John stifled a yawn as he closed the door behind Sherlock. He was half asleep and desperately wanted to crawl back into his bed, but he'd be damned if he was going to miss out on this opportunity to toy with Sherlock. Who knew when the detective would summon the courage to try again?
Sherlock was standing just inside the room, looking at John's bed. John assessed him from behind. Sherlock was wearing blue striped pyjama bottoms, a tshirt, and a robe. John thought this was something he could work with. Last time he had been careful to keep his distance from the detective physically, having made him strip. This time he thought he'd keep the clothing in place, and get closer - a lot closer.
"I want you to take off your robe and t-shirt, then replace the robe, before lying on my bed on your back" he told Sherlock. As Sherlock moved to obey him silently, John reached into the closet and found a pair of trousers to put on over the t-shirt and boxers he had been sleeping in. His mind was going through various scenarios and he wondered if he should get some props. Thinking quickly, he told Sherlock he'd be right back, then raced down to the kitchen. He knew he's seen something in one of the drawers the other day which would be perfect for this evening's fun. He didn't want to overwhelm with implements - tonight was more about taking things slowly and seeing what made Sherlock tick - but a couple of accessories wouldn't hurt. Grabbing a glass of water too he headed back to his room, pleased to note when he closed the door that Sherlock had done as asked and laid on the bed.
Sherlock was lying rigid, his eyes wide open, staring at John's ceiling. In his head he was frantically calculating the odds of whether he should stay or go. It was a close call. It had taken him a good two hours of thought in his own room before he had impulsively knocked on John's door, and he still wasn't sure it had been the right decision. He had got as far as sitting up and reaching for his top, having come to the conclusion he should leave, when he heard John's footsteps on the stairs and panicked and laid back down. Now his heart was thumping - far too loud and far too fast - and he found himself chewing on his lower lip with nervous anticipation. This was a mistake. Why was he here? He should just get up and walk out and never speak of it again. But if it was such a mistake, why was he so excited?
Sherlock watched John put the water and whatever else he'd brought up on the table, out of Sherlock's view. John sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned over to speak softly to Sherlock. "I want to talk to you first, okay?" he said, "and I want you to ask any questions you need to. I know I told you that you couldn't talk in here but as we are starting out I need to be sure you are consenting to what I am doing. I don't want to do anything you are uncomfortable with."
Keeping his body rigid and his head still Sherlock glanced quickly at John, then went back to staring at the ceiling. He gave a swift nod of acknowledgement.
"Right. Good. Tonight I want to try a few things on you and see what you like, what intensity you like, and what you don't. Think of it as data gathering," John added as an aside, with a grin, "I'm not going to tie you up - you will have to keep still for me. But I am going to touch you... and anywhere that is currently uncovered I may decide to test on. I won't remove any more clothing that you have already taken off, and I won't touch you anywhere else without your permission. Is that acceptable?"
Sherlock considered John's words. He had put the robe back on so essentially his chest was bare but the rest of him covered. He thought that yes, this would be acceptable, although he wondered at the limits John was setting when last time he had been naked. But as this seemed to be in Sherlock's favour he ignored the internal query and merely replied "Yes John, that seems okay"
John nodded approvingly at Sherlock's polite tone, glad he had remembered the rules. "Is there anything you don't want me to do?" he asked, "anywhere or anything that is completely off limits?"
"I don't think so..." said Sherlock cautiously, "can I tell you if I change my mind?"
"Of course," reassured John, and continued, "you need a safe word... something you can say to me that I know means you want to stop." He thought for a moment. "How about we keep it simple - if you want a breather or for me to slow down you say 'amber', and if you want to stop completely you say 'red'?"
"Seems simple enough," confirmed Sherlock, although he was secretly slightly disappointed that John had given him an 'out'. He had liked the freedom last time of not having to think about whether he wanted it to stop as that wasn't an option. Privately he resolved that he wasn't going to say either word unless it was really truly intolerable.
John caught the flash of rebellion in Sherlock's eyes and had a pretty good idea of what the detective thought. He knew that Sherlock saw safe words as a challenge and one he intended to win. John was fine with that - he just wouldn't play the game. If Sherlock was unwilling to back down when things got too much, then John would do it for him. He didn't mind, he thought that Sherlock would probably never stop him given half a chance - he was so focussed on the 'hit' he wouldn't care what John did to take him there.
