Red. Walking into their shared bathroom, all John could see was red. It was everywhere, puddled on the floor tiles, smeared across the basin of the sink, pressed into the wallpaper. He turned to look at Sherlock, a question on his tongue when he saw more red, this time the color spread across Sherlock's wrist. A flash of silver caught his eye, and then more red beaded up on Sherlock's forearm, quickly mixing with the red already there, and it took John a moment to comprehend what he actually saw. Another swipe of silver later, and John's hands were reaching out to wrap around Sherlock's wrists, his grip firm and stinging around the wounds, a plethora of identical, parallel cuts in his skin, each one made precisely with a steady hand. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" John growled, eyes blazing as he watches the silver thing - a razorblade - clatter to join all the red on the floor.
Sherlock sucked air harshly through his teeth, hissing at John's touch. "John," he murmured, blinking wide-eyed at his flatmate. "It's nothing. Leave me alone," he said, attempting to wrench his wrists from John's grip.
John raised a single eyebrow in disbelief, frowning at his flatmate. "I'm not an idiot, Sherlock," he said, holding fast. "Nor am I blind. Now explain."
Sherlock glowered at John and remained silent, his quicksilver eyes bored into John's as if issuing a challenge.
Accepting Sherlock's challenge, John straightened up and tightened his grip. "Talk, Sherlock. Use your words," he urged, his voice stern.
Sherlock continued to glower at John, his lips clamped shut.
John sighed and clicked his heels together. When Sherlock still refused to speak, John had decided that enough was enough. If Sherlock was going to act like a child, then John was going to treat him like one. And stroppy children were punished. Pulling hard on Sherlock's wrists, John dragged him back into the sitting room of their flat, sat down on the couch, and yanked Sherlock down to lay across his lap.
The first blow on Sherlock's arse seemed to startle both of them. A strangled whimper worked it's way from Sherlock's throat as he struggled against John's hold. "Let me go, John," he demanded, hissing when the other man gripped his wounds tightly. "You're hurting me."
John's open palm collided with Sherlock's arse thrice more before he replied. "That's the point," he growled, bringing his palm down harshly on Sherlock's upper thighs. "You're behaving like a child, Sherlock. So that's how I'm going to treat you." Sherlock quivered underneath him, and by the fifteenth strike of John's palm, he had gone limp over his lap.
Sherlock's trousers were removed after the thirty-seventh swat, and by the time John had struck him some fifty times, his arms had wound tightly around John's calf, fingers digging into hard muscles hidden behind soft denim John finally paused after the sixtieth blow, hand rubbing soothingly at his lower back. "Are you ready to tell me what all that was about?" he asked.
Sherlock murmured something into John's jeans and tightened his grip on his leg, smearing red across his pant leg. Sighing, John ran a hand up and tangled his fingers into Sherlock's dark curls, pulling back to allow the other man's words to be heard.
"I can't hear you when you're speaking into my trousers, Sherlock," he admonished.
"I said it helps me think, John!" he snapped, glaring up at John, a furious blush burning across his cheeks.
"What part of it helps, Sherlock?" John asked, easing his grip on his flatmate's hair.
Sherlock grew silent and dropped his gaze to the floor. He couldn't bear to have John look at him like this, with his gaze that seemed to peer all the way down into his soul. He did his best to focus on anything but John's face, turning his gaze to the red splotches his wrists had left all over John's trousers.
"Sherlock, either you can talk to me, or I can continue with the punishment. It's up to you," John said, adjusting his position on the couch.
Squeezing his eyes tight, he thought about his options. Talking was something he definitely didn't want to do; not right now, at least. Although he trusted John, he wanted to avoid the other man's pity. And talking would certainly warrant him on the receiving end of John's pity.
The idea of John continuing to punish him, however, left a decidedly different taste in his mouth. His arse was already tender and starting to sting, but instead of being thrown off balance, Sherlock found that it anchored him in a way that the cutting never had. As John brought down his hand once more, Sherlock gasped and rocked forward, completely flabbergasted as all of his senses turned to focus on John, effectively shutting out the rest of the world.
"John?" Sherlock breathed, his body going still. "Will you help me?" he asked.
John stiffened. "Help you with what, Sherlock?" he asked.
Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "Will you help me think?"
"And how would I do that?" John countered, his eyebrows furrowed.
"By continuing this," Sherlock answered.
It was silent in 221B for a few long moments, Sherlock's heart fluttering and an alarmingly increasing pace against his rib cage. Then John shifted, spreading his legs a little more to allow easier access to Sherlock's arse. "Will you tell me why this helps?" he asked, settling his hand steadily on Sherlock's lower back.
Sherlock shivered under John's touch and nodded. "But after we're done. Please, John. It's this or the blade."
"Okay. That's fine, Sherlock. But there need to be a few ground rules," John stated.
"I'm listening," Sherlock huffed, shifting uncomfortably over John's chair.
"First, you have to listen to what I say, Sherlock. And follow my instructions. If I say no, I mean no. If I say to get on your knees, then you are to get on your knees. Is that clear?"
Sherlock nodded, whimpering when John's hand fisted in his curls again, pulling his head back sharply.
"Words, Sherlock. You need to use them," he chided.
