AN: A big thank you to Charlie for having my back, in the French way ;D (aka I fixed it)

Freesia

Sleep was a very elusive thing for the occupants of 221B. Sherlock somehow functioned like a new form of humanoid robot, being one of those geniuses that needed only four hours a day in naps, if that. While John, when not suffering from PTSD nightmares, had rampant chronic insomnia.

Last night's bout of insomnia was plagued with the obsession over Sherlock's D/s plans. John had been running over every possibility that came to mind, but knew that for every idea she had, Sherlock would have one hundred others.

Research led to many questions and one tricky virus, now stuck on John's computer, which made porn pop up every time she tried to open the browser. Beyond the blog, John was not very tech-savvy. She would ask Sherlock to remove it for her, but knew there would be at least ten pretentious comments about John's porn history and her inability to research data properly. Did she not know what rootkits were? How could she not tell the difference between one link that moved and one that did not? Why was she so nervous about their new game? Was it not just Truth or Dare with only dares?

Sherlock would find it the next time she stole the computer and John would just get the satisfaction of seeing her flabbergasted when people suddenly started humping in front of her. Volume set on high, of course.

With no shift to worry about, John had a bit of a lie-in, catching up on as much sleep as she could, before heading down around lunch. Sherlock was nowhere to be found, so John slipped on her running gear and went out for a jog, hoping the nice summer weather would hold longer than it had the year before.

A solid 10km were under her belt when Sherlock messaged.

You forgot your umbrella. -SH

John puffed and collapsed into the nearest park bench, catching her breath and texting back.

Weather report said not going to rain. -JW

It will rain. -SH

How do you know that? - JW

You have been using your left leg and right arm more this morning. Mrs. Hudson has incessantly been complaining about her hip all day. It will rain. -SH

I don't know how you know that about me. You weren't home this morning. And there was never anything wrong with my leg. -JW

Yet, when it rains, it pours, and your leg acts up. -SH

John was halfway through replying when a new message came in.

Old rugby injury. Made you believe that your leg could actually be hurt when you were told it was psychosomatic. Pulled ACL. Now come before you get wet. -SH

John paused, re-read the message and shook her head. Too much porn.

You are brilliant, as always. But it will not rain. Our old joints ache. It has nothing to do with the weather- JW

John sat back up and stretched, watching the sky. The Powers That Be truly hated her because not two minutes later, grey clouds swirled and rain started to sprinkle.

There have been studies.-SH

I told you so. - SH

John growled and clutched her phone in her fist. Why did athletic wear need to be skin tight? It was warm, she wanted shorts. She should not be punished with a lack of pockets and therefore the decision to leave her wallet at home and nowhere to put her mobile but a sticky bra. She made a face and pushed herself forward, internally screaming when the sprinkle turned into a downpour.

By the time she reached the flat she was out of breath and soaking. That may have been the fastest she ever sprinted outside of a warzone, but she had not prepared herself for it. Everything ached. She wanted nothing more than to shower and sprawl out over the couch to watch bad telly.

Sherlock was waiting for her with one hand raised, a strip of black lace dangling between her fingertips.

John huffed and kicked off her shoes, tossed her phone to the ground and ignored the gift. "No way. Not today. I'm beat, Sherlock."

"Yes, today," Sherlock countered, raising the necklace higher.

"I'm gross," John huffed, pulling her snarled hair out of its ponytail. "I'm wet. And I just want to shower."

"I have something better as your reward," Sherlock smiled, now dangling it in front of her face like a carrot.

"Sherlock," John grumbled, pulled her shirt from her body and tossed it across her chair, fanning at the skin that stuck together. "I am not in the mood."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and hummed. She spun towards her violin and mumbled under her breath. "I did not realize you were capable of cowardice."

John stomped into the kitchen to get a glass of water. "What?"

Sherlock shrugged, picked up the instrument and plucked a few piercing notes. "Nothing," she shook her head and faced the window, mumbling to the street. "I didn't realize you were scared of a little game."

"Scared," John scoffed, gulped down tepid water and shoved the freezer open. Hopefully the ice would not be blood infused this time.

"I believe the term is chicken," Sherlock called over a rather shrieking note.

John slammed the freezer shut. The ice was orange. "Are you seriously trying to goad me by calling me chicken?"

Sherlock smirked over her shoulder. "It's working." She turned back to the window and added, "Unless you really think you won't be able to do it…"

Damn her. Even when John knew she was being manipulated, she could not resist a challenge. Especially not when Sherlock slapped the metaphorical glove.

