A/N:: a perfunctory but VERY well deserved answer to my unspeakable crimes against humanity in the area of this fic (and all 3 i have going on right now, actually). i graduated from Uni in December, and since then it's been nothing but family and work. poor excuse, but there you go. i tried updating this three days ago, but the site was acting up and then i got snowed into by work (luckily its a hotel so it was actually decent) by the polar vortex crap happening so i could do nothing to update. i am sorry ladies, but here you go; the final installment for this verse, and i hoped you have liked it so far. this one is 98% smut, so here you go!
Sherlock strained a bit, the dull ache in his lower back getting to be uncomfortable as he half-hung there out in the open. He sighed and stretched his legs out a bit wider, waiting for John to look his way. Even a partially assuring glance to make sure his blood wasn't all rushing to his head would be far better than being totally ignored!
In the end he just hung there and counted down the minutes in his mind's eye until Darcy would hobble out from her room, blatantly ignoring her doctor's advice (John had her discharged to his care a month ago from the hospital, and Sherlock highly suspected that Mycroft pulled some strings because she was nowhere near ready to be sent home quite yet without his nudging) in order to fix herself some lunch. She was still in a bad way but was more content to walk on her broken leg than she was to sit there and wait to be waited on.
Particularly when her doctor had her would-be waiter tied to the kitchen table so ruthlessly.
God, he was no longer 30, and he was beginning to feel it. John would have to be more gentle now and then. He hated it.
"Shut up, Sherlock," John droned. The detective swung his head back to look at his boyfriend. Not even a glance. Ugh.
"But Sir, I wasn—" Sherlock was cut off.
"You were thinking. It's annoying," he chimed in, a small smirk working across his adorable features at the idea of stealing Sherlock's phrase rather than giving him the satisfaction of any real attention. The younger man growled under his breath and sank back into his ropes.
He had one ankle tied to a leg of the table on the long side, spreading his stance nearly as far as it could go, a wrist trailed down there as well, as far as he could reach, his body bent double. Sherlock's curls dusted the floor, the ropes at is hips tied tight to the table top and around it, ensuring his weight was supported and a bit less strain on his spine. If he let himself be lazy, it was a bit more comfortable, but he was not the type to let that happen, hence the back-ache.
And it didn't help in the slightest that John had plugged his arse with a long, sleek black plug which vibrated at random intervals (according to an evil remote John held in his lap) and held him open and loose for random plundering. He had gotten precisely three and a half rogerings so far before the older gent decided to sit back with some tea and watch crap telly for three straight hours.
Irritating. He hated being ignored above all, and he didn't deserve it! He didn't!
And with that, Sherlock began his second (fifth) round of pouting, letting his mind slip into his Palace to root out something more interesting than this. It had started out fun, but now his erection had flagged with no assured form of release, and he was growing disinterested without any attention given him.
About twenty minutes later, he was torn out of polishing the angry smudges on the floor of his Mind Palace (left there by John's anger toward him after his return from his "suicide", they were very hard to get out once set into the posh carpeting) by the feel of a pressure at his entrance. John was switching out the longer, vibrating plug for a short wide one meant to keep him open. He looked up between his legs at John with a curious expression. The doctor smiled and ran a tender hand over his flank.
"Sherlock," he sighed, kneeling between the detective's feet. He quirked and eyebrow to show he was at the present and waited for his doctor to continue. Patience was not a strong suit, but for John…. "I forgave you a long time ago. Clean the floors in there and come back to me." He stayed there, waiting for Sherlock to do as he said and when his love's eyes opened back up rather quickly, John had nothing but smiles for him.
A door creaked open down the hall, and both men jumped a little as a faint waif of shadow made its way down the hall and into the siting room.
Darcy still hobbled quite badly, her broken leg (having been reset like four times now) was still not healing too well, but it would do for now. She refused to be an invalid all the time, even though it was nice when Sherlock was ordered by his lovely captain to bring her tea in naught but his dog tags and a leather harness. That had been a loud morning…moans and whines echoing through the hall….Darcy smiled and wondered what her men had left for her to find this morning. She set off through the flat to find out only to find them in the kitchen in one of John's newfound favorite positions.
"Tea?" Darcy asked, smiling down at Sherlock's upside-down head and patting his upturned arse gently as she went by. The girl held trailed fingers thru John's short crop as well, tugging a bit as she headed for the kettle to turn it on.
