On Your Knees

Chapter Two

The work, though it could be categorized as 'office work' was difficult and entertaining. John spent a large portion of his day organizing what he had termed the Mess Room, though Sherlock termed it the Evidence Room. A fraction of his time was occupied with assisting Sherlock with God knows what in the lab, but John's favourite task was helping him with the customers that arrived with a plethora of different cases for Sherlock. Most of them were rejected with just a look, which left John to appease whoever had arrived seeking help. Others were listened to, and then rejected. Only a small fraction were deemed interesting (read: not mind-numbingly tedious) for Sherlock to engage in. Sometimes Sherlock would solve them on the spot in a quick, manic tirade, as both the customer and John sat, stunned and awed. Other times Sherlock would put on his coat rather dramatically and leave with the customer with nary a word directed at John who, with a sigh, went back to the Mess Room to continue working. For the first week, Sherlock was pleasant, even considerate, which surprised John, especially considering he often made mistakes when organizing the evidence into its proper place. The index given to John to do so was, quite frankly, beyond comprehension. Sherlock had given him a thick, intimidating, self-made manual on how he wanted everything ordered, with large sections categorized under types of cases, such as murders, robberies, kidnappings, etc. Each section was broken down further in a number of cross-referenced specifics, and it was all written in a dry manner that was filled with medical and scientific jargon which John often had to Google to understand. Sherlock had the uncanny knack of zeroing on any mistake, but mostly he would pull the file or evidence out, set it before John, and say "Wrong," before walking away. Though the work may have sounded boring on paper, John was challenged by it, and by Sherlock's presence. There was something about the man that made everything a little more exciting, made John want to impress him, to, though he would never catch up to Sherlock, at least not lag too far behind.

This easy work relationship, however, did not last.

It was the second Monday since he had met Sherlock, and John was in the lab, following Sherlock's instruction whilst trying to learn the procedure as best he could. He was a quick study, and it didn't take much time for the two men to fall into a good rhythm, so that John could handle the experiment with little instruction. As Sherlock threw him an appreciative look it annoyed John a little how much the other man's approval pleased him, but Sherlock's mind was so quick and sharp that for him to deem you above the norm was a worthy compliment, and John wasn't so arrogant as to deny that fact.

"We'll have to see which of these beakers are now cool enough to touch, or if Ms. Lenton was lying about being in the research lab at the time of the murder. Pass me the-"

"Should I hold them, see if any burn?" John asked, and Sherlock raised his head to look at him slowly. There was a pause in which Sherlock seemed to see straight through John's words and into something deeper.

"Yes, do that," Sherlock replied. Without hesitation, John grabbed the first beaker. It scalded his skin, but he held onto it for a moment before setting it down carefully.

"Too hot," he said.

"Did it burn you?"

"Yes."

"Let me see." John held his hand out, palm upright, and Sherlock took his bare wrist, the sleeves of John's jumper rolled up to his elbows. Sherlock would be able to feel his elevated pulse, John thought, but Sherlock simply inspected the skin before letting the hand drop.

"Next one," Sherlock ordered, and John followed. The second one was also too hot, and by the third John's skin was raw and flushed.

"Switch hands," Sherlock said, and his voice was low, dark. Something clenched in the pit of John's stomach, and he set his cane aside to grab the next beaker with his right hand.

"This one is ok," John said, and the liquid sloshed slightly as he shifted.

"Try the other two." The next one was incredibly hot, and John winced as it burned his hand.

"That one is untouchable," John said, flexing his fingers, feeling the sensitized skin sting.

"And yet you touched it," Sherlock said, looking at John steadily.

"Well, yes, but-"

"Next one," Sherlock said shortly. John fought off the urge to roll his eyes and did as he was told. That one, too, was too hot, but John held it, looking into Sherlock's eyes in some kind of warped defiance, before setting it back down. Without a word, Sherlock grabbed John's wrist, lifting the hand close to his face. His thumb traced the vein under John's skin, and John couldn't help but shiver slightly. Sherlock lifted his eyes to look at John and for a moment they stood there, connected by pulsing skin, before Sherlock let go, stepping back slightly.

"Very good, John," he said softly, and John felt a sudden rush, a release of some hidden element.

"Pass me the thermometer," Sherlock instructed, turning back to the beakers, reheating them to their initial temperature. John frowned.