"Fine." John downed her glass and entered the room, hands on her hips. "Let me change and-"

"You will not be changing."

"But I'm soaking-"

"Good." Sherlock delicately placed her violin in its case. When she spun, she was her usual elegant self, radiating beauty and wit in a sharp pantsuit, but there was something in her eyes that demanded John pay extra attention. Drill sergeants carried around the same authoritative gleam, ready to snap at the slightest show of disrespect and take pleasure in every moment of torture. "And from this point on you will only address me as miss and only speak when asked. Understood?"

John opened her mouth to answer but Sherlock raised a brow disapprovingly. Alright, the game was on then. John nodded.

"Good," Sherlock purred. "I will be taking it easy on you today, but I still want you to choose a safeword. Anything coming to mind?"

Taking it easy? John had no idea what to expect but she was sure she would not share Sherlock's sentiment.

John smirked and nodded.

Sherlock's eyebrow returned. "If the next word out of your mouth begins with an m and ends with a t, I'm afraid I'll have to pick for you. Say whatever you chose."

John tried hard not to giggle. Moist was a word that even Sherlock Holmes twitched at hearing. There was no good reason or purpose for such a reaction and therefore Sherlock loathed it.

Sherlock tisked and sighed dramatically. "I'll choose then, shall I? Your safe word is freesia. Repeat it back to me."

"Freesia." John mouthed it again, not even remotely recalling its meaning. Maybe it was foreign.

"In the unlikely event that you wish to stop, say freesia and I shall. Otherwise you stay silent, doing as I say, when I say it. Confirm."

"Yes," John said, not quite sure if she should be looking at the floor or what would happen if she let her creeping smile fly free.

Sherlock cleared her throat.

"Miss," John stumbled, falling into military rest. "Yes, miss."

"We'll work on it," Sherlock hissed.

John frowned at herself, a small weight settling in her gut. She had that habit when it came to Sherlock. It was so hard to impress her, but it felt so amazing whenever John noticed something significant or offhandedly connected an important piece of the murder mystery puzzle. Sherlock would collapse all her attention on John, soaking in every bit of her and smiling in a way she only ever did for her.

Whenever Sherlock treated her like the rest of the dull, unimportant, uneducated population, it never failed to make it feel like sludge resting at the bottom of a shower drain.

If this game, or experiment or whatever it was, was going to work the way Sherlock wanted it to, John supposed she would need to actually try.

"Sorry, miss," John mumbled, throwing her gaze to the ground and clasping her hands higher behind her back, her wrists sticking to the drying flesh of her spine.

John could not see Sherlock's reaction, but she did hum.

Then, the necklace appeared, dark against Sherlock's skin, the red heart shining in the kitchen's light.

"Put it on," Sherlock commanded and John did not hesitate to grab and fasten it as best as she could. It seemed to have stretched since the last time it was on her, causing it to land a little lower on her neck, but it clasped on the last hook without issue.

"Go sit in the corner," Sherlock pointed towards the end of the living room beyond their sofa. "On your knees, hands in your lap. Face the wall and no talking."

John looked up, her eyes pinching. Sherlock only waited.

A spot had been cleared out for her, but it was not very big. She dropped into it, faced the wall, and situated herself on her knees. It was not the most comfortable position but she supposed it could be worse.

Then she waited. And waited. And waited.

Was this it?

Sherlock had not moved or said anything and John's legs were starting to pulse, her muscles begging to be stretched after her long jog. Her shoulder was aching a bit, probably from the rain if Sherlock was to be believed.

"No moving," Sherlock snapped.

John sighed. She had barely turned around. There was nothing but wood and wallpaper. No so much as a silver spoon to reflect Sherlock's face.

Time ticked by and John fidgeted. This seemed ridiculous. Her hair was frizzing, uncomfortably sticking to her neck, and her clothes were snagging and pinching. She felt gross and stupid.

What if Lestrade walked in, or Mrs. Hudson, or -god forbid- Mycroft?

"Would you like that?" Sherlock asked and John jumped, her heart leaping against her chest. Sherlock laughed darkly and her footsteps creaked closer. "I thought you wanted it to be just the two of us. But if you really cannot get others out of your mind, I suppose I can invite them over to see you. To watch."

John shook her head no and slumped forward, her head tilting to the side. Funny, she had meant to verbalize that. Sitting for so long without talking must have had something to do with it. She wondered if Sherlock noticed, and then promptly chastised herself. Of course she noticed.

