Very little sleep was had at 221b Baker Street that night. Two men sat in their separate bedrooms. The very best of friends, colleagues, confidants. One wracked with guilt and remorse, the other with pain and incomprehension. Both impossibly sad. Two men who at that moment wanted nothing more than to comfort the other, but a yawning impenetrable gulf stood between them. Souls were searched, motivations questioned, decisions made.

At dawn Sherlock knocked on John's bedroom door, then opened it and walked in without waiting for an answer. He stopped by the bed and John stared up from his position miserably huddled under the covers, surprised to see him. Sherlock held out a large glass of water and some paracetamol.

"Take these," he said coldly, "then get your first aid kit."

John took the water and painkillers gratefully. His head was throbbing from the triple pressures of the previous evening - concussion, hangover and indescribable guilt. Sherlock had walked back out and down the stairs. John reluctantly followed him, dreading the conversation that he knew was ahead.

oOo

It was funny, Sherlock had thought as he'd carefully made his way to his bedroom after John had run away from the kitchen that night. Given their track record he had always assumed it would be him that would do the deed that crossed the line and caused their friendship to reach such a crisis. Not once did it occur to him that John might lose his control so spectacularly. John was the forgiver, Sherlock was the one who stretched boundaries to breaking point.

He had hissed in pain as he'd touched his back gingerly, inspecting it in the mirror. There were some nasty welts, and a lot of bruising. Far more than any consensual session had ever caused. It wasn't just the physical elements - he had been scared of John. Genuinely scared. This he hated more than anything else. The rest was just transport, as he said all too often when he got hurt at a crime scene or through an accident with an experiment, and would heal with time. But never had he felt so helpless, so vulnerable. For it to have been John that caused it was almost unforgivable. Almost.

Given time and space, Sherlock was willing to concede that John probably had a point earlier in the evening about Sherlock's lack of thought. And if he replayed the 'conversation' they'd had, John's biggest issue had been Sherlock putting himself into danger. So. Right sentiment, totally wrong way of expressing it.

Could he have done things differently? Could Sherlock have acted differently and stopped it from happening? Was it his fault? No, never. Sherlock thought, no matter what the circumstances, John would never be justified in what he did. Sherlock wasn't some downtrodden domestic abuse victim, convinced it was their own doing - he knew exactly who was to blame for his bruises, and it wasn't him.

Had John thought it was ok? That Sherlock was playing along? Had it been a misunderstanding around games versus reality? Sherlock wanted that to be true with a passion. If it had been a misunderstanding then it could be fixed, new rules about clarity put in place, and they could carry on. But he knew he was trying to fool himself. They had never progressed to any sort of role-play of non-consent where John overpowered him. John always made sure Sherlock knew what was coming before they started, so he had the opportunity to say no. John had never pushed him to a point where he had safe-worded. And John, in his right mind, would never, ever have continued once Sherlock had said it.

The question came as to what to do next. Did he want John to continue to live with him, be part of his life? Would he be able to trust John again?

In the end he had lay down on the bed on his front, unable to find a position to sit that didn't make him wince. He analysed the options until the sun came up, going over the possibilities and likely outcomes in his mind. Until finally he nodded to himself and got out of bed. He had made a decision.

oOo

Sherlock sat straddling a kitchen chair, his arms resting on the back, his head bowed and his eyes closed. His torso was bare and John could see the mess he had made of Sherlock's back. He stood in the doorway, miserably charting and assessing the trauma.

"You should clean them," Sherlock prompted in his deep baritone. "Like you did that first night when this all started, the night you found me cutting myself in the bathroom."

John visibly paled in memory of that night, and also at the thought of having to fix the damage he had caused. "I can't. I can't touch you, after what I did to you. I don't know how you can even bear to be in the same room as me right now," self-loathing thickening his voice. "I'll call someone to help... another doctor...I'll explain..."

Sherlock opened his eyes and fixed his stare on John. "Oh, you will touch me. You will tend to every single one of my injuries. You will see them all, feel them all, and know that you caused them; that the pain I feel right now is down to you and you alone. You will do this for me now in the cold light of day because I am telling you to, so you never ever forget or sugar coat this or pretend it wasn't as bad as it is."

John went to the kitchen to get a bowl of hot water and then sat behind Sherlock. He put his hand out, then pulled back, unsure. He steeled himself and reached out with the wet cloth to begin. Every single touch was a punishment. Every time he made Sherlock flinch or draw in his breath was another level of torture. He was as careful as he could be, as compassionate as he had ever been, as he cleaned, disinfected and bandaged. And he did what Sherlock had asked of him - he saw every single mark, touched every bruise, and burned each intimate detail onto his brain. He knew he would be having nightmares about this that would rival the Afghanistan ones in their intensity, but still he continued. This was his own personal hell to live through and it was nothing more than he deserved.

Finally he was finished and the injuries dealt with as best as he could. He got up and went to the kitchen, bringing out water and some painkillers.

"They won't get rid of it completely," he said in a small voice, "but they will help lessen the pain and reduce the inflammation."