"But I just-"

"I said pass me the thermometer. And you can go back to the Evidence Room, you haven't progressed there at all," Sherlock said shortly. John opened his mouth to protest but Sherlock threw him a quelling look, his pale eyes cutting through whatever it was that John was about to say.

"Fine," John replied instead, and after setting the thermometer down beside Sherlock, who didn't even look at him, went back to the Mess Room. He stood there for a seconds, feeling as if he had missed something, though the feeling wasn't exactly uncommon around Sherlock.

It was two hours later that he realized he had left his cane in the lab.

...*...

That day seemed to flick a switch in Sherlock. He became increasingly acidic, constantly giving John impossible tasks, seemingly for the sole purpose of having something to berate him with when the results weren't up to his ridiculous standards. The days were filled with cutting remarks; nothing John did was good enough, he wasn't good enough, and Sherlock made a play of showing him how displeasing that was. Even the customers who arrived were treated with a level of cruel dismissal that was unusual even for Sherlock, who seemed to be searching for some kind of impossible entertainment, stimulation. How he managed to make any money at all was beyond John.

John, meanwhile, was caught in a battle between being frustrated with Sherlock and wanting to please him. He would dig the palms of his hands into the sharp edges of the file cabinets to focus, to gain some control, but it seemed to be robbed by Sherlock, his thunderous presence. Even when John did something right, Sherlock would choose that exact instance to pay absolutely no attention to him. The whole thing was maddening and yet, somehow, it made him feel more determined, more alive. He hadn't turned to his wooden box since meeting Sherlock, and the feeling was much like being in the battlefield; fighting your survival instincts to follow the orders of some madman above you.

Eventually, however, John was worn thin by Sherlock's inexplicable attitude. He was sitting at the desk in the reception room, going through potential cases and picking out the ones he knew would bore Sherlock the least, when said devil slammed a file in front of John, bending down so that his lips were right beside John's ear.

"You filed these wrong, again," he hissed. John jumped, and then clenched his fists in anger.

"Maybe if your manual didn't change every two hours they would be filed correctly," he bit out. Sherlock moved to the side, his hand clutching at the opposite chair arm so that John was barred inside the seat. Sherlock bent low, his face right beside John's, who turned to look at him defiantly.

"You work for me. I tell you how to do things, and you do them. Or are you too dull to comprehend even that?" Sherlock asked quietly. John bit the inside of his cheek, hard, feeling some release at the sudden pain, at the suggestion of blood on his tongue. Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"Stop that," he said, his voice a little hoarse. John unclenched his teeth, a little surprised.

"Stop what?" He asked quietly.

"You know what."

"Sherlock-"

"Stop!" Sherlock shouted, slamming his hand against the desk. The noise was explosive, it charged the air, John's skin, so that the hairs on his arms stood on end. He breathed a little heavily, feeling something close to fear.

On a summer day when John had been ten, his family and him had gone to spend the day at the beach. When the sun was at its highest, John had decided to swim out at sea, trying to teach a rock in the distance. The tide had been strong and as he got farther and farther from land, and the water got deeper and darker, John had gotten increasingly afraid. His childish imagination had conjured the sharp edges of the teeth and fins of great white sharks, the pulling tentacles of giant squids, and he had turned back, the salty water stinging his throat as he gasped for breath. But as he looked at the distant dots on the sand, his sister, his dad, he remembered all the fantasy books he so liked to read; all the heroes, the adventures, and how he longed to be part of one, to be taken to some far away land to defeat demons and monsters. And yet, he thought as he treaded water, he couldn't even swim to a rock out at sea? It was pathetic. Suddenly, the fear had become a vicious motivator, a representation of something else, of escape. John had turned around again and when he reached the rock his heart was in his throat, racing, and not just from the exhaustion. That thrill, that achievement, as he surveyed the distance between him and the hot, cruel land, had never been forgotten. It had become a deep and important part of him that would mark the man he was to become.

As he looked at Sherlock, his lips a bare two inches from his, he felt that same sort of thrill. Like he was part of something bigger than the moment. John lowered his eyes. He was not as dull as Sherlock suggested. He could read the darkness in the other man's eyes.

"Fine," John said softly. He felt Sherlock exhale slightly.

"You'll file them in their proper place?"

"Yes. Sir." John could practically feel Sherlock's voice hitch at the submissive term.

"Good," Sherlock replied after a long pause, his voice strangled, before leaving. John smiled.

The thing about control that people didn't seem to realise was that, when voluntarily given, a submissive person holds just as much over the dominant as the other way around.

