Title: Subtlety is the Name of the Game

Disclaimer: Sherlock was owned by Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC and other associated parties. Original story belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not make any profit from this story and the plot was purely fiction.

Summary: slash, J/OMC, He thought Sherlock knew from the first moment they met. Obviously, there are some things even Sherlock needs a clue on.

Rating: R

Warnings: spoilers, slash, D/s, BDSM, whipping, Sub!John, voyeurism, orgasm denial.

Pairings: OMCxJohn

Word Count: 2,939

Author's Note: So at first, I hadn't decided on it, but this has now turned into a miniseries, lol. It will have maybe one or two more to it. This could probably stand alone, but it would make a little more sense if you read the first story 'Lose Yourself.' Again, not versed in BDSM/D/s so don't hate me if I do something wrong. Enjoy.

xXx

Four months since that fateful night. He'd made a schedule about it, only going every couple of days, seeing it as the metaphorical crutch he had made of it. He already had to rely on this cane; he doesn't need something else to rely on to stay sane, though it does help.

When he bumped into Mike Stamford in the park, He was surprised that someone from before the military still recognized him. He felt like it'd been decades instead of only years, like he should have changed beyond all recognition.

"I'm not the John Watson you knew." He meant it. Compared to the bright young med student he'd been back in uni, he was a total one eighty now. In the back of his mind, he wondered what Mike would think of him, if he knew what John did to remain sane. It would certainly offend his very British ideals.

He kept it to himself though. Instead he allowed himself to be led, intrigued a little about this man that Mike talked about with such regard. His first impression of Sherlock as he laid eyes on him was that of a large bird, hunched over the microscope.

The incredulous feeling that welled up inside him as Sherlock spoke started to overwhelm him. The man was a genius, a tactless one, but a genius all the same. He was like a whirlwind in human form, blowing through everyone, destroying everything in his path to get to the grains of hidden truth and then putting it back together, all in a glance.

He doesn't realize that he had already decided to share a flat with the man until he was gone, his parting words still ringing in his ears as Mike just shrugged in a 'what can I say' sort of way. He was half way home before he realized that, for the first time in a while, the fog on his life had been lifted outside of Shera's place. It was a shock to his system and he mulled it over for the rest of the evening, eating takeout and staring blankly at his computer, his blog still empty.

He listened to Sherlock dissect his entire life, his relationships, his careers, or ex-careers at the moment, and the irony of it hit him like a bag of hammers to the gut. Sherlock, the man who saw everything about him, missed the biggest secret he had ever had. He felt like he had huge blazing neon sign proclaiming what he did. That this genius of a man could miss something so obvious showed how much his intelligence lacked.

Sherlock noticed things that were not obvious to most people, constantly living in amazement when people, ordinary, dull as he put it, didn't live up to his standards. But what would be most obvious to John, was a mystery to the man. This knowledge left him feeling incredulous and staggered.

Of course what Sherlock lacked in common sense, he made up with that mind of his. John was blown away by his deductions, unable to stop his mouth as he complemented the man. "Brilliant." That Sherlock was shocked by his praise showed how much had happened to him and John wondered how many people have scorned the man, dubbed him as strange, a 'Freak' as Donovan put so sweetly and he felt heat in his chest. That no one but Lestrade and a few others have recognized the greatness in this tall slip of humanity was a crime.

Then of course, Sherlock left him at the crime scene, no cab or any idea of where he was and the amazement turned to annoyance and made him want to wring the bloody idiot's neck. Instead he figured out where he was, ignored Donovan's final warnings and limped off…only to be politely, but unavoidably kidnapped by a voice on the telephone.

Mycroft Homes, though he doesn't know it at the time, was an intimidating man, for those easily intimidated. To John, he was about as scary as his drill sergeant from boot camp, minus the yelling, a looming presence, but easily gotten over after the first meeting.

But he saw knowledge in his eyes, knowledge of him in every aspect, and he knew, in the marrow of his bones, knew that Mycroft had seen through him to his core and had seen more than even Sherlock could have seen. Nothing was hidden from that piercing gaze.

He wasn't afraid of him knowing though. It would take enough money, power handed over, or life or death of himself or Sherlock to get him to reveal anything about John. Even to Sherlock. The fact that he understood him on so fundamental a level, that he knew about the dreams he had and the longing in his heart to return to that large expanse of sand and sun and rivers of blood, made him shiver.

But he put on his mask of indifference, stopping only to grab his gun on the way home and directing the driver back to 221b Baker St. The flat seemed surreal after the warehouse and he was snappish due to his unbalanced emotions. He forced himself to focus and pull himself together.