"That'd be lovely, thank you," he murmured. "Is your back hurting, pet?" John asked, rubbing a hand over the shaking expanse of muscle. Sherlock nodded (just a bit miserably) and John smiled, taking his bindings off as the younger man sank down to the cold tile and kneeled there, waiting. John smirked and left one wrist tied to the table-leg. "Hungry?" he asked. Sherlock grimaced but nodded. John rolled his eyes and got up off the floor, leg creaking a bit, and rounded on Darcy.
"Feed him, will you?" he asked, nodding back at Sherlock. Darcy nodded, her gaze softening a little from the pained scowl she had been wearing lately. She went to the fridge and made up a sandwich as John disappeared. A few minutes later the door shut soundly and the two sociopaths were left to fend for themselves.
"You want that out?" Darcy asked, waving the tip of her knife at Sherlock's arse. Sherlock shook his head with a faint smile, not taking the bait. She loved to get him in small amounts of trouble with John! The detective had managed to sink a bit back into sub space and didn't want to make John angry when he returned from his mysterious errand. As Darcy knelt down—awkwardly with her bum leg—she crossed her legs to sit on the floor in front of him with the plate of sandwich—crusts cut off—and a cup of piping hot PG Tips and a fresh roll of biscuits.
Sherlock preferred the way Darcy fed him. All calories and little else. He didn't have to get as full with her to get the nutrition he needed. He blew a stray curl out of his eyes and opened his mouth for the sandwich she aimed at it. After taking a bite she sighed and settled back against the opposite leg of the table, looking at him plainly. The good detective had always liked this trait in her. She didn't ever try to hide her thoughts. She was as easy to read in this respect as was John, but she could hide it better in certain company than his doctor could. Much better to have her around, he thought. He was just happy that Mycroft had made good on his offer and "vanished" her, leaving behind no records of Darcy's existence as well as cutting her a new ID and license. She was his to keep, as long as she would stay, anyway.
"How's your leg?" he asked, swallowing the bite and opening up for another as she winced at the forward motion of her torso leaning across the space. He reached out his unbound hand and took the sandwich from her, letting her relax. They (John) had weaned her off the pain meds a few days ago, and she was still adjusting to the PT schedule of having to actually use her virtually destroyed limb without the added benefit of pain medication and muscle relaxers. After all, it had been shot through quite a few times.
"It's doing better. Still wish I had those bloody drugs. Amazing they were," she fussed, stretching out the atrophied leg as far as she could, still not perfectly straight, Sherlock noted. He smiled lightly and continued to eat the sandwich, eyes turning to the tea and biscuits. She always bought two packages; jammie dodgers for John and digestives for him. He hated the chocolate ones. She kept those in her own room, hidden from the doctor who had a rather wicked sweet tooth when he got good and bored. Less destructive than Sherlock's habits for alleviating boredom, to be sure, but no less bad for him. Darcy opened up his package and rolled the log of biscuits over, letting him dunk them in his tea to munch on. He ate three and a half then offered her the last half. Smiling (maybe snorting into her own tea a bit) she took the proffered treat and ate.
John turned up a few minutes after, while Darcy was cleaning up and Sherlock was resting with his curly head against the leg of the table where he was still bound. He came into the kitchen, a smallish black bag in his hand, and stooped down to remove Sherlock's wrist from its cuff on the table-leg.
"Go on up to our room, pet," he commanded, watching with interest as Sherlock started to stand and then decided to crawl over to the stairs and then up them. John turned back to Darcy expectantly.
"I didn't say anything, you brute. He ate pretty well, should be fine for a few hours." She smiled and turned to make her way into the sitting room. John helped her to Sherlock's worn-down grey chair and handed her the remote.
"Thank you," he muttered, pressing a kiss to her forehead before leaving after Sherlock. Darcy rolled her eyes and searched for some crap telly as she sank back into the warm leather and got comfortable.
"Are you really going to smack him round for that? You did give him permission, John," she teased, craning her neck to see the stairwell. He paused and shot her a smirk. They both knew it was more for the sake of doing it than it was for the sake of punishment, as would Sherlock, no doubt.
John entered his-their-room, glancing around to find Sherlock laid out on his back on the bed, having been given no command other than to go up to the room. John smirked and jumped on the bed after him, landing between spread thighs and making the taller man bounce on the mattress.