It was all about balance.

...*...

"John?" Clara's soft voice seemed to come out of nowhere, and John jumped, scalding his fingers with tea as the liquid sloshed over the rim of the cup. "Oh God, sorry! I didn't mean to startle you. Here," she said, hurrying over and handing him a tea towel.

"It's ok, I just wasn't expecting you to be up so early," he smiled, taking the cloth from her fingers and wiping himself down. When he was done he looked up at Clara and frowned at what he saw. The reason for her appearance so early in the morning was apparent; she hadn't gone to sleep. Her hair was dishevelled, as if she had been constantly running her hands through it, and her eyes and face were worn and tired.

"Clara...what's happened?" John asked quietly, already knowing the reason for her current state. Anxiety tightened his chest.

"Harriet...she...I haven't seen her since yesterday morning. I have no idea where she is, she won't answer her phone," Clara said, her voice trembling. John hobbled slightly towards her, putting his arms around her slim frame. She was trembling. He closed his eyes and cursed his sister as Clara started crying quietly.

"I...Oh God, I'm so stupid. I thought, I really thought that this time...that maybe, for me...but she isn't going to change, is she? She's never going to give it up. She loves it more than she loves me. More than she loves anything," she said quietly. John tightened his arms around her before pulling her away to look into her tear-brightened eyes.

"Hey, don't say that. You aren't stupid and this, Harriet...it isn't about love. She loves you, but she depends on the alcohol. You can't compare it. One can't cancel the other out, I know it seems that should be the case but...it just isn't. The drinking...it's part of who she is. If anything, she doesn't love herself enough to give it up," John said softly. At that, Clara started to cry harder, burying her face in her hands, and John pulled her close again, feeling near tears himself. As difficult as his sister could be, he hated seeing Harriet destroy herself, destroy the things she loved. The feeling of not being able to help a person he loved, his own family, created a deep, powerless despair inside him. Neither Harriet nor Clara deserved this, but since when had life ever been fair?

For minutes they simply stood, tangled, in the kitchen, the mug of tea cooling besides them. John could feel the ache in his leg intensifying, but he didn't pull away, didn't move, couldn't. He was trapped in this whole affair.

"I'm sorry, I'm probably making you late for work," Clara said eventually, pulling away.

"It's fine, Clara, work can wait. I'm just glad I was here, that you weren't alone. I can call Sherlock, stay for the day," he offered, but Clara shook her head, smiling a watery smile.

"No, no, go. I have a shift later anyway, and I need the distraction. I can sort myself out."

"Clara..."

"John. Really, I'm fine, I just needed a little cry, is all. I'll be fine. I promise," she said, pushing John away tenderly. John sighed, but nodded, and watched silently as Clara went up to the bathroom, no doubt to take a long, cleansing shower to wash the salt from her wounds. John leaned on the kitchen counter, clutching his leg. The anxiety was making it hard to breathe, and he thought about the wooden box inside his wardrobe. Without thinking too much about it he went upstairs and put it in his bag before leaving. Sherlock wouldn't search his things, he knew; the man was arrogant enough to believe there was nothing John could hide in a box that Sherlock couldn't deduce by looking at him.

John could only hope Sherlock, for once, was wrong.

...*...

John could barely concentrate. He had called Clara at two, when she had a break, who told him she still hadn't heard from Harriet, whose phone was now turned off or signaless, which was unusual. He kept imagining Harriet passed out on the street, getting soaked by the fall rain that fell outside. His leg was aching, his hand trembling, and the familiar feeling of anxiety was clogging his throat, the taste of a sea storm, salt and coarse sand.

"Yes, I understand, but-" John was interrupted once again by the angry customer on the other end of the phone, who had been turned away the day before, insisting on speaking with Sherlock with increasingly foul language. John was quickly developing a headache when the reception door opened. He looked up to see a stunning woman dressed far too elegantly step inside. She was exceedingly slim, with cheekbones that could rival Sherlock's. He motioned for her to take a seat but she ignored him, waking up to the desk John was sitting behind.

"My name is Irene Adler, I'm here to see Sherlock," she said imploringly. John covered the mouth of the phone.

"Yes, take a seat, I'll tell him you have arrived if you just give me a moment," John said through the screaming in his ear.

"I'll just go through, shall I?" She said, ignoring him and moving towards the hallway. John put a hand out, trying to stop her.

"Wait, I'll just-"

"Hello? Hello? Are you listening to me!?" The man down the phone was saying.