He had never felt this alive except in Shera's place. His heart was pumping a mile a minute, adrenalin slipping like silver mercury through his body, heightening everything around him as they chase the cab. The awkward situation at Angelo's was long forgotten, blown away in the rush of wind through his lungs and hair.

The fact that the man in the cab was not their killer doesn't even dampen his mood. The fog was gone completely, all thanks to this insane, idiot of a man. He felt laughter bubbling in his chest the whole sprint back to Baker St., let out at random moments. As they stand there, giggling in the hallway, for one absurd moment, he wants to kiss Sherlock, thank him for everything and nothing. He doesn't though.

The fact that Sherlock had his own dirty secrets doesn't surprise him, or not as much as he watched the officers ruffle through Sherlock's things. Sherlock's frustration was palpable as he thought, the cogs and wheels of his mind whirring as fast as possible as tried to keep one step ahead of their killer. He could almost hear the click of the metaphorical light flipping on his mind as he figured it out, put all the pieces in the right order.

None of them suspect a thing as he stepped out until John looked out of the window, seeing him slide into the back of an indistinguishable cab. As the locator program finally came back on, the pieces finally come together. Except, he's too slow, could feel the clock running out even as he hailed his own cab, chasing an idiotic genius through London to who knew where.

His blood was pumping again, adrenalin slippery as an eel in his veins, but instead of a feeling of freedom, he felt dread, dread that he would be too late, that after he'd finally found someone who could lift the fog, he would be forced to lose it all over again.

Sherlock was wrong about one thing. It wasn't a sense of morals that led him to pulling the trigger. It was selfishness. He did it for himself, to keep what he had so desperately sought since his return from the war and if he's being honest with himself, since he joined the army. Mycroft was right, he missed the war, but not because it made him feel useful, it was the thrill of it all, the adrenalin that was always coursing through his veins and he realized he just was bad as Sherlock.

But he hid it behind his usual mask, lets people think what they will. Sherlock was safe and he had what he was after, both of them do, to a point. Even the revelation that Mycroft was Sherlock's brother does not bother him. He alive and life was clear and for now, He'd going to enjoy it.

It's three weeks before he returns to Shera's place. He'd fought it as long as he could, but the fog had returned. None of the cases that followed were enough to make his blood sing like it did that first night, Sherlock solving them quickly and easily, not needing to chase after someone with the New Scotland Yard so close at hand. Lestrade wanted to keep an eye on Sherlock and have him on as short a leash as he could, which wasn't very short compared to others.

So finally, he gave up. It's a Friday afternoon; Sherlock had some experiment or other on the kitchen table that had kept him busy all day. It was easy really. He grabbed his coat, saying he's going out to the pub and told him not to stay up for him. Sherlock just gave a dismissive wave, too focused to notice any falsehood.

He does stop at the pub for about an hour, letting the fumes and the noise sooth him some as he drank a couple of pints. Might as well be thorough when it comes to Sherlock. The sun was still up, but closing in on the horizon, lengthening shadows as he leaves, hailing a taxi and giving the memorized address.

It's a bit further from his new address then from his old flat, but it was still light out as the cab pulled over. He paid the fare and watched it drive off before crossing the street. He hesitated momentarily when he looked up and saw the CCTV trained on the street and he could tell Mycroft already knows he's here. Giving a mental shrug, he continued on, ringing the bell and nodding in a polite hello to Hale, the guard on duty for the evening and made his way in.

Andrew answered at his knock, always impeccable in his suit. "Ah, Doctor Watson, it's been awhile." He held the door open for him and let him through.

"Hello Andrew." He handed him his coat. "It has been a while. Been busy getting settled into my new flat and finding work. Everything is well here I hope?"

"As it ever is." The butler's dry humor always seemed to come out only around him and he smiled at the man as he made his way into the main room. "Would you like anything?" He asked as he reemerged from the coat room.

"No, thank you." There are a few others in the room; he knows their faces but not their names. He nods in hello.

The sound of heels on wood drew his eyes and he smiled as Shera made her way down the grand staircase that took up one side of the room. "John." She smiled warmly, enveloping him in a warm hug. In her heels, she's almost as tall as Sherlock and has to bend down. Her clothes billow around him, red silk and brown lace, and a floral scent wafting from her skin. "It's good to see you."

