shaking, his skin overheated and prickling inside his mesh and leather clothes. Months of waiting, watching, and his soldier was finally here. He needed more self control. He needed to make this last. He'd prefer it if the man stayed, forever, but Sherlock wasn't going to force it, so he needed to act as if this night was the only night they were going to have together.
Slowly, Sherlock mouthed his way down Watson's neck, pleased when the man tilted his head to give him more room. He kept his lips to the tanned skin as he began to unbutton the stiff shirt, his lips and tongue soft, his teeth barely a whisper of pressure. With every disc that slid through its fastening, the looser the collar got, until it was falling off Watson's shoulders. And with every centimeter of shoulder revealed, the heavier Watson became, the more weight he delivered into Sherlock's hold, trusting Sherlock to keep him upright. The simple act of removing a shirt had become something sensual, intimate, and it made Sherlock's heart thrum in his chest.
By the time Watson's shirt hit the floor, Sherlock's fingers had already began work on Watson's belt, and his mouth had already begun to seek out the small webbing of scar at the back of his soldier's left shoulder. He scraped his teeth over the mass of silvered flesh and Watson gasped, arching his spine away from Sherlock, which, incidentally, had his hips pushing the bulge beneath the placket of his trousers into Sherlock's palm as Sherlock unbuttoned and unzipped. Smiling, Sherlock moved his hand higher, pushing on Watson's belly to bring him back into position, even as Sherlock bit into the sensitive scar.
Watson groaned and writhed in Sherlock's hold, head thrown back to expose his straining neck, his eyes closed. Sherlock sucked lightly, even as he began to step back. He had to hold Watson straight for a moment, had to push a finger against posture here and there, until the man could once again stand upright on his own. He was shaking as he did, however, trembling where he stood with his shirt and trousers around his ankles, wearing nothing but a pair of indecently-red y-fronts and his socks.
When Sherlock circled around to the front of him, he found signs of malnourishment in the prominence of ribs and signs of inactivity in the softness of belly. The scarring on the front of Watson's shoulder was wider, a web of silver, which Sherlock was distracted from by the spread of a red flush from neck to shoulders. Watson was breathing intentionally steady, mouth open; further evidence of his self-control, and further proof that Sherlock was going to have fun breaking him.
Sherlock crouched to pull Watson's pants down slowly, revealing bit-by-bit the thick erection that had been tenting the soft fabric. It was only the thought of his plan that kept him from putting his mouth on it. Hopefully, he would have a chance later. When, at last, pants and socks joined trousers and shirt, John was completely bare, without so much as his dog tags to shield any bit of himself from Sherlock.
"John," Watson said suddenly, and Sherlock looked up at him from his crouch. He knew the picture he painted: the flush of his own cheeks, the colour of his eyes surrounded by his makeup, the plumpness of his lips, so close to Watson's erection. He smiled and Watson's breath hitched.
"You certainly are," he murmured, standing slowly and without breaking eye contact.
Once back at his full height, he stepped close until Watson's skin was brushing against his clothes, and then ducked his head to suck a mark into the unblemished skin of the tanned throat. He wanted to cover this man in his marks, make him remember Sherlock if he decided not to stay. Most of the marks would be from Sherlock's ropes, but he wanted to leave at least one with his mouth, with his teeth. Something high, something that sat above even a fully buttoned collar; something dark, noticeable to anyone who might encounter his doctor over the next week. An unavoidable truth that John Watson had belonged to him, even if just for a night.
"No, no, I mean- ungh. My name. My name is John," he panted, eyes already glazed when Sherlock pulled back, temporarily satisfied.
"I know," Sherlock said simply, and just like before, when Sherlock had insinuated he knew where he lived, his soldier said nothing. "Now get on your knees, John."
John folded without question and without hesitation, simply knelt right there in front of Sherlock, balancing his arse on his heels, his thighs tight with his balanced weight. He kept his chin and shoulders down but his back straight, a perfect posture, and then, without prompting, put his arms behind his back as well, grasping one wrist with the opposite hand. Sherlock hummed in surprise and pleasure, and combed his fingers through the short, blond strands. "Mm, very good job, John."
"Thank you, sir."
Sherlock frowned and flicked an ear. "None of that. Sherlock will do fine," he corrected.
"Thank you, Sherlock," John said immediately, and Sherlock ran the pad of his thumb over the curve of thin skin his flick had reddened.
"Good. Now, have you ever been tied up?" he asked as he stepped over to his bed, eyeing both his ropes and the suspension. Suspending John would allow Sherlock to even out their height differences, making fucking him easier, but his shoulder required special consideration.
"No, Sherlock," John replied with a small shake of his head. "Um, are we going to need safewords?"