"Yes, sir, I've been listening to you for the past fifteen minutes, if you would just calm down and-"

"Submissive," the woman snorted above him, and John looked up at her amused, almost disdainful expression.

"Sir, please just-"

"I want my case solved! Tell Holmes I won't take no for an answer!" The customer shouted as Irene chuckled and moved towards the hallway again. John closed his eyes for an instant, feeling his anger boil over the edge.

"Sir, shut up. Mr. Holmes is not required to solve your case, and no amount of petulance on your part is going to change that! Now suck it up and seek help elsewhere! Have a good day!" John bit out, slamming the phone down.

"Ms. Adler, please sit down. I'll go inform Sherlock of your presence," John said, standing up to block the woman's path. She raised an eyebrow, a dark smile curling her red lips.

"Hmm...interesting," she said, sounding far too much like Sherlock for comfort, but did as he asked, sitting on the couch smoothly and crossing her legs, her arms strategically placed over her breasts as if she were naked. John sighed and went into the hallway. When it didn't include Sherlock's deductions he hated working in customer service; people were insane.

"Sherlock, there's a woman here to see you, an-"

"Irene Adler. Yes, tell her I'm busy," Sherlock said, who was lying down on his couch, looking as far from busy as one could look. John clenched his jaw.

"Seriously? Can't you spare a moment?"

"No, John, I cannot. Tell Ms. Adler she can find what she's looking for somewhere else," Sherlock said, closing his eyes and pressing his hands, palm-to-palm, against his lips in what John knew was his "thinking pose". John sighed and shut the door behind him, returning to the reception room with some trepidation.

"I'm sorry Ms. Adler but Sherlock is-"

"Lying on his couch, most likely," Irene said, smirking as John tried to keep his expression neutral. "And all I wanted was a little dinner," she mused. John frowned.

"A bit early for dinner, isn't it?" He asked, but the woman only smiled.

"You're Sherlock's new assistant, then? He does go through them quickly, but I have a feeling you'll last," she said instead.

"Uh, thank you?" He said.

"You should be careful, pet, Sherlock doesn't take any prisoners. He'll eat you right up, if you let him. Then again, some people like that. I know I did," she smirked, and John was about to ask her to elaborate when the phone rang again. He glanced at it, and then at Irene, deciding to drop it.

"Yeah, thanks," he said, limping to the phone. Irene got to her feet as he picked it up with a resigned Hello?.

"J-John?" a hoarse voice said, and John's heart leaped in his chest.

"Harriet! Harriet, where are you? Are you ok?" He asked quickly, clutching the phone.

"I'm...a pay phone...this was the only number I had on me. Where am I?" Harriet said, clearly still drunk, but at least she was awake, alive.

"Harriet, look around and tell me where you-" but he was cut off as Irene suddenly pushed the coat rack over and proceeded to grind the heel of her stiletto into Sherlock's coat.

"Tell him to see me next time, or I'll be sticking the heel of my shoe somewhere else," she said, before striding out of the room. John gaped for a second. Was Sherlock's insanity contagious, or what? He shook his head, snapping out of it, and pressed the phone back to his ear.

"Harriet?" He asked, but no one replied on the other line. John could hear the muffled sounds of traffic, but little else. "Harriet? Harriet?" He repeated, but the line went dead. John slammed the phone down, despair thick in his mouth.

"Fuck. Fuck." He tried the call-back button, but no one answered. He listened to the phone ring until he was dizzy with the noise. Giving up, he put his head in his hands.

Who was he fooling? Things weren't going to get better. He couldn't help himself any more than Harriet could. They were all trapped in their addictions, caged with the demons they had birthed. Things didn't just change, unless it was for the worse.

The feeling that overtook him was achingly familiar. A deep sort of helplessness which made him feel so utterly lost, so alone. Ever since he was a little boy he had felt there was something missing inside him, something broken, and essential fragment of being that everybody else seemed to posses. This easy ability to be content, to simply live and get on with things, without needing something as dark and terrible as a war to feel like you are worth something. His skin felt like it didn't fit, like it had never fit, like he had to struggle against himself just to try and function. He felt, very simply, wrong. There was something wrong with him, and the isolation that bred was drowning him.

How could he hope to ever help his sister if he couldn't even help himself?