Sherlock felt the bed move as John climbed on it, and was surprised when the doctor straddled him, sitting on him just below his waist. John reached down and picked up Sherlock's arms, stroking the wrists as he drew them up to above his head, wrists together, resting on the pillow. He leant against them, his body covering Sherlock's, and spoke gently into his friend's ear, "keep your arms here, pet. Don't move them". Sherlock shivered in anticipation and at the unexpected intimacy of the whisper. He was starting to become aware that this was a very different situation to last time - where John had promised no sex and it was all about the hard sensation of pain. This was much closer, with definite sexual undertones. And why was he suddenly 'pet'? Who knew where this would end up tonight? He comforted himself with the knowledge he wasn't restrained and could walk away any time he liked.
John was well aware that he was pushing Sherlock's buttons with the close physical contact and the whispers. He knew it was out of Sherlock's comfort zone, but that was half the fun... because it wasn't clinical for John and he was determined that Sherlock get to appreciate the sensual nature of this kind of play as well as the endorphin rush. He saw Sherlock's shiver and smiled to himself, allowing his lips to brush against Sherlock's ear before rising. It wasn't that he wanted to turn him on as such, just wanted to add another layer to the anticipation and make him even more aware of what John was doing. After all, the whole point was to get Sherlock's endlessly whirring brain to pause and focus just on the present, and on sensation rather than thought.
He sat up and rested his hands on Sherlock's chest, feeling the detective's breath quickening as he tried to anticipate John's next move. John gently stroked down his chest, from his shoulders down to the waistband of his pyjamas. He kept his strokes constant, and started to talk. Sherlock found himself frozen in place, unsure whether the action was calming or terrifying, as he listened.
"I'm going to enjoy testing you tonight Sherlock," murmured John, as his hands continued to stroke, "You woke me up from a very pleasant dream, so I'm feeling somewhat less generous than I was earlier. I was going to be kind - to give you what you wanted. But now I think I'll take what I want instead. Is that fair?"
No response.
John casually lifted his right hand and slapped Sherlock across the face. Hard.
Sherlock gasped, and looked in horror at John, who looked down at him calmly and resumed the stroking of his bare chest as he reminded him, "Rule two, Sherlock, speak when you are spoken to." John noted with interest that although Sherlock looked shocked and unsure of what had happened, he hadn't moved his arms or tried to get away. And the slap had been hard - he hadn't held back. He could already see a deliciously red hand print rising on Sherlock's cheek. He really was surprisingly easy to dominate in this setting. Although John still hadn't had a response to his question. He raised his arm slowly this time, to give the detective a chance to rectify the situation.
Sherlock's ears were ringing and one side of his face burned. His whole being was focussed on the sensation - the blankness in his mind was bliss. He wanted to touch where John had struck him and ease some of the heat and see if he could feel each individual finger in the print, but didn't dare move his arms. He saw John's hand rising again to strike him and was alarmed... What had he missed? There must have been a question he was supposed to have answered... Sherlock replayed the last minute in his head then spoke quickly, "Yes John, I think that's fair".
"Good boy. Right answer." And with that the arm was lowered and the stroking resumed, endlessly following the same path from Sherlock's shoulders, down across his chest, to his waist, then back to his shoulders. John was careful to keep his actions steady and not to pause anywhere that might be of more interest than elsewhere. Although he couldn't help but notice that Sherlock's pulse raced a little faster, his breath quickening and his face a little flushed every time John reached his waistband, or ran over his nipples. Interesting. Not as asexual as he professed to being then.
The next time down John changed the angle, and instead of the pads of his fingers he used his nails to scrape down Sherlock's front. He watched carefully for the reaction... a slight indrawn breath and flash of interest in his eyes. So he did it again, this time using a firmer stroke, taking his time as he pulled his nails over the skin, stopped only when he ran out of bare flesh. He sat back and admired the light pink marks already rising on Sherlock's porcelain-white skin.
"You really do have beautiful skin, pet," he said conversationally to the man lying under him, "It marks so easily. It's like a blank canvas for me to decorate." And John took his hands wider this time, running his nails along the edge of Sherlock's ribs and down the side of his waist. He had put a touch more pressure into these, and the lines were a darker hue. He admired his work as he asked, "Do you like that, Sherlock?"
"Yes John" came the quick reply. Sherlock was surprised to find his voice came out gasping slightly. He thought he could control himself better than that.
"Want me to go harder?"
"Oh, yes please John", even quicker than last time.