Sherlock uncoiled his longest rope and tied the first knot just below the rope's midpoint, preparing the dark blue coils for a hishi karada. "I rather think the stoplight system will work just fine for a first encounter, yes?" He knelt behind John and draped the rope around his neck, positioning his first knot and the loop it left at the top of John's spine.
"Yes, Sherlock." John had begun to tremble minutely, little shakes moving up his spine and across his shoulders, raising the light hairs on his skin. His posture, however, remained impeccable.
Sherlock, conversely, had lost the miniscule tremors in his body as he'd sunk deeper into his role. He knelt tall behind John, looking over the man's shoulder as he wrapped John in his arms in a embrace made false by the fact that his fingers were too busy knotting the rope in even spaced segments to make it true. When a line of knotted rope halved John's chest, Sherlock gently eased John's knees, and thighs, apart, until he was satisfied. When Sherlock passed the rope through John's legs, the edge of his hand brushed John's heavy scrotum, and John let out a soft moan that made Sherlock's ignored erection twitch in his trousers.
Every time Sherlock rocked forward to wrap and twist to form the familiar diamond pattern down John's chest, his confined cock would rock up against John's spine. Or rather, the rope bisecting it. And every time Sherlock rocked forward, every time his fingers lingered along skin a little too long as he worked, John gave a little moan, an encouraging little sound, a plea for Sherlock to use his body to get off. Sherlock, however, dutifully ignored him - he knew exactly where he wanted this evening to go, where he wanted it to end, and he had no plans to deviate.
Soon, John's torso was bound in line and diamonds of blue, slashes against his darker skin that suited him wonderfully. Sherlock had bound him a bit tighter than was typical - nothing that would cause nerve damage, or permanent marks, but definitely temporary marks, patterned indentations and inflammations. Minor bruising, if he was lucky. It would be beautiful in the morning.
"Arms behind your back," Sherlock commanded, speaking for the first time in long minutes. It made his voice stand out in the quiet of the room, and it made John shiver. But he did as he was told.
Sherlock layered one forearm over the other, keeping the ushiro takatekote posture steady by gripping John's elbows and holding them in place.
"Can your shoulder sustain this position?"
John was silent for a moment, the shift in his muscles denoting his deliberation, before he nodded his head. "Yes, Sherlock."
"Good," Sherlock praised as he tugged another coil of rope off the duvet and bound John tight into the box-tie. He wouldn't normally make it two separate ties, but he didn't want John's injury to be any part of the suspension rigging. Sherlock already planned on keeping a close eye on his soldier's microexpressions to ensure he wasn't feeling pain that Sherlock wasn't causing himself.
The swing harness only took a moment longer than that to complete, ropes wrapped tightly around John's thighs and waist to help dispense John's weight. With every pass of his hands and his ropes between John's spread thighs, Sherlock brushed the wet tip of John's cock and John would make a wounded little sound that made Sherlock want to rut to completion against his back. It was agony, but it was a sweet torture. For both of them.
"Do you know what I'm going to do to you, John?" he whispered into the man's ear as he worked, his breath hot and close.
John shook his head, and then managed a broken "No."
"After I'm done ensuring you can't move, I'm going to finger you until you're begging for my cock. And then when you're begging for it, when you can't stand me not fucking you any longer, I will, but I won't let you come until I'm satisfied. How does that sound?"
John's answer was a deep moan, closed eyes, and a full-body shudder that sorely tempted Sherlock's resolve not to touch. But Sherlock was a master of mind over matter, and he wouldn't let that fail him now.
When at last the only bind left to perform was the futomomo, something that would be best done when John was already suspended, Sherlock stood. He kept a guiding finger under John's bottom forearm and John followed to his feet with the wordless command, the motion smooth and graceful. Sherlock rounded the front of him and felt his breath go unsteady for a moment at the sight of John's chest lined with his diamonds, his cock and balls framed just so with the last diamond in the chain. The explosive size of the scar on his shoulder that screamed 'shot from behind'.
"You really are exquisite in blue, John," he praised, hooking his finger over a knot over John's sternum. "You should wear it more often."
John's eyes were glazed from his arousal and his submission, but a small, pleased smile still crossed his lips. "Thank you, Sherlock."
Sherlock smiled back and slowly walked John backwards with a gentle pressure against his chest until they stood beneath the suspension rigging. Suspension was a delicate procedure, even without a previously-injured party to consider, and Sherlock took care to be excruciatingly precise in the lay of ropes and in weight distribution. It took longer than he would have liked, long enough that John's erection had wilted just a little, and Sherlock's quite a bit, thankfully relieving some of the pressure in the front of his trousers, but at last, John was hanging at the perfect height, halfway between lying horizontally in the ropes and reclining in them.