Sherlock grunted as John sprawled across him, laughing under his breath a bit to lessen the tension in the room. Sherlock was eyeing the black shopping bag on the floor suspiciously, not sure if it was a new toy or a new torture device or something completely neutral; nor was he certain of which he should be rooting for.
"I am going to blindfold you, and build something. Feel free to take a nap if you'd like, love. It will be a few minutes. You'll see soon, I promise," he added devilishly, reaching for the bedside drawer to dig out the sleeping mask. Sherlock pouted but lifted his head to have it affixed, before settling himself in for a good wait. John could be so frustrating, he decided, but his blood was rushing with the possibility of what could be in the bag. It was fairly large, metal by the sound of the clanking on the wood floor…good God was that a power drill? What the…bolting something to the floor….he squirmed a bit, not enough to get any attention called on himself, but enough to show his apprehension and curiosity. He trusted John intrinsically and unabashedly, so it didn't worry him, whatever this was…but he could not be sated.
Another solid 40 minutes he waited, cock flagging and expanding as his imagination got the better of him, before John once again slid between his thighs, this time naked except for pants (hopefully those little red ones with the white piping…not quite free enough to look down yet) pulling the blindfold off with his teeth. He reached between Sherlock's thighs and tugged the plug out of his arse with a wet pop.
"Now, I've been patient with this punishment, Sherlock, but you deserve it. What did you do?" the detective scowled and writhed a bit, wracking his brain. Was John still upset about the shooting? No, he'd already been smacked around for that…what now? He thought…not really latching onto anything until it hit him.
He'd kissed Darcy without permission two days ago.
It was a minor infraction (honestly barely a brush of lips as she had solved a case for him—new set of eyes and all, and he had forgotten himself for a tiny second), and technically he'd been given permission when she moved in permanently to give her any kind of affection he felt she needed aside from sex (which he'd never do without John's explicit command—and probably guidance—anyway) but John apparently was trying to find something to beat him up for, so there you go. Anything counts in this game. He sighed and admitted to his folly. John smiled against his skin before he bit down hard-right into the meat of Sherlock's pectoral. He whimpered lightly, but was mostly interested in what came next.
John slid off him and sat back, bringing the taller man up next to him to show off their new toy.
In the corner of the room stood a metal pipe, jutting up from a ring-socket bolted to the floor at a 90 degree angle. Attached to the top, like a capital T with only one arm was another pole, and on the end of that was a lovely, John-sized rubber cock.
"My love, you are to fuck yourself continuously on that while I brand a few nice marks into you for what you did. You'll of course have to beg for the real thing. I'm not even sure I'll let you come tonight. But I guess we'll have to see just how pathetic you can get in your desperation, wont we?" he asked, tugging a rampant curl as he stood, taking Sherlock's trembling hand and leading him over to the device. "Get down, pet," he whispered, pausing the taller man's motions as he started to kneel by trapping his lips with his own briefly. A tender, but passionate kiss interrupted the flow of things as Sherlock stooped, keeping his back arched, head level with John's so he didn't have to get up on his toes, and then slid the rest of the way down to the cold hardwood on his knees.
Hmm, he thought, backing toward the construction arse-first, wiggling a little bit for show. John was a sucker for shows, so here we go. Start a new one right on up, John!
The toy had already been lubricated thoroughly, so Sherlock practically slid straight onto it, with just a bit of breathing and wriggling to get the right spot. He found that, unlike many of his toys, it did not vibrate, and he was a bit put-out until he felt a very particular ridge of a vein stretch just past that tight and oh-so-sensitive area of his stretched hole. This cock was John's particularly! Exactly! He almost lost his hand-hold on the floor just then, feeling the need to melt straight into the cracks between the wood paneling. John had gotten a model made of his own cock to tease Sherlock with?! How marvelous! He looked up through mussed curls at his partner, seeing the light shining there as John watched the realization come into the brilliant mind of the man on the floor.
"Oh, yeah? Thought you'd like that bit. Wondered if you'd notice, but then again how could you not? You're Sherlock Holmes, brightest man in all of England, to be sure!" John threw his hands up and stepped back, grabbing a tawse out of the toy box. Sherlock froze. There was no way a minor infraction deserved a TAWSE! Bloody awful things you're lucky if they don't tear through skin. John noticed the hesitation and laughed.