John laughed softly, and took his hands back up to Sherlock's shoulders. Cupping his hands slightly so his nails would drag on the skin he slowly and firmly brought then down... over Sherlock's collar bones, over his pectorals while deliberately avoiding the nipples, bumping over each rib as he went lower, dipping under them to travel across Sherlock's flat stomach, until they stopped level with his belly button. He was gratified to hear a stifled moan escape from Sherlock.
"Test one complete." Remarked John dryly, doing a passable impression of Sherlock working in the lab, "Sherlock - I mean the subject - appears to find my nails dragging across his skin pleasant, although the pleasure appears to increase exponentially as the pressure rises." He grinned down at Sherlock, who tried to scowl back at him, but couldn't quite keep his mouth from curving up into a smile. "Want to see what else I can do to you with these nails?"
Sherlock gulped and nodded, and was rewarded with John's fingers travelling lightly back up his ribs to rest on his chest. He felt fingers brush against his nipples until they rose involuntarily into hard peaks. Then John took them between the nails of his thumbs and second fingers, and squeezed gently. He watched with amusement as Sherlock visibly shuddered, his eyes half closing in pleasure as John teased and tormented, pulling the hard nubs with his nails, rolling them and twisting them, exploring how sensitive they were and how reactive to his actions. Despite being fascinated by the effect his fingers were having on Sherlock's nipples he watched the detective's face closely, and when he saw the faintest trace of worry pass through Sherlock's eyes he eased up and released, gently rubbing them with finger tips. Then, surprising himself as well as Sherlock, he leant down and kissed them, first the left, then the right. Little chaste kisses to soothe them and relieve some of the pain.
"Sensitive," John observed dryly. "I'm going to enjoy seeing how much you can take on your nipples... maybe next time I'll clamp them. You'd like that," he remarked conversationally, rubbing his thumbs over Sherlock's red and swollen flesh, "It kind of throbs while the clamps are on, but it is when they are removed and the blood rushes back that you'll really appreciate the sensation."
Sherlock was in a daze. One part of his brain was astounded at how quickly he had fallen. John had hardly done anything to him and he was already feeling the effects. It wasn't just the physical sensations, although they were interesting enough, but the mental stimulation. All the conversation and the role reversal was making it very hard for Sherlock to focus on anything at all apart from John and his voice and those hands. John's face was different to usual somehow - more intense. His eyes were icy blue and Sherlock noted his pupils were enlarged... Sherlock wasn't the only one enjoying this. And he was smiling, but there was almost a cruel edge to it that Sherlock had never seen before. Sherlock couldn't reconcile this man with the mild mannered doctor who was everyone's friend and who meekly did whatever Sherlock asked without a second's thought.
But that wasn't true, was it? Because Sherlock had seen other sides to John - he'd had glimpses of the army Captain from John's life before, and other things too. The man who carried a gun on their cases and didn't hesitate to kill, a man who had seen too much and had actively participated in violence for the greater good. He had nightmares about Afghanistan, Sherlock knew, but he had never expressed regret. So the darker sides to the good doctor weren't that far beneath the surface, even on a good day. It was just that the exterior impression he gave the world was so far removed from it, that Sherlock doubted anyone ever bothered to look twice and see it. Certainly he himself had never suspected John's kinks lied in this direction, and he deduced everyone with barely a glance. John was getting more interesting by the day.
John watched Sherlock's face with a raised eyebrow, waiting for the detective to finish analysing him and get back into the moment. He was feeling lenient - Sherlock had pleased him by not objecting to anything yet, and by being so damned responsive, so he let the momentary inattention slide. When he felt Sherlock had been given long enough he tweaked his nipples until Sherlock's full focus was back on John's face.
Maintaining eye contact, John leaned over Sherlock until they were almost breathing into each other's mouths. He put one hand over the detective's wrists to hold them in place, and the other on his throat. Leaning forward, he whispered in Sherlock's ear, "close your eyes." Sherlock, groaned slightly and did as he was told, feeling completely and utterly dominated by the body on top of him. He felt the fingers round his throat tighten slightly and he wondered for a second if John was going to choke him. But instead he found his head being tipped to one side, John directing the angle with the grip he held. Sherlock waited, keyed up with anticipation as to what would be next. He was rewarded with a gentle nip on the edge of his collar bone. He stiffened and his eyes flew open in surprise. John's grip on his neck tightened and he moved back up to growl into Sherlock's ear, "Do as you are told or I'll stop". Sherlock really didn't want him to stop, so he took a breath, consciously tried to relax, and closed his eyes again. "Good boy" John whispered in his ear, brushing his lips over the skin, before setting his teeth onto Sherlock's earlobe and gently tugging on it.
