No matter how many times it happened, the doctor was sure he would never get tired of this moment. There was he, sitting on his favourite part of the sofa, legs spread apart in a casual gesture of dominance. His eyes never flickered from the body kneeling in front of him, drinking in every square inch of Sherlock's exposed skin. For a moment, the two men simply read each other; the body language, frown lines, the shadows and highlights in their pupils, the flickering of their eyes. Judging, guessing what the next move would be. In the short amount of time Sherlock and himself had known each other, John had quickly become accustomed to the tell-tale signs of Sherlock's moods. In the same way, Sherlock was perfectly aware of what John wanted from him from the moment he settled on the couch. And so, for first couple of minutes before one of them broke the silence, they would simply watch. For John; it was perfection.
But today, something was wrong. Sherlock was... different. His eyes weren't flickering across John's features, they were downcast. His fingers drummed agitatedly against his thighs, his pale skin wasn't brightened by nervousness or excitement. It was as if a cloud had descended over him, rendering him unreadable. The agitation seemed to crawl across Sherlock's skin, making the muscles jump underneath his flesh. He shook his head then tipped it to one side, as if attempting to make the thoughts fall out of his head through his ears. The doctor's mind wandered back to their first meeting, comparing the movements. No, John was sure the detective had only been mildly irritated then. What was sitting in front of him now was the mess of a man who was trying to suppress something.
The doctor waited, feeling the slow rising of tension in the air, until Sherlock snapped.
"Don't just sit there! Fuck me – choke me to death for all I care – just, something, ANYTHING. You have to make it go away!"
John sat up abruptly. Eyebrows furrowed, he paused for a second to note the change of colour in Sherlock's eyes before responding. "I'm not – Jesus, I'm not going to choke you! Make what go away, what are you talking about Sherlock?"
Sherlock's hands flew to his hair, grasping the black curl in his fists.
"The NOISE. Can't you hear it, the noise, John!"
Stumbling to his feet, Sherlock leapt over to the sofa, grabbing the front of John's jumper and pulling him forward.
"It's driving me insane! I was wrong, so stupidly, unbelievably wrong. I didn't – SEE it – I couldn't – My God, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!"
John Watson had suffered through warzones, battles, injuries that left scars that were more than skin deep. He'd seen shell shock at its worst, and witnessed the psychological unravelling of many a level-headed man.
But this was on a whole new level of terrifying.
On the surface, however, he maintained control. Wrenching his jumper from Sherlock's grasp, he clasped his strong hands around Sherlock's wrists.
"It's ok- stop shouting- it's ok. Just, take a deep breath for me – that's it – good boy."
Gently, John manoeuvred the shaking detective off of the sofa and back onto the floor.
"Sit there for me, Sherlock."
Sherlock shook his head rapidly.
"No – It won't stop, please! – I can't just sit –"
"You can and you will, Sherlock." John interjected. "Just concentrate on me. I want you to sit there, just like that. Nothing else, just sit and focus on me."
Sitting back down, John pushed up the sleeves of him jumper, and wiped his sweating palms on his jeans. He watched as Sherlock closed his eyes, the nerve in his eyelids twitching and jumping, evidence of the internal battle that he was fighting. As he sat there, John's own thoughts began to consume him.
He didn't know what, but Sherlock had been wrong about something, and he was desperate to be punished for it. It pained John to think that in the mind of the man sitting before him, being wrong somehow equated to misbehaviour. And it hurt him even more to think that he couldn't give Sherlock what he wanted. There was no way he was going to punish someone for being wrong....
Out of no-where, the doctor was dragged back to the surface of reality. For a moment, he blinked and frowned, confused as to what had shaken him from his thoughts. And then, he noticed it. The sound of fingers tapping idly on the wooden floor.
The words formed on John's lips without any need to engage his brain, an immediate reaction to the familiar sound.
"Hands behind your head, and keep them still."
John didn't bother watching as Sherlock obeyed. Instead he entertained himself by counting the 3,4 – 5 seconds until those longs fingers began twisting and twirling in his black curls. A thought occurred to him.
He let his gaze drift across the room, pausing to focus on everything but the man in front of him, and speaking in an almost-bored manner.
"Do you remember what happened last time you couldn't keep your hands still?"
He heard Sherlock swallow thickly.
"Yes, Sir."
"Really? Enlighten me."