The floorboards creaked as Sherlock dipped behind her and spoke directly into her ear, the puff of her breath gliding over John's cheek. "This wouldn't be the most compromising position they could find you in, would it?"

John's brow twitched. That had to be a rhetorical question.

"I think we can be more creative than that," Sherlock murmured.

John's face crumpled.

"Move away from the wall," Sherlock commanded.

John stretched out a leg and was rewarded with a sharp slap on the thigh. She yelped and stared at the red splotch where Sherlock's hand had connected. Her heart pounded as the pink shadow of lanky fingers appeared against her skin.

"On your hands and knees and only when I say," Sherlock reminded her, calm and smooth as ever.

"Sorry," John breathed, just barely remembering to add, "-er- miss."

Sherlock grunted and it was not a sound John thought boded well for her.

"Move to the center of the room. Put your face on the ground, looking towards the sofa. Grab the inside of your thighs with the opposite hand, and lift your bum towards the door. Do you think you can handle that?"

John hoped there would be nothing but dust bunnies to greet under that sofa and nodded. "Yes, miss."

"Move," Sherlock demanded and pushed away from her, strutting to the other side of the room.

John was tempted to look up at her, but could not make herself do it while crawling on all fours. If anything she wanted to sneak a peek at the clock to see how long she had been sitting and waiting but had no doubt that would break some part of the rules. Besides, she had enough deductive skill to know she was still fairly wet from the rain.

Assuming the position, she sighed. This curving of her body finally allowed her to stretch out some of her aching muscles, only putting a slight strain on her shoulders. Her smile barely flinched when she spotted what she sincerely hoped was a mold culture and not a piece of a very old sandwich.

"Look at you," Sherlock hummed and stepped around her, distracting her from her thoughts. "It's too bad they can't see you laid out like this." She dipped down again, her eyes raking over her from head to toe. John followed the track of those calculating features, though most of what she saw was chin and nose. "Close your eyes."

John closed them obediently, thankful for not having the choice to stare at either mold or a gaze that could take in every single wrinkle. She sucked in a breath and wiggled her legs out, her face scratching against their throw rug.

"No," Sherlock whispered. "Don't think that." Her finger suddenly appeared on John's shoulder, tracing a slow deliberate trail with the tip of her nail up to her stomach and into the dip of her skin. "These lines and folds are as beautiful as you. Telling a story, each of them."

John shifted again, letting go of a bit of breath, not entirely certain if it came off as a huff.

"This," Sherlock slid her palm over the bit of fat that muffined over the spandex of her running shorts. "This says that you are finally home. Enjoying what you lacked abroad. This says late night curry and a double helping of cheesecake after a particularly harrowing case. Comfortable. Happy."

The corner's of John's eyes started to burn, which was odd, because she was not usually the crying type. There was no real reason. Sherlock was just spurting off nonsense about her fat roll. But the way she was gliding her hand back and forth, barely touching and raising goosebumps across her flesh, felt so true and intimate that John had to pinch her eyes tight.

"While these," Sherlock slipped her palm over John's back and around her arse, cupping the back of her legs above the flesh John gripped in her hands. "These muscles show my warrior. They show you are strong and capable. Ready for a fight at a moment's notice. Jumping across buildings and into dumpsters. Beating down a man twice your size in half the expected time. Forever a soldier."

The corners of John's mouth slipped upwards slowly, her body pushing into the slow glide of hand over muscles. It felt absolutely heavenly as the pulsing started to dissipate. The only pouding left was the rain still pouring outside, white noise aiding the dip in John's back.

"You are always an anomaly, John Watson," Sherlock hummed and ran her hands over John's, down to her calves, petting and tracing with her nails, all the way to her still-soaked socks. She dipped her fingers under the seam and pulled each sock off individually, tossing them somewhere beyond John's head.

John stretched her toes and sighed as the tops of her feet pressed against the throw.

"You are gorgeous and powerful, like lightning crashing against the sand." Sherlock's hand traced back up, past John's hand, and around her inner thigh. Up it went until her nails dipped under the bottom of her shorts. "Imagine if they came," Sherlock muttered. "They would see all that and this," Her finger suddenly swooped to the center, pressing against the middle of John's arse, a small pit of pressure forcing fabric between her cheeks near her arsehole.