He didn't even pause to take in the sight before he was binding John's calves to his thighs in the frog tie, and by the time he was tying John's legs apart with more ropes leading up to the suspension, John's cock had filled out once more. It only took Sherlock one look at the picture John made, bound and spread, hole exposed to his gaze, for Sherlock's cock to stiffen once more. The whole tableau was only made more arousing when a flush spread down John's chest under Sherlock's watchful eyes.
"How do you feel, John?" Sherlock asked as he pulled a condom and a bottle of lube from his nightstand and dropped the condom onto the small cradle of John's belly. The lube he uncapped and poured into his palm before the bottle joined the foil wrapper.
"Vulnerable," John said, his voice breathy, trembling in his bonds. "Open. Exposed."
Sherlock traced one wet finger around John's hole, massaged the muscle with soft but firm intent, letting the tip of his finger slip sporadically inside briefly before withdrawing it again. For the moment, he just wanted to gentle John's too-tense body into cooperation. "You're a junkie, John. That's what happens when you feed your addiction." He finally pressed the whole length of his finger inside, and the muscles in John's stomach clenched almost rhythmically in place of arching or writhing.
"How- how so, Sherlock?"he gasped, managing to remember his manners even when nearly-overcome with pleasure.
"You let a complete stranger, one who's admitted to stalking you, take you home and tie you up." John's hole was loosening around his finger, and Sherlock worked in a second one, slowly, carefully, taking care to stretch, to not tear. To not brush the sensitive gland just inside. "You let said stranger tie you up until you were completely immobile. You have no escape routes. I could do anything I wanted to you," Sherlock said lightly, thrusting slowly with each word. He leaned in and dropped his head, breathing a slow, steady, hot breath over the head of John's purpling prick. "And I plan to," he said over the sound of John's short cry.
"God, Sherlock," John moaned, his head thrown back and his chest heaving within their confines.
"Yes, John?" he asked innocently, even as he added a third finger and grinned sharply at the sob his soldier let loose. Captain Watson's control wasn't just breaking, it was fracturing, like the shattering of fine crystal, without so much as a touch to cock or prostate. Even from where Sherlock stood, John's lashes and cheeks looked a bit damp, and Sherlock wondered how he'd missed the tears in the first place.
"Please," John begged, as Sherlock continued to finger him slow and steady. Not once did his pace waver, not once did he deviate.
"Please, what, John?" he prompted. When John could only beg wordlessly, apparently too desperate to properly convey his wants, Sherlock rephrased.
"You're so loose now, John," he murmured, dropping his gaze to where his three fingers were pulling in and pushing out of the soft, pink hole. "I've been fingering you for some time now. Surely that's not all you want from me?" he teased, not slowing his pace. John's head shook, the only part of him that could move, and Sherlock hummed curiously. "No? What else could you possibly want? You must be so full by now. But perhaps not… You want a fourth finger? Well, if you insist…" he trailed off, although he was already alternating between gently tracing the stretched rim with the edge of his pinky's fingernail, and pressing his fingertip in alongside his other three fingers, stretching John just a little bit more each time.
John groaned long and low and the sound slowly morphed into a "Nooo".
"No? What else would you like then."
"Your cock." John begged, twisting in place.
"Oh? And where do you want it?" Sherlock asked, feigning obliviousness. He finally used his free hand to unbutton and unzip his leather trousers, and he nearly breathed a sigh of relief at the sensation of pulling his erect cock out from the hot, confining fabric and into the cool air of the flat. The tip was wet, like John's, and Sherlock smeared it across the back of one of John's thighs. "Here?" he asked, and John shook his head. "Perhaps here then?" he said next, rutting once into the crease of John's thigh.
John moaned and shook his head harder. "No, no, no," he chanted, but said nothing else.
Sherlock took a step back, drawing his fingers with him as he went until there was nothing but his fingertips inside John. John who keened and sobbed at the loss, but still couldn't seem to find his tongue.
"Let me hear you beg, John," Sherlock said, the timber of his voice gone deep and low, dark, in his arousal. "Let me hear you beg for me."
Like a dam broken, sweet pleas began to spill from John's mouth.
"God, Sherlock, please fuck me. Please give me your cock. I'll be good, I promise. I won't come until you say just please Sherlock please fuck me." John was so unsteady in his bindings, writhing as he was, that Sherlock could already see his flushed, sweating skin inflaming beneath the dark blue of the ropes.
"If you like," he agreed finally, ignoring John's cry when he pulled his fingers free entirely. "But pay attention, John: you are not to come until I do. If you come without permission, I will touch you until you come again. If that sounds like a reward, you will find out how much of a punishment that can be. Do you understand me?"