Sherlock took them without a word. He turned round in the chair to face the other man and leant forward until his eyes were level with John's, forcing him to maintain eye contact. Searching his eyes and face for clues as to how the doctor felt, Sherlock spoke quietly and with utter sincerity, "I will forgive you the once. But never twice. If you ever lay a hand on me in anger in this way again I will inform Mycroft and he will make it so you never existed."

John knew he meant every word, and he was grateful for it. There could never be another night like the last one. He nodded miserably.

oOo

John had been so angry with Sherlock that night he could almost taste it. His rage had been a white-hot buzz in his mind, slowly simmering away. Then Sherlock had come in with all his ridiculous justifications for putting his life on the line, and the buzz had become a roar. His only thought had been to get through to Sherlock how serious it was that he took responsibility for his own safety. Somehow in his alcohol fueled fury the best way to do this had been through intimidation. Pinning him against the fridge to scare him a little had seemed the perfect idea.

Things got blurry after that. He remembered taking his belt off...dragging Sherlock back to the table when he tried to get away...making the first strike and pushing Sherlock to say sorry... then nothing... until he was looking down at Sherlock in horror as he begged John to stop through his tears, his voice desperate. It had been clear Sherlock had been begging for some time, and had given up hope that John would listen.

John had never been so ashamed of himself in his life.

oOo

"I'll go pack," John ventured.

"Why?" Sherlock frowned.

"So I can leave. I'll stay with Harry or something until I can get another flat."

"Again, why?" A touch of irritation crept into Sherlock's voice at having to repeat himself.

"I thought... you wouldn't want me here any more." John told him, confused.

In his mind this wasn't even a question - he had assumed that of course Sherlock would want him to move out. Even his comment about forgiveness surely just meant he wouldn't have John 'removed' by Mycroft but that John could expect to remove himself from Sherlock's life by the end of the day. He should have left last night really, but he hadn't been able to bear to go while Sherlock was hurt until he knew if he was okay. Cowardly to put his own needs above Sherlock's, but John couldn't help it.

"You are not leaving," Sherlock told him, dismissively. "I told you I forgive you. That's the end of it. I like living with you, and I do not wish to be left dealing with Anderson's incompetence in forensics at crime scenes on top of everything else right now."

oOo

Time passed. The bruises and welts on Sherlock's back healed. John stayed living at Baker Street and assisting the detective when required, and working at the surgery when he could. They both pretended things were alright and nothing had changed. Except... it was an uneasy status quo. John still made Sherlock tea, but stopped making him eat. He would ask politely, but wouldn't force the issue, as if afraid that even a minor squabble would escalate into danger. Sherlock's protective bubble of personal space from the world in general grew by a few inches, which made John sad as he knew it was because of him. John was fastidious about avoiding all accidental touches, which made Sherlock forlorn because he missed them.

oOo

The first night that Sherlock knocked on John's door after the night of the whisky, John said no. He said it nicely, but firmly, and closed the door on Sherlock.

The second night, some days later, he looked saddened, but still firm in his refusal. Sherlock was frustrated - he didn't understand what the problem was. He needed this release and he wanted John to provide it like he had done before. He knew John wouldn't exceed the boundaries - why didn't John? It was logical - John had far too much to lose to do that. Besides the situation was different - he was there asking, John was sober, the bedroom was their private sanctuary of pleasure. He pushed John for an explanation and was disappointed when the doctor could only shake his head and repeat his gentle refusal.

The third time Sherlock didn't bother knocking.

John had bid the detective goodnight and had headed upstairs to complete his evening routine before getting into bed. When he came out of the bathroom he was somewhat dismayed to see his bedroom door open, and Sherlock in his room. Not only in his room, but kneeling by his bed, his eyes looking up at John expectantly as he stood in the doorway. With a sigh he came into the room, shutting the door behind him, and sat down on the chair. Sherlock stood in a ridiculously graceful way for someone so tall and lanky, and crossed the room to kneel again, this time in front of John's chair.

John looked down at the man in front of him. Unusually he was fully dressed - he tended to turn up in John's room in his pyjamas. Today he was still wearing his suit trousers and a shirt with rolled up sleeves. He looked slightly smug, John guessed at having got him to participate this much.

"What do you need, pet?" he asked in a tired voice, sure this was all a very bad idea but with no clue of how to move forward without going through with it. Sherlock was so single-minded when he got an idea and would continue doggedly until he got what he wanted. John could only hope that Sherlock would find it intolerable too and they could agree to never do this again. After closing his eyes briefly in defeat he reached out to stroke Sherlock's hair, making sure to maintain eye contact. If there was even a hint of worry or distaste in Sherlock's face he would stop.

"I need..." Sherlock stalled. He found himself unsure now of what he wanted - truth be told he hadn't expected to get this far. But now John was playing along he found his mind racing through all the exciting possibilities. "Your hands." He said decisively. "I want you to use your hands to help me let go. Get my mind to shut off for a bit like you've done before."

Hands were safe. Hands would mean that John would have to touch him, and couldn't forget it was Sherlock he was doing this to. Hands were not the belt.

"Alright," agreed John, cautiously. "How?"