Sherlock was in agony. He couldn't decide if the nips and bites John was inflicting all the way down the right side of his neck and collar bone were pleasure or pain? Too much sensation or too little? If he wanted it to stop, or for John to keep going forever? Without meaning to he groaned out loud. John merely chuckled and bit again, slowly making his way back up to Sherlock's ear.
"I want to mark you," he told Sherlock, his voice low and breathy, "will you allow me to? I want to leave a line of bruises along here..." and he traced a line with his lips down Sherlock's neck, "I want to make sure you remember you are mine... my pet, my plaything."
Sherlock was fully committed. He didn't really care what John was offering right then, he would have said yes to it, he just wanted this to continue. It was heavenly to be able to lie there and just feel and not have to think about anything else. This wasn't even about the pain, for nothing they had done had been more than fleeting in that respect, but about the general sensation. Being under someone else's control was so new to the detective - he had never allowed his guard down to this extent with anyone but John. He could feel the man's lips brushing over his neck and he flashed to an image of himself looking in the bathroom mirror the following day and seeing a row of little bruises there. He groaned again in anticipation and managed to reply "Oh God, yes, please, do it John".
John laughed softly and continued to brush the skin with his lips, enjoying the softness of it and feeling the slight dips and rises where his teeth had made contact earlier. He could smell a faint hint of cologne, and almond soap, and something that was just Sherlock. John was very aware that this hadn't quite gone as he intended, and that he had made it far more emotive than originally planned, when it was supposed to be clinical and all about testing reactions. But he'd got caught up in the moment, and Sherlock had looked so damned delicious and debauched under him, and he kept making all those little noises that John just adored. He couldn't help but want to respond to his alpha-male instincts which were all growling 'mine' every time he looked down at his friend. It wasn't even about sex, it was about him being allowed to do these things to this amazing man who no one else was allowed to touch, and wanting everyone to know it. Childish, base, but oh so hot!
John was careful though. He knew that Sherlock would not appreciate anything being obviously visible to others, so he made sure to aim for areas that would be covered by his shirt collar. He started on the collar bone... slowly sucking and biting the skin, raising the blood to the surface, leaving a perfect little bright red oval that he knew would last a couple of days at least. And then another, slightly higher, on the edge of Sherlock's neck. He couldn't help but smile as he did it, listening to the involuntary gasps and moaning sounds the detective was making. He did it again and again, a perfect line of ownership of Sherlock's skin, until he felt the detective gasp, and shakily say "stop, please, no more". With a sigh of resignation, he rose back up to sit back on his legs, and removed his hands from Sherlock's wrists and throat.
"Had enough?" he asked, "Do you want a break, or to stop completely?"
"A break please. That was a bit more intense than I expected."
John smiled down at him, looking like his friend again rather than his whatever-this-was. "It was a bit, wasn't it" he agreed in a gentle tone. "Keep still, I'll get you some water."
He moved so he was sitting on the edge of the bed and reached over to the bedside table and the glass of water he'd brought up earlier. Carefully he helped Sherlock to sit up and gave him the water to drink. He waited until the detective had finished, then gestured for him to lie down again while John went back to his original position sitting on top of Sherlock.
"I have one test left," he explained, "If you are up to it? If not I'll keep it for another time."
Sherlock was feeling surprisingly dozy and compliant as he lay on the bed looking up at John. Although this hadn't been the same type of experience as the last time in John's room or what Sherlock had expected, it was different and new and shiny and Sherlock was enjoying adding each element to his brain to reflect on later in depth. He smiled sleepily up at John, "I'd like to do that, if you want to, whatever it is."
"Thank you." John reached over to the table and brought out the items he'd found downstairs in the kitchen - a plain white candle and a box of matches. Placing the candle upright on the table he struck a match and lit it while Sherlock watched with a speculative look. Looking down at Sherlock he frowned. The skin on his chest would be sensitive. He would have to be careful with the wax not to get too close - he didn't want to burn his friend, just tease him. "Give me your arm, pet." Sherlock complied and held out his left arm. John pushed the sleeve up to Sherlock's elbow and turned it over so the sensitive underside was facing him. Stroking Sherlock's wrist with one hand he reached over to pick up the lit candle with the other. He held the candle above Sherlock's arm, a couple of inches above the skin.