"What? Not quite up to par for this one today are we? Did I ask you?" he shouted, leaning down to get in Sherlock's face. The younger man backed down, looking at the floor but still frozen with disbelief and a touch of fear. He shook his head minutely. "Well, don't worry Sherlock, I mostly just wanted to see how you'd react. Though I think you may deserve one good lash for forgetting your place when it comes to Darcy, yes?" he asked again, straightening his back and running fingers over the cool leather. The detective grunted his assent, straightening out his back and driving the toy in a bit deeper.
"Yes, keep it up love, in and out. I want to see your cock weeping by the time you're allowed to touch the real thing." Sherlock whimpered and bit his lip, pulling and pushing the muscles in his thighs to get them to obey the simple command. He'd been in sib-space all day, this wasn't fair, bringing out the worst weapon when he didn't even deserve it! Maybe I do a little, he thought. Making his back as flat as possible, he waited, fucking himself good and proper as possible on the model cock for John to watch.
John could see the saliva pooling in his mate's mouth as he mentioned fellatio, one of his favorite ways to bring John off, and it almost made him smack the younger man the one time promised just so he could drive his cock between those perfect lips! He almost did, but the kiss reminded him that he needed to keep his mind about him. If Sherlock thought he could get away with even brushing against other people when he didn't ask, then he was diminishing John's authority.
Maybe he needed to explain that.
"Sherlock, where is your collar?" he asked. The detective paused in his movements for a breath, raising a long fingered hand to point at the dresser. The good doctor went and fetched it, locking the clasp in place a cinch too tight on the pale throat. He dug two fingers into the soft flesh, wrapping them around the leather and pulled Sherlock's head up so that he could look nowhere else. "Do you know what these mean, Sherlock? What they signify? The dog tags?" Sherlock nodded, utterly confused. Good. "Tell me."
"They mean you own me, sir, they mean that my body is not mine to do with what I please so long as I am wearing them and that you are in command, Captain." His voice trembled. He was able to deduce where John was going with this, and supplied what was apparently the correct answer.
"Good, and do you think that kissing Darcy without asking for it first is a good way to represent that model you just depicted?" Sherlock shook his head hard. "So do I need to take these away?"
"NO, please!" Sherlock made a grab for the tags but John knocked his hand away and let go of the collar entirely. The detective's hands landed flat on the floor once more.
"If you cannot respect the tags and what they symbolize, then you are undermining my authority between us, and thus you do not deserve to wear them. Is that clear? Two lashings with this," he brandished the tawse, "And then we will move on. Yes?"
"Yes, Captain," Sherlock mumbled. His head was practically on the floor he was trying to make himself so small.
"Any more slip ups, and they're gone. You'll have to earn them again."
"Yes, Captain." A pause, followed by a loud crack as the leather of the tawse met the hard skin of Sherlock's lean back. He bit in the scream, but GOD did it hurt! "Ooooh fuck," he whimpered, flexing out the burn for a moment before settling back into fucking himself on the toy. John walked around for a second, no doubt getting up the nerve to hit him again.
"Don't bite your lip, you'll go through it," John demanded seconds before administering the second blow as soon as Sherlock obeyed. Tears streamed down the younger man's face as he tried to hold in the cries, keeping up his half-hearted motion against the toy as he flexed out the burn again. He'd have welts there, for certain. His cock had flagged substantially in the trepidation of his punishment, but now that John was sitting down in front of him again, cross-legged, cock eager and pushing against the red fabric of Sherlock's favorite "doctor-pants," it was beginning to take interest once more.
"Well, do you want it, Sherlock?" he asked, toying with the hem of the briefs. Sherlock nodded, licking his lips. "You have to tell me, love."
"Please, John! I've never wanted to suck you off so badly in my life, please let me take you in. please fuck my throat so I can't talk for two days and please come inside my mouth so I can taste you."
"Tell me, Sherlock," John let his voice drop a few octaves. He looked at the younger man pointedly.
Sherlock grimaced but checked himself quickly.
"I love you, John," he murmured, blushing a bit.
"I love you too, Sherlock. Always."
A/N:: PM me if you want any thing specific story-wise, lovelies, and as always, reviews are deeply appreciated. i'm free most of the time now so writing will be taking back over my life soon, i'm sure.