The air seemed to tighten as Sherlock became agitated. The doctor could sense the submissive's desire for attention growing, the need to be spoken to rather than at, to have John's eyes only on him.
"Y-you caned them, Sir"
John inspected his own hands at this point, rubbing at an imaginary smudge on his nail.
"That's right. Did it hurt?"
Sherlock growled an exasperated "Yes, Sir", which trailed off into a whimper.
John smiled to himself. Any moment now...
"Sir?"
John raised an eyebrow, but didn't look up. "Yes, Sherlock?"
"Please – could you look at me?" The note of desperation in his voice spoke volumes, and John was quick to respond, looking up to make instant eye contact. He watched the small signs of relief flash across Sherlock's face; the smallest of smiles tickling the sides of his mouth.
"This better?" John asked quietly, silently noting the stillness of Sherlock's hands.
The detective nodded, replying in an almost whisper "Much better, Sir."
And John wasn't sure if he was just talking about the eye contact, or the clearing of his mind. It amazed the doctor to think that simply by concentrating on John's orders, the inner-workings of the detective's brain were forced to shut down, leaving only Sherlock's innate need to obey. Then again, John found Sherlock pretty amazing in any case.
"Good boy. Come here" the doctor said, beckoning the other man forward.
Sherlock did so, crawling forwards until he was knelt between John's legs, looking up at him. John ran both hands through the detective's curls, enjoying how Sherlock responded with gentle moans of pleasure.
John pulled Sherlock towards him a little and leaned forward, so their lips were almost touching. He smiled gently at his submissive, before closing the gap. The kiss was unlike any they had shared before; not stolen by John in a moment of passion. It was tentative and delicate, their lips barely brushing at first, Sherlock leaning in to keep the contact and opening his mouth in a clear request for more. John deepened the kiss, one hand moving round of grasp the back of the detective neck, the pressure he applied summoning as gasp from his submissive. The doctor took advantage of Sherlock's open mouth, tracing his tongue over the detective's thick lower lip before biting down, drawing a whimper of surprise from the other man.
Sherlock's arms snaked around John and clasped at the back of his neck, John's own hands moving from Sherlock's hair down to his waist, pressing his thumbs into the sensitive gaps at the side of his angular hips. In one swift movement, the doctor broke the kiss and pulled Sherlock up and onto his lap, where the detective promptly began nuzzling into the doctor's warm jumper.
John wrapped his hands around Sherlock's waist and pulled him in tighter, loving the sensation of Sherlock's warm body against his own. He rubbed Sherlock's back in random circles, and as he did so, the submissive seemed to almost melt into him, snuggling deeper against his chest.
John let the comfortable silence hang in the air for a while, before nudging Sherlock gently with his shoulder. The detective looked up at him, his eyes bright.
"Mmm?" he mumbled softly.
John gently stroked the curls out of Sherlock's face, and planted a light kiss on his forehead.
"Are you going to tell me what all this was about now?"
The detective wriggled uncomfortably.
"I – overlooked something in a case. A vital detail, in fact. It was so brilliantly clear, so blindingly obvious, staring me right in the face the whole time." John could feel Sherlock starting to tense up as he spoke, frowning as he picked at the weaving of the doctor's jumper.
"That moron Anderson ended up pointing it out to me. Made my entire theory redundant...made me wrong. Stupid."
John tightened his clasp around Sherlock's waist.
"Well, you can't be right all the time. It was just a mistake, people get things wrong. It's human"
"Yes, but when I get things wrong, murderers walk free. It's a little different."
"Even so, you can't let yourself suffer for it. You're the one winding yourself up, making all that noise happen because you won't let it go."
Sherlock shrugged feebly.
John continued "To be honest, for a moment back there I was absolutely terrified. I don't want to have to go through this every time you make a mistake, but I will if that's what you need from me."
"Why?"
John was startled by the question, having almost forgotten that Sherlock possessed the ability to speak at all. He pondered for a moment, listening to the detective's breathing, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest against his own.
"Because I care about you."
Sherlock smiled softly into John's jumper.
"Lucky you."
John laughed at the sarcastic edge to the detective's voice.
"Yeah" he said. "Lucky me..."
YEAH YEAH. I know, it's fluffy as hell. I'm sorry. New chapter up in the next couple of days, if anyone still reads this drivel.