He shuddered as the thin strip of leather came down across the back of his shoulders. The night had barely begun and already he was sweating, muscles alternating between cramping up and trembling as all that kept him up was the edge of a bed. His mind was deliciously blank, the fog that he'd been fighting against gone. He felt sweat collecting underneath the collar around his throat. Since he had started coming here, it had come to represent this place. When he put it on, he was able to become this, submissive, bending under the will of those who chose to dominate over him, but when it came off, his other side reasserted itself. It was his switch and he guarded it closely.

Another crack and he felt a welt rise red across his arse and around his hip. Punishment for letting his mind wander. He was supposed to be counting each snap. "Eight." He breathed out and could feel eyes on him. His first demonstration and the feeling of being watched, being judged by the others has something hot and dirty unfurling in his abdomen, making him pant harder.

His hands are unbound and they jerk, wanting to clutch the smooth sheets underneath his palms, but he had his orders. No movement, he must remain still. Another crack, this time around his ribs, flicking across his chest to land with a stinging blow on a sensitive nipple. He gritted his teeth, keeping his body in place. "Nine." He choked out as his cock throbbed, the leather strap wrapped around it making it ache bitter sweetly.

The last one landed crosswise from the one before, curling around him again over his shoulder and struck the puckered scar tissue there. He couldn't hold back a gasp as the shock rocketed through him, his body trying to take the final step into bliss and being denied again, his whole body quivering with pent up need and want. He could barely speak around the sensation as he locked his jaw to keep from making any more noise than necessary. "T-ten."

The light pattering of clapping announces that it was over and he collapsed onto the bed, breathing hard only to jump back up as the whip cracked above his head, but not landing. He'd already asked for no marks to be made where they would show, that included his face and neck. "I did not tell you to move yet." He bowed his head, returning to his previous position.

Gordon walked up, steps easy and casual. He's panting heavily, unable to catch his breath through the waves of pleasure that wash through him still, but he could still hear him kneel behind him. "Do you have any idea what you look like, John? The fact that no one has ever noticed this side of you is a shame. You are amazing."

Strong, calloused hands slide around his neck, tilting his head back and he lost control of his body, melding his back against his chest, head lying on his shoulder limply, and breath hot against his tanned neck. "You did so well, John. Performed just as I wanted you to." More warmth spread through him from those words and he can't stop the needy whine that escaped his throat.

Gordon's arms snaked around his body, one hand traveling up to tweak his abused nipple, the other sliding down, skirting around his engorged erection, the blood pooled in it turning it from red to near purple as he strained against the cock strap.

His back arched as a warm hand curled around him, stroking once, twice. "Come for me, John." There was a snap as the clasp was undone and then everything whites out, a gasp escaping his lips as his body rushed like a freight train for completion and hits him with the force of the impact of one. He could only hold on to the strong arms around him as he rode out his orgasm to the end.

He came to in Gordon's lap, head resting against his chest as he ran soothing fingers through his sweat dampened hair. His heart rate and breath are still fast, but he'd come to enough to notice that the room was empty save for the two of them. He stirred languidly, his joints so loose only after such a mind blowing orgasm. Someone must have brought something for them, because he was clean of any semen, though there are still traces of it on the floor and bed he had been bent over.

"Easy, John." Gordon's voice was a low rumble in his chest that vibrated more through him than was heard. He rubbed against soft chest hair, high enough on endorphins and adrenalin to let himself go like this. "Ready to get up?" He asked him.

"Yes." They rose slowly, Gordon supporting him until he could get his knees to cooperate enough to stop going out on him. His limp was gone, though it hadn't bothered him for weeks, his shoulder only remembered the sharp clean pain of the whip, not the old ache from the bullet that had pierced him. They make their way out of the room. The night was still young for the two of them.

The flat was dark as he entered it. Nothing appeared to have been blown up by Sherlock's experiment. No cops going through their things. No brothers who are secretly trying to take over the world are inside, or sisters wanting to embarrass him. No Sherlock in the living room, kitchen or bathroom. He may be in his room, but John was too tired and his back was a dull, but pleasurable ache, so he just shrugged and continued up the steps to his own room.

He stripped down to his boxers, pulling a loose but soft t-shirt from his drawer and pulled it on gently so as not to aggravate the welts on his back. Gordon had rubbed a soothing crème over them to bring the swelling down, but they were still tender.

Sliding into bed, he wondered, offhandedly, when Sherlock would notice. The fact that he wasn't in was just luck on his part. Eventually, he would notice and he wondered how the man would take it. Shrugging mentally, he sank into the soft sheets and mattress on his stomach. Maybe he'd start leaving hints, something subtle, that even Sherlock could see. It would certainly make things interesting. He sighed, eyes growing heavy and his last thought was that he hoped they get a case soon, for his and Sherlock's sake.

End.