"Yes, John," Sherlock murmured, a frown marring his features.
John smiled softly. "That's a good lad. Now, I want you to pick a safeword for me," he said, rubbing small circles into the nape of Sherlock's neck with his thumb.
"Microscope," Sherlock replied instantly, relaxing against John's hands.
John hummed happily. "Thank you, Sherlock. That's well done. If what I do gets to be too much for you, use that word and I'll stop. Understand?" John asked.
"Yes," Sherlock replied, chancing a look up at John. "Can we continue now?"
John looked thoughtful for a moment. "First, you need to fetch some things for me. Go and grab my medical kit and your riding crop. Then we'll meet in your bedroom, ok?" John replied.
Sherlock nodded and immediately rose from John's lap, hastily tugging up his trousers with a wince before setting off to find the necessary items. He joined John in his bedroom a few minutes, sitting gingerly on the side of his bed, waiting for John's next instructions.
In lieu of words, John opened the kit, reached for Sherlock's wrists, and cradled them in his right hand while his left tended to the torn skin, dabbing up blood and wrapping some rudimentary bandages around them. "This will do for now, I don't want blood all over your sheets," he said, releasing his hold on Sherlock to shut his medical kit.
A few heartbeats later, the kit was on the floor and John was standing in front of him with Sherlock's riding crop in his hand. Judging by the tension of his grip on the handle and the angle of his wrist, Sherlock deduced that this was not John's first time in this type of situation. Swallowing thickly, Sherlock lowered his eyes in an attempt to hide his blazing cheeks.
"I'm going to use this on you, Sherlock. And I'm going to beat your arse until I think you've had enough. Understand?" John asked, swishing the crop through the air a few times, getting a feel for the toy.
"Understood," Sherlock replied. "Do you want me over your lap, or should I bend over the edge of the bed?"
"Side of the bed," John ordered. "And drop your trousers. Keep on your shirt if it makes you feel comfortable, but I expect to see your bare arse and quickly."
Sherlock wasted no more time, quickly rising to his feet, dropping his trousers and pants before bending awkwardly over the side of his bed. His cheeks flushed even deeper at the knowledge that his arse was practically on display for John. Sherlock balled his hands into fists and swallowed audibly as he waited for the first strike to come.
Minutes ticked by, and still, John hadn't moved from his spot just inside the door, the crop still held firmly in his hand. Frowning, Sherlock turned to say something, his words dying on his tongue as John moved, bringing the crop down on the fleshiest part of Sherlock's arse. Pain seared across his skin and a groan tumbled from Sherlock's throat.
John landed a few more lashes across his arse before he paused. "This okay?" he asked, tapping the crop lightly against the heated skin.
"Yes," Sherlock replied, arching back slightly, an open invitation for John to continue.
As if a switch had been turned, John let loose, raining the blows down on his arse and the back of his thighs. He varied the strength behind them, but even the gentlest of the blows stung so brightly against Sherlock's skin. For once, his brain stuttered to a sluggish pace, only able to handle the sensory input John gave him. He wasn't sure how long John spent behind him, the crop cutting through the air to slap against his flesh; he lost count after the fiftieth strike.
John stopped when Sherlock's arse was red and covered in raised welts. He knew that it had to sting something fierce, and he could only hope that the new type of pain would be enough to drown out the allure of the blade. "Ten more for me, Sherlock," he said, rubbing a hand gently over his abused flesh. "And then we'll be done."
Sherlock nodded and clenched his fists in the now disheveled sheets, his entire body tense. The first strike pulled the air from his lungs and the third had tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. It was the seventh stroke that broke him, sobs pulling his throat tight as tears spilled down his cheeks. His arse was glowing red, covered in welts, and stung more than the cuts on his wrist. "John," he breathed, voice shaky. "I'm sorry."
John brought down the eighth blow and then paused. "What did you just say?" he asked.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock repeated, arching back towards John. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
The last two strikes were delivered swiftly, and then John was helping him into bed, crawling in behind him, instantly wrapping strong arms around his lithe form, hands rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades. "It's fine now," he murmured, his voice soft and steady. "It's all fine now. You did so well."
Still sniffling, Sherlock pressed closer to John, nuzzling his head into the crook of John's neck. They laid there for half an hour, John stroking his back with steady hands, murmuring words of praise into Sherlock's curls. He was half asleep when John finally pulled away, bending over to retrieve his first aid kit.
"Let's get you cleaned up, go for dinner, and then we can talk, ok?" he offered, popping open the kit.
"That sounds good," Sherlock replied, offering his wrists.
John took his time cleaning and re-bandaging his wounds. When he finished, he pressed a pair of gentle kisses on top of each bandage. "I have one more rule," John murmured, looking up to lock his gaze with Sherlock's.
Sherlock nodded and waited for John to continue.
"Whenever it gets to be too much, you come to me instead of going for the blade, ok?" he asked, rubbing gently over Sherlock's wrists. "I know it's not much, but I can give you this when you need help thinking."
Sherlock smiled and squeezed John's hands. "I promise, John," he agreed. "I promise."
Gently, John's lips pressed against his, humming contentedly when Sherlock kissed back. "Dinner?" he asked, breaking the kiss.
"Starving," Sherlock replied, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a half-smile.