His throat was clenched, his heart racing, and he opened the drawer clumsily, rattling the desk, pulling out the wooden box he had stuffed there earlier. His head was a mess of noise and white, of nothing, just the cruel, piercing presence of anxiety haunting him. He limped as quickly as he could to the toilet and locked the door behind him, going straight to close the lid of the toilet. He unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers, pulling them down to his knees, before sitting down on the toilet lid. He unrolled some toilet paper and stuffed it under his leg before opening the box, more slowly now, sinking into the ritual. He chose a razor this time, simple and rectangular, and without much preamble sunk it into his inner thigh. The sharpened edge split the skin, a sharp, ringing pain electrifying him. He let out a hard breath, but didn't stop, drawing a long line, as far as he dared. When he lifted his hand he barely gave himself a few second before doing it again, the skin giving way, tender underneath, severed nerves screaming. John tried to breathe through his nose; the last thing he wanted was Sherlock to bang on the door asking him what he was up to, panting in the loo. The pain overtook his mind. This was something that made sense; just a physical reaction, apart from the turmoil within. Emotions were complicated and impossible to kill, but physical pain was simple. He would watch the cuts close and scar; at least something in him could heal.

"John?" Sherlock called from outside, and John jumped, almost slicing himself too deeply. He grabbed the toilet paper and pressed it against his thigh. The fibres caught on his open skin and stung.

"I-I'm in the toilet! I'll be out in a second!" He blundered, grabbing the iodine and quickly applying some before taping the wounds shut as best he could with the panic making both his hands shake. He cleaned everything, put it in its place, and pulled his trousers up, making sure to zip them. The cuts screamed at him as he got up, and the pain was all he had. He checked to make sure Sherlock wasn't in the hallway before limping quickly to his desk and hiding the wooden box, the cuts stretching with each step. When he was outside the door of Sherlock's office he leaned on his cane, the head digging into his palm, and took a deep breath. He concentrated on the physical pain. Everything else was secondary.

"Did you want something?" John said as he opened the door. Sherlock was behind the desk, shuffling through papers.

"Yes, go to the Evidence Room and get me..." He trailed off and John's heart stopped as Sherlock zeroed in on John's stinging thigh. How could he know? John began to panic, but tried to keep it off his face.

"You're bleeding," Sherlock said in a quiet, deadly voice. John looked down. There were two spots of blood staining his jeans, so small that a more unobservant person could have easily missed them and, in that moment, John cursed Sherlock's quick sight.

"Ah...I had a little accident..." He looked at Sherlock's eyes, now looking at his, and knew there wasn't a hope in hell for Sherlock not to know his secret. The bottom of his stomach dropped, his palms sweaty. What could he possibly say to explain this away? There was an incredibly long pause as Sherlock simply looked at him before he pressed his palms together, his elbows on the table.

"Go clean yourself up and get me the evidence box for case M: 362C," Sherlock said. John let out a breath, nodding, and stepped out immediately. Once outside he leaned against the wall, trying to slow down his racing heart.

This couldn't be good.

...*...

Mary was nice. There really wasn't a word more apt to describe her. She was pretty, with a petite frame and her dark hair cut in a cute bob. Her voice was pleasant, her laugh melodic, she smelt soft and fragrant, she was smart but not condescending, funny but not a limelight hogger. All in all, a catch. John should count himself lucky to have scored a date with a woman like her and yet, as he sat on the other side of the table in the quaint little restaurant he had chosen, their third date so far, his heart simply wasn't in it.

Things had settled somewhat at home since his sister's escapade. Harriet promised that it was just a relapse, that her sponsor at AA said it was normal, that she was working through it, that it wouldn't happen again, but the words sounded empty to Clara and John. The long hours of worrying and, finally, her shamefaced return, hung over their heads like a storm promising cloud. There hadn't even been a fight; Clara had taken one look at her wife, said, "I'm glad you're home safe," and gone to her room, closing the door behind her. Harriet had stood there, looking completely wrecked, broken, and John had felt a sudden love for her. As much as he hated what she was doing, he empathised with her. How could he judge her, after all? They seemed to be cut from a very similar cloth. He had helped her into the shower, like when they were kids and she got home to a negligent father after another fight at school, and the only one who had been there was John, his responsibility to pick up the pieces even though he was younger. And he hadn't really minded; it was better to feel that you could do something to help than simply watch someone he loved dissolve, like his mother, like his father.

