Chapter Four

Sherlock watched in fascination as John undid his belt and slid it from his trousers. He was surprised to feel a twinge of arousal at the thought of John undressing in front of him, even though he knew the belt was all John was going to remove.

John moved over to the bed and sat on the edge, careful not to touch Sherlock. He allowed the end of the belt to trail over Sherlock's back and across his buttocks, resting in the soft spot at the back of his left knee briefly, before slowly making it's journey back up the right side of his body. As it dragged over the skin, John started talking in a low and dangerous voice. The Captain was there, for sure, but also something new, something menacing that Sherlock hadn't heard before. He wanted to focus on the words, but the constant motion of the belt and the anticipation of when it would strike made it difficult.

"You have such pretty skin, Sherlock. So pale and pristine. I'm going to enjoy seeing how red it gets with my belt. I haven't decided yet how I want to mark you - whether I will see if I can get all the stripes nicely lined up, or if I should be less clinical about it and strike as the mood takes me. The crossing lines will cause beautiful welts, you know. I wonder if you have any idea how much this is going to hurt? And not just today either, you are going to feel it for the rest of the week. Every time you catch one of the bruises I'm going to leave, you'll remember lying on my bed naked, cuffed and gagged, and why you needed this."

Sherlock moaned behind his gag, his attention fully focussed now on the images John was creating in his mind.

"I'm not going to expect you to count, or tell you how many strokes you will be getting," murmured John close to Sherlock's ear, "I'm just going to keep doing it until I think you've had enough." And then he got closer still and whispered darkly "Or perhaps I'll only stop when I've had enough" and was rewarded with a small gasp from Sherlock as he jerked in anticipation.

John looked down at his friend and saw how his whole body was keyed up, ready and waiting. It was time. He stood up, stepped away from the bed slightly, and brought the belt back. Sherlock's eyes opened and stared at him. Maintaining eye contact, John carefully brought the belt down hard across the back of his legs, just below Sherlock's buttocks. John smiled coldly as he saw the look of shock in Sherlock's eyes, swiftly followed by a look almost of relief. It hurt, but it was bearable. Sherlock's eyes closed again as he waited for the next.

John struck again, this time slightly higher, and then again, and again. To Sherlock the blows seemed without restraint, but John was being careful to hold his strength in check, and to keep the marks to a relatively compact area. He didn't want the detective to be too sore the next day, and he knew the build up and the sheer newness of this would make every strike feel twice as intense.

Pausing for breath, he leant down and looked at Sherlock's face. "Open your eyes" he told him, and Sherlock did. John touched his wrist, checking his pulse, and looked searchingly at him. Not there yet, he hadn't quite tipped over into the bliss John knew pain could induce. He stood up, changed his angle, and methodically started again.

Sherlock was in a daze. He wanted to protest, that it hurt too much, that he couldn't think with all the pain, that he just needed a break for a second to collect his thoughts, but he couldn't. All he could do was gasp and moan behind his gag and clench and unclench his cuffed fists. He did't dare kick out or move his legs, fearful such an action would leave his inner thighs vulnerable to John's belt. He thought of all the things he would do to his flatmate in retaliation - severed heads in the fridge would be the least of John's worries, thought Sherlock darkly. But then the belt came across his arse once again, and he was engrossed in the feeling it caused. It was painful yes, but only momentarily before it turned into a white hot brand, seeming almost to sear into his soul. He gasped, and then moaned again, deeper, his mind absorbed by the feeling.

John watched the change, saw as Sherlock finally gave in to it, his eyes glassy as he stared into space, the moans almost constant, and no longer in protest, but in appreciation. He knew it was pretty much time to stop, so he counted 5 more strokes, then put the belt down and surveyed his work. Sherlock's arse and the backs of his thighs were almost universally bright red with raised white stripes where the edge of the belt had caught. He flinched slightly in sympathy with the realisation that there would be more than a couple of bruises. Sherlock was going to have a miserable few days of being very careful as he sat. To be honest, John was surprised it had taken as long as it had for Sherlock to give in. His pain threshold was higher than expected.

Sherlock slowly came back to the room, aware that the pain had stopped. He closed his eyes, savouring the feeling of heat across his body, and feeling the endorphins rushing around his bloodstream, making him almost giddy. He looked up at John, who smiled down at him. John sat on the edge of the bed again, undid and removed the gag, then gently stroked Sherlock's back, running his hand down from the smooth untouched skin to the redness and the welts, feeling the difference in heat and texture, admiring his handiwork. John continued to stroke, as Sherlock relaxed again and closed his eyes, his mind contrasting the pleasure of the gentle touch of John's hand with the feel of the belt striking his skin.

John carefully released the cuffs, rubbing his fingers lightly over Sherlock's wrists and the red marks there. Nothing that wouldn't fade by the morning. Sherlocks eyes remained closed and his breathing was steadily slowing. He placed the detective's arms back by his sides, and, taking a blanket from the bottom of the bed, covered him with it. Leaning over, he kissed him lightly on the forehead again, wanting to show his friend that he'd kept him safe, and that he cared.

As Sherlock drifted into sleep he was aware of the light dimming, and John quietly making his way downstairs to sleep on the couch. His last thoughts as he floated away were of gratitude for this amazing gift.