Sherlock's heart sang out at the options. He thought of all the things they had done and what had made him feel the best. He recalled the feel of John's hands on every part of his body. He remembered every position they had been in and those he had wondered about but never tried. He wanted closeness - to feel John's body against his - to feel protected by it. He wanted the buzz of the pleasure-pain and he also wanted the connection to John that he had lost.

With a shy smile he asked John for what he wanted.

"Really?" John queried, surprised by the request. "We've not done that before? Are you sure?"

Sherlock nodded eagerly.

"Well..." said John, dubiously, "I guess that would be okay. We can try it at least," he caveated. "But I won't be able to see your face. You have to tell me the second that it becomes not good - the very second, you understand? If you don't promise me this then I can't do it."

"I promise," agreed Sherlock readily, happy to have got his own way.

"Come over here then..." John beckoned him over.

Sherlock stood, and with another shy smile undid his trousers. It quickly turned into a grin at the look on John's face, clearly not expecting this.

"Not nude" John clarified quickly. "I'm not having you bent over my knee naked. Not today, anyway." He even managed a shaky laugh at that thought, although he was still dreading what was ahead. He didn't need this to be any more difficult than it already was. He wanted to just get this over with and get Sherlock to see this couldn't happen any more and then they could go back to being friends and Sherlock would have to find someone else to help him.

"Boxers?" queried Sherlock

John nodded. He knew why Sherlock wanted to remove his clothes - he'd told John before how he had assessed the effectiveness of different techniques against different barriers, and he found skin-to-skin contact most enjoyable.

Sherlock folded his trousers neatly and put them on the bed. He undid his shirt, leaving it on, covering his back, both in unspoken agreement on this - far easier to move past the last time when not confronted with the fading physical scars, or the touch of another person against that skin. He stood in front of John, eager and waiting.

John frowned slightly, weighing up options in his mind. He tugged Sherlock's hand, moving him to his left side and then gently pulled him down over his lap. He paused, feeling somewhat daft at having a grown man bent over him awaiting a spanking. But Sherlock was clearly enjoying it, and it was Sherlock's enjoyment that was priority. He put his right hand on Sherlock's shoulder lightly, hoping to detect any hint of tension as soon as it arose. He rubbed his left hand over his friend's thighs. With gritted teeth he summoned up the courage to strike.

*smack*

John's hand connected with the firm flesh on the back of Sherlock's thigh. He flinched at the sound, although he had held back considerably, so the only effect was a very slight pink flush to the skin.

"John..." Sherlock drawled from down around his ankles. "You will really have to do better than that."

John tried again, two quick spanks in succession, one to each thigh. Then rubbed the area he had struck.

Sherlock hissed in disappointment - this wasn't working. He didn't feel anything yet. He needed more. So he grabbed the leg in front of him, gripping hard. "You have to do this, John. You promised me, you said you would do what I wanted."

To Sherlock's surprise he felt John quivering underneath him. He was about to look up when John's hand on his shoulder stilled him. He heard John gulping and trying to steady his breathing, and realised with horror that John was crying. He had misjudged this terribly. This was so not good it was unreal. But they were committed now. Sherlock didn't know what to do other than follow through.

"Again." Said Sherlock through gritted teeth. "Again, damn you."

John complied, though tears pouring down his cheeks. "Please. Let me stop. I can't do this any more."

"No! I need this. You have to do this for me." Sherlock begged.

"How many more?"

"Eight. Give me eight more then we can stop."

John took a deep breath, trying to hold on to himself so he could give Sherlock what he wanted and needed. "Count with me, pet?"

Sherlock gripped his ankle and nodded. So they counted together. John didn't hold back any more and Sherlock felt the world slipping away as the thoughts in his mind stilled, focused only on the feel of John beneath him and above him, and the slow steady count as the strikes built up.

At eight they both let go, gasping with the emotional intensity of it all. Hardly aware of what he was doing Sherlock crawled back up onto the chair to sit on John's lap, curling up around him in a hug. John clung to him, shaken and drained by the events of the evening. For once Sherlock was the stronger, the one who wasn't wrung out by the session. So he did what John had done for him so many times. He held him, stroked him, brushed the tears from his face, made soothing noises in his ear.

He kissed him too, little chaste kisses on his cheek to kiss away the tears, like those John bequeathed him when he needed them. He kissed the corner of John's mouth. Then, feeling brave he kissed John's lips, wanting him to be assured Sherlock was alright, and then he kissed it again because it had felt good the first time. And then John was kissing him back, just a little, and it was salty from the tears but oh so sweet, and the kisses said everything they hadn't dared say to each other's faces I'm so sorry I hurt you - I know, I understand - I will never do it again - I missed this, missed you - forgive me - I forgive you.

They stopped, both slightly bemused at the direction things had gone and the heightened emotions of the evening. But John wasn't crying any more, and Sherlock wondered curiously whether there were other ways that clever, clever John could help distract him from the world. He rested his head against John's shoulder, his eyes closed, his fingers playing with the buttons on John's shirt.

"Can I sleep in here with you tonight?" he asked sleepily, sated.

John gripped him tighter, his lips brushing against Sherlock's hair, and sighed. "I'd like that, very much."


A/N - as always, all reviews and comments are gratefully received.