Things with Sherlock were just as tense. The other man didn't speak another word of the incident, but John had no doubt that he would, eventually. Sherlock wasn't one to leave sleeping dogs to rest; he was more the type to incite a hound, just to analyse its existence. John often felt he and Sherlock were moving through a dangerous dance, that there was something hidden below the surface of their interaction, but he didn't think much on what that was, or even if he wanted it revealed.

Instead, he was trying to bury himself in normalcy, in something as nice and unthreatening as Mary. He knew that nobody was prefect, that Mary would have her faults, but they would be normal flaws; maybe she would be untidy around the house, or vote for the opposite political party, or be close-minded about some issues John felt strongly about, or adverse to surprises and adventure. They would be workable issues, unlike John's oscillation between needing to cut himself and feeling regret and despair at having to do so.

Therefore as they stepped out of the restaurant, wrapped up in thick coats to ward off the cold, John put his arm around Mary's waist and she leaned into him, smiling.

"That was really nice, John. How do you find all these great places? I've been living here forever and I barely know any good places to eat! Apart from cheap takeaway that is," Mary was saying, laughing slightly. John smiled as they walked towards a main road to hail a cab.

"It's one of my many gifts," he joked.

"Oh, really? And how many of those do you have, exactly? Because I haven't seen another one yet," she teased, kissing him on the cheek.

"Rude!" he laughed. "I'm also a very fast typist, I'll have you know."

"Oh, you're good with your fingers? Well, now, that is a gift," she said, laughing as John squeezed and ticked her slightly through her coat. "Stop!" she said, dissolving into giggles, and John pressed his mouth against her hair.

He could do this. He could be normal.

It was at that moment that he saw him. His figure was so familiar that he seemed to stand out, even in the bustling London street. His coat flapped around him slightly in the wind, the collar pulled up, the dark colour of the material a stark contrast against his pale cheekbones.

"Sherlock?" he said, but the man had already turned around, getting into the cab that rumbled to a stop beside him. With a misty cloud of car fumes he disappeared into the traffic.

"Do you know him?" Mary asked, and John realized he had stopped walking. There was a sort of tight sickness at the pit of his stomach. He felt unsettled at the sight of Sherlock outside work, as if, until then, his presence had been contained there, controlled, but now was a loose, unpredictable creature.

"Uh...yeah, he's my boss," John said, picking up the pace again.

"Well, he's quite handsome!" Mary teased. For a moment, John was stuck for a response.

Yes. He was quite handsome, wasn't he? More than that, even. He was magnetic.

"Oi! How can you say that, with such a perfect male specimen in your arms," John said, recuperating, trying to shake off the unpleasant feeling that had gotten hold of him. He almost felt...guilty. But that was ridiculous.

"Oh, well, he's nothing compared to you," Mary said, oblivious to John's tangled mind. John smiled down at her, and stopped to kiss her on the lips; a soft, beginning-of-a-relationship kiss. Mary melted against him. He liked that about her, the way she didn't mind public displays of affection.

Would Sherlock be like that? He honestly had no idea, the man was such an enigma at times.

"Well," Mary breathed as they parted. "I should compliment other men more often, if that's the reaction I get." She was smiling up at him with such a trusting face, John felt a sudden pang of self-hatred. This woman, she was far too good for him.

They continued walking down the street, prolonging their date, and John tried to enjoy it, tried to ignore the feeling that something was missing, that, as nice as Mary seemed, she just wasn't right for him.

...*...

Sherlock was in a right state. His manic side was in hide tide, flooding the office with a constant series of rants, punctuated by deep, troubled silences, from which he would wake with a "find me a case, John!", as if John had the power to materialize entertainment from thin air. Amidst this madness, John tried to continue sorting through the Mess Room, despite Sherlock's clockwork interruptions, which would always involve him berating John for some mistake or other. He head Sherlock say "wrong" so many times in such a short space that the man might as well have recorded himself and left the word on a loop as a delightful soundtrack for John's working day.

"Tea, John!" Sherlock's voice shouted from his office, and John tried to keep his temper. He was being paid for this, at least.

He'd have to be completely mad to do it for free.

John limped into the office, going straight to the tea table and clicking the kettle on, already half-filled with probably stale water, but Sherlock would just have to suck it up. John leaned his cane on the table and bent down to open the mini fridge, but closed it immediately.

"Sherlock. There's a head in the fridge."

"Well done, John. I see now why I keep you around," Sherlock drawled. John looked at him over his shoulder.

"Why is there a head in the fridge?" John tried to say patiently.

"Experiment."