"I want you to know how this is going to feel on your skin," John told him, candle hovering, "I know you've burnt yourself many times before by accident, but this is a bit different because you are going to be feeling sensitive after the stuff we've done. So I'm going to show you on your arm first and you are going to tell me what is bearable and what is too much." Very carefully he let a dribble of wax fall on the detective's skin. It stayed liquid for a moment, before quickly solidifying. He was gratified to hear a gasp from Sherlock that was definitely more pleasure than pain. Carefully, he moved the candle closer, to half the distance and tipped it again. Again there was a gasp, but this time it was a touch tighter. He put the candle on the table and brushed the dried wax off Sherlock's arm before placing it back on the pillow.
"Well?" he asked, allowing some of the sterner tone to go back into his voice.
There was a pause as Sherlock analysed and then responded in a slightly clinical tone, "Both were bearable, but the first was more, um, pleasurable. I think something in between the two might be the best?"
John nodded. He leant over and switched off the bedside light, leaving the room in darkness apart from the candle which he now brought back over Sherlock's body. The small glow from the flame made the space suddenly feel much smaller and more intimate - like it was just the two of them in a bubble the size of the bed. Slowly he traced the unlit end of the candle down the middle of Sherlock's chest, watching the light fall on the sparse hairs and the curve of his ribs. He brought it back up to the pectorals before raising it slightly away from the skin and tipping slowly, dribbling wax in a stripe, making sure to include his still slightly swollen nipple. Sherlock's reaction was gratifyingly intense - his fists clenched and he rose up off the bed as his back arched. A small groan escaped his lips, although it was clear he was trying to suppress it.
John laughed softly, "I did warn you it would be more intense than you expected."
Sherlock focused and tried to relax again, consciously un-tensing his muscles. He looked up at John, "I'm okay John"
"Watch me, don't close your eyes." John spoke softly, his focus on the candle he was moving slowly over and around Sherlock's middle. He brought it up to the detective's ribs on the opposite side to where he had worked last time, and slowly dripped the wax, drop by drop, carefully following the edge of the rib cage from his side back to the sternum. It was enthralling. Such a simple little game, but watching the wax fall, splash, then harden one drop at a time was intoxicating. So he did it again on the other side, then one rib further up, and again, until all of Sherlock's visible ribs had a line of opaque splashes following them. He was so engrossed in the visual it took a while to realise that Sherlock was breathing rather rapidly underneath him, with little gasps. To his surprise his own breath had quickened too. "You look amazing, Sherlock" he whispered admiringly, moving the candle around to inspect his work, stroking the red scratches under the pools of white wax, the reddened bite marks on Sherlock's neck, the slightly flushed cheek from the earlier slap. John felt strangely honoured to have been able to do this to him.
Carefully, John put the candle down on the bedside table. He felt at peace. Now all he wanted to do was sleep. With a groan he moved off of Sherlock, his legs stiff from being in one position for too long. He looked down at his wax-splattered friend and smiled. Neither felt compelled to say anything so John got up silently and found a towel before rubbing Sherlock's chest gently to remove the wax. Sherlock lay there and let him do it, his mind floating pleasantly. The roughness of the towel was quite welcome - yet another physical sensation for him to map and catalogue. Besides, he liked it when John looked after him.
John stifled a yawn, then failed to get the second under control. With a rueful grin he grabbed Sherlock's wrists and helped pull him up. "Sorry pet, I'm falling asleep here" he told him. "You ok?"
Sherlock smiled, almost shyly, and nodded. "Thank you John."
"Want to stay? You don't have to go if you don't want to." John felt loath to push the detective out of the door, despite his desperate need for sleep. This felt weird - usually he did this stuff with a partner and they would cuddle afterwards and keep close. He didn't really know what to do with Sherlock.
"No, it's ok," replied Sherlock, "I think I might go and read for a while downstairs. I don't feel ready for sleep yet."
"Right, well, you know where I am if you change your mind" he said, through another jaw cracking yawn. "Goodnight, Sherlock"
John walked to the door and slowly opened it, letting in the light from the hallway and breaking the spell the candle's warm glow had cast. As John walked past, Sherlock caught his hand, and stroked it with his thumb, trying to put into it all the affection and gratitude he wanted to tell his friend he felt, but was unsure how it would be received. John smiled, and Sherlock knew he didn't need to say anything.
When Sherlock had left and John had climbed into bed, blowing out the candle as he went, he couldn't help but reflect that things had changed between them in some way. Last time it had been almost cold and hard - focused on getting a specific result. This evening had been slow and personal. John didn't know where they went after this, but he fell asleep smiling, reliving the gasps he had caused as he'd bitten Sherlock's neck.