John nodded his head emphatically as Sherlock rolled the condom on and placed the tip of his cock against the stretched hole, but all of John's pretty words had apparently turned back into half-sobs. Sherlock reached through the ropes to fist a hand in John's hair and pull his head up to make eye contact.
"I said, 'Do you understand me?'" he repeated sharply.
John sobered, but his breaths remained heavy bursts of air that wafted across the length of Sherlock's arm through the mesh. His soldier took a long, steady breath, visibly trying to pull himself together, and then nodded slowly, once. "Yes, Sherlock."
Sherlock stared at him as he hooked the fingers of one hand in the ropes over John's belly, and wrapped the other hand around the base of John's cock, ignoring the strangled sound that John produced at the touch. Without breaking eye contact, he tugged John towards him at the same time as he thrust forward.
The cry John let loose was likely loud enough to wake Mrs Hudson, but Sherlock ignored him and the pulsing cock in his grip and set up a harsh, furious rhythm. He didn't slow or pause - the foreplay had taken so long and they were both so hard that even though he'd wanted to take this first time slow, he couldn't. Not any more.
It only took a handful of thrusts before John jerked violently in his restraints, his mouth open in a silent scream and his neck straining. His cock jerked in Sherlock's hand, and he carefully tightened his grip, staving off the apparent orgasm. It wasn't until the third thrust after that that Sherlock realized that John's reaction had been because Sherlock had grazed his prostate. Was still grazing his prostate. Sherlock grinned and, carefully keeping his angle, began to fuck harder, faster, and for a moment, it seemed like he'd broken the language center of John's brain when the man began to babble incoherently. Sherlock didn't condone John that.
His own body felt like it was vibrating, the low, buzzing frequency of his arousal rising in a fever pitch to a discordant impatience at the base of his spine. Sensation after sensation piled upon one another, leaving Sherlock in a frazzled state that chipped away at his mind, leaving him only with the matter. The matter of needing to come, of needing to feel John come around him.
"Do you want to come, John?" he panted, sweat pouring beading at his temples and under his clothes. "Do you want to come for me?"
John's incoherent babbling suddenly took shape. Or perhaps it had had shape all along and Sherlock was only noticing now. Had his patience been what it had been when he started, perhaps Sherlock would have pressed for a proper answer, something more than the repeated "Please Sherlock!"s John was chanting. But his patience had evaporated with the incoming tide of his orgasm, and suddenly he needed to come and he needed to come now.
"Come then, John," he said, releasing his grip on both John's cock and his ropes to transfer his hands to John's hips. "Come for me."
The sound that left John was more strangled than anything else as he came, streaks of white crossing tan skin and blue rope. His muscles rippled spastically around Sherlock's own cock and Sherlock groaned as he came, his hands on John's hips tightening when his knees buckled under the onslaught of endorphins. He locked his joints until it passed, relishing the chemical flood in his brain and his body until it faded, and he blinked until John's face came back into focus.
The man looked positively dazed and relaxed, and the expression kept even as Sherlock slowly released him from his bindings in reverse order. When he finally had John sitting, cleaned, at the edge of his bed, wet cloth and dirty ropes flung into one corner, and condom in the bin, Sherlock crouched in front of him and didn't bother stopping himself from reverently tracing the rope marks his bindings had left behind.
"I'm a consulting detective," he said suddenly, surprising both of them.
John blinked unsteadily at him, eyes still dilated, expression still distant. "O… kay?"
"Only one in the world. When Scotland Yard is out of their depth, they call me. I hardly get anything truly interesting, but I could do with a partner. Incidentally, there's a spare bedroom upstairs." It all came out in a rush, before he could even think about what he was saying. It wasn't often that his body made off without his mind driving, but it did occur on occasion.
"Are you… asking me to move in with you?" John asked, expression slowly clearing, posture easing from bonelessness into something more alert.
Sherlock didn't shrug. "You're looking for a flatmate and a solid job, and I have both."
John stared at him for a long moment before he finally spoke again. "Tell you what. I'm still coming out of subspace, which is the worst time to ask me anything, so why don't we head to sleep and you can ask me in the morning?"
"Deal," Sherlock agreed with a grin, and stood up to kiss John. It wasn't until he was bearing the man, his soldier, down onto the duvet that he realized it was the first time they'd kissed that evening.
FIN
If you're confused about the "John." / "You certainly are." bit, it's a reference to Americans referring to the (male) customers of sex workers as 'Johns', which probably originates from 'John Doe', the fill-in name Americans use for (male) corpses who haven't been identified (females are Jane Does).
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