"Isn't there a cooler in the lab?"

"It's full."

"With what?"

"With bees! What does it matter? They're my fridges, I can fill them with what I like!" Sherlock replied petulantly. John closed his eyes in a, the Lord is testing me sort of way. He turned away and got on his knees, still wondering how it could be possible that the other fridge was filled with bees of all things. What, did Sherlock have them for a snack? John smiled to himself; he could actually picture his reptilian boss doing just that, probably whilst prancing around the room exclaiming it's for an experiment, John!

"Why are you laughing?" Sherlock said from behind his desk. John muffled his chuckles.

"I'm not laughing, I have something in my throat," he lied, opening the fridge once again to investigate exactly what was in there. The head gaped back morbidly at him.

God, this job was bizarre. John leaned forwards, one hand on the floor, his ass in the air, and shifted through the contents of the fridge with care, wishing he had a biohazard suit on. There was a bag filled with severed fingers. Lovely.

The water boiled noisily above him for a second before the kettle clicked off, and John pulled out the milk, getting back on his feet. He prepared the tea, put away the milk ,and took the mug to Sherlock's desk. Sherlock was staring at him intently, and John hesitated for a moment before setting the tea down on his desk, avoiding the papers there. His stomach clenched a little at the shift in mood. Most of the time he just had no idea what his boss was thinking.

"Uh...I have an idea for how you could get more cases," John started. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but motioned for him to go on. John cleared his throat. "Well, I've been on your website-"

"The Science of Deduction," said Sherlock in a low voice.

"Yeah. That. It's...interesting. But a bit dry."

"Dry?" Sherlock snorted.

"Yeah. I don't think you're going to get many costumers by listing different types of tobacco."

"That list has helped me in more than a few cases, John."

"Sure, I don't doubt it, but that's not really the point. I'm just saying, if your website were a little more...layman friendly, maybe you would get more cases to choose from."

"And what exactly do you suggest to make it more layman friendly?" Sherlock asked, stressing the word "layman" as if it were a particularly unpleasant variety of fungus.

"Well, how about writing up some of your cases? What you do, how you did it. You know, show off your skills. If people are impressed they'll want to hire your services."

"And what makes you think I want to impress anyone?" Sherlock said, offended. Maybe the way that you keep showing off to me? John thought, but kept it to himself.

"I don't, but it might bring in some interesting cases," he shrugged.

"Absolutely ridiculous. And who do you suggests writes up all these cases, me? You? So you can inflict your opinions on the world?" Sherlock said derisively, and John chewed on his tongue.

"It was just an idea," he bit out. "I'll go back to the Evidence Room now, if you don't mind."

"You do that. And try not to mess everything up, though I can see that's an awful struggle for you!" Sherlock called after him as John left the room. John clenched his fist until his nails were biting into his palm, leaving the imprints of moons on his skin.

He wondered why quitting never even crossed his mind as a possibility.

...*...

The day didn't seem to be getting any better. Sherlock seemed to be on a roll, and all he was trampling was John. As the end of the day neared John could feel the threads keeping him together fray, ready to snap. It was therefore with some trepidation that John stepped into the office as Sherlock, with a smooth, overly calm voice, called him over the intercom.

"Yes?" John asked as he stepped once again inside the office. Sherlock stood before the window, his back to him.

"Shut the door," he said, and John stood there a moment before doing so slowly.

"Lock it," Sherlock instructed.

"Why?"

"Lock. It." John's hand was steady as he did so. The click of the lock was ominously loud in the silent room. "Come here," Sherlock said, and John did so, stopping in the middle of the room.

"Do you see what's on my desk?" Sherlock asked quietly, still not facing John, who looked over. He recognised the booklet, open near the middle, on the wooden surface.

"Yes, it's the manual for the Evidence Room," John replied. At this, Sherlock did turn, his eyes dark, expression unfathomable.

"Yes. The manual you seem to have so much trouble following."

"Well-"

"Be quiet," Sherlock said, and John shut his mouth. His heart started beating faster. Something was going to happen. He didn't know what, exactly, but John had learned to recognise a danger zone when he saw it. "I want you to go over to the desk and put your hands, palms down, on either side of the manual," Sherlock said. John frowned.

"What f-"

"Don't talk. Just do it." For a moment John just stood there, looking back at Sherlock, at his pale face, his long lines. He felt, knew, that if he did as was asked, he would be giving Sherlock something. Some kind of control, a piece of him. Could he trust Sherlock?

Slowly, he walked over to the desk, leaning the cane on it, before setting his hands on either side of the manual. The surface of the desk was smooth and cool.

"Now lean down so your face is above the book, looking down at it," Sherlock said, his voice soft, commanding. John looked at him before following the instructions. For a moment there was complete stillness, John doubled over the desk, Sherlock just a smudge of black at the corner of his eyes, before it disappeared.

"Read what it says on the page," Sherlock said from behind him. John licked his lips. His mouth was so dry he could hardly swallow. The sound of his heart was filling his head.

"Section Three: Robberies. R:01, Stolen possessions. R01A, Jewell-"

Smack.

The hit, despite everything, took John completely off guard. The open palm of Sherlock's long hand had come down to slam against John's backside, the sound an electrifying crack, electrifying the air, making it unbearable to breathe. John tried to gather some oxygen in his lungs but they were shut tight. He blinked at the paper, holding himself completely still. He didn't dare look back at Sherlock. What was happening? What the hell was happening?

"Keep reading," Sherlock said, and his voice was bred from shadows. John licked his lips again. He could hardly think.

"R01A, Jewellery: RS01: Inheritance, RS01A, Sentimental value worth under a hundred-" Sherlock smacked John's ass again in the same spot, and the sting was more pronounced now. John couldn't help but let a small gasp escape at the brutal force of the hit, his hands sliding ever so slightly on the desk.

"Read," Sherlock commanded. John's mind was completely blank, there was only the paper in front of him, Sherlock behind him, and the point that would connect them at each slap.

"Under a hundred pounds, RS- ah!- RS01B, Sentimental value worth between a hundred a-and five hundred pounds," John continued, trying to keep his eyes open, focused, to not rest his forehead down on the desk and just take it. There wasn't a single thought in his mind, just the sensation of Sherlock's hand against him through his thin work trousers, the pain mounting as Sherlock, more quickly now, continued to slap him, changing cheeks when it pleased him, or hitting the same spot over and over until the pain was blinding. John's sweaty palms continued to slide against the desk and he tried adjust himself. He never once looked back, knowing, somehow, that it was forbidden, and he tried to imagine Sherlock's face, his expression, but came up blank. He had no idea what was passing through the other man's mind, but he could hear his slightly harsh breathing, though it wasn't nearly as hoarse as John's. Throughout it all John continued reading, section after section under "Robberies", his voice becoming more strangled, punctuated by small gasps and cries he was unable to muffle.

Finally, John reached the end of the page, and Sherlock stopped. For a long moment John kept still, panting against the manual. He could hear the soft rustling of clothing as Sherlock moved, and suddenly he could see the other man as he sat in front of John on the desk chair. He looked completely calm and composed, but John could see the red, flushed skin of his palm. The sight made something hum and clench inside John, a deep, dark curl of lust.

"You can go an re-organize box R:76 now. I trust you'll do adequately," Sherlock said, his voice casual, as if he hadn't just spanked his employee in his office, as if said employee wasn't still bend over his desk with a stringing backside. John didn't even know what to say, what to think. He looked at Sherlock for a few long seconds before straightening up. He made a small sound as the pain flared for a second before subsiding to a stringing ache, and Sherlock's eyes flickered towards him for less than a second, a piercing glance, before moving away.

"I...Ok," John said numbly, and turned around. He got to the middle of the room before Sherlock called out,

"Your cane, John." John stumbled slightly. That soft, low voice. It was going to be the death of him. He retrieved his cane, using it out of sheer habit, because the pain in his leg had disappeared, as if transferred to other, more Sherlockian places. Sherlock was typing away at his computer, ignoring him and, after a slight pause, John left. Instead of going to the Mess Room he went to the toilet, locking the door behind him. He lowered his trousers, turning around to see his ass in the mirror. It was bright red, and in some places the lines left by Sherlock's long fingers were obvious, a telling mark. John was hard, but he didn't dare toss off in the loo. Somehow, ridiculously, he felt he needed Sherlock's permission first. John buttoned his trousers up and splashed cold water on his face, leaning on the sink, staring at his eyes. His pupils were blown wide. His heart was still racing. He felt alive, the remnants of a battle, adrenaline in every drop of his blood. He felt as if he had just discovered some essential part of himself, and wasn't it fitting that Sherlock had seen it before him?

When he went back to the Mess Room he reorganized box R:76 without making a single mistake.