John inhaled sharply and swallowed. Her body rocked forward, trying to press into the floor, but was unable to do so. There was a pause where all she could hear was the sound of her own breathing and the rain continuing to crash. Sherlock seemed to be waiting for something, but for the life of her, John could not think of what. All thoughts were redirected to the digit pressing against her.

Sherlock's finger moved, sliding up towards her spine, pressing harder as she went. "You're wet." She traced her fingernail under the band of her shorts, tickling along her lower back. "Your shorts are light. They would see." Her fingernail continued to tease and just as John fell back into relaxation, the finger dipped again, tracing along her cheek instead. "They would not know you were in the rain. They would only see you with your arse in the air, wet and waiting. They would know. They would know what a lovely whore you are."

John's heart thudded and her breath caught on a gasp, her choker pulling around her neck. Her hands fumbled as her thighs shifted, muscles pulling as Sherlock's hands traced back up her spine, her body curling with every vertebra touched.

"I think you would like that," Sherlock whispered.

A small moan came out of John's open mouth and she shifted again, her hot face pulling across the rug and her slick hands starting to slip.

Suddenly, Sherlock disappeared. John fell into the vacant space and frowned. Sherlock's footsteps echoed around the room, away from her and into the kitchen.

John waited, the heat surrounding her, her breath catching as she tried to hold it to hear what Sherlock was doing. The fridge opened a few times and things cluttered on the counter but John could not make out any more than that.

She was coming back, right? She would not just leave her in this position. She was not actually going to invite people over.

Right?

Just as John was contemplating breaking the no speaking rule, Sherlock returned. She creaked towards John's head, standing above her.

"You are going to make me dinner," Sherlock said, all ice, without a trace of the affection she showed a minute ago. "The recipe and ingredients are on the table. You will rise and go directly to the kitchen. You will not change but you will put your hair up. I don't like hair in my food."

John nodded against the ground, sweat making rug hair stick to her damp face.

"You will crawl to the kitchen, get up slowly, and wash your hands. I will not be watching you, so don't screw it up."

John nodded again.

"Go," Sherlock demanded and left, walking towards her bedroom and leaving John to follow commands.

It would be easy to get up and walk to the kitchen. Sherlock was already behind her closed door by the time John lifted her face from the ground.

Sherlock would know.

John was not quite sure what the punishment would be -she was fairly certain they were supposed to discuss that beforehand- but decided it was not worth the debate. She crawled to the kitchen and hoped dinner would not be something fancy and French.

Lucky for her, it was just a chicken stir fry. She could handle that. In fact, Sherlock had laid out the ingredients in order of requirement and left her all the clean dishes she needed. Within ten minutes she already had everything cut up and the vegetables softening.

John was busy figuring out if she should cook the chicken separately when she heard the tub turn on in the next room over. She paused in her reading and spun towards the hall, raw chicken in one hand and a knife in the other.

Seriously? John was in here, slaving away, sweating and sticky and consumed by the heat of the stovetop, and Sherlock was bathing?

Probably not bathing, John thought. Sherlock usually dictated bathing as a waste of her precious time.

An experiment then. Or something equally offensive. John was not sure why she found herself offended. A part of her had just been expecting Sherlock to be waiting for her to finish, propped on her bed in her Mind Palace or something, all thoughts on John's doings.

She was disappointed but had to be realistic. Sherlock would get bored of that quick enough. John could not actually expect her to just sit and wait in the corner like she made John do earlier.

Besides, the chicken was dripping and John needed to clean that before some form of salmonella super virus was concocted between the tiles.

John stepped back when she finished plating and nodded to herself. She pulled her hair tighter and tugged at the choker around her neck, breathing deep. It looked pretty good. Actually, very good. She did not eat any of it while cooking, and she had not had lunch, and after jogging, she could say she was rightfully hungry. Her mouth watered and she reached forward before pulling her hand back to her side.

"Looks good," Sherlock called from the door and John jumped to face her. "Leave the dishes and meet me by the bathroom door."

"Um-" John looked at the food longingly but rolled her lips and nodded, walking to the bathroom.

Maybe Sherlock wanted to show her the experiment she had been doing while John was cooking. She hoped it would not take long.

A few moments later, Sherlock returned. "Eyes closed," she said. When John obeyed, she reached around her and opened the door, nudging her inside.

The room smelled like honey and rose petals. John breathed deep and sighed, her bones relaxing, her feet wiggling against the warm tile floors. As hungry as she was, it was nothing compared to how exhausted she felt.

The door clicked shut and Sherlock approached her, her hands slipping up both her arms and circling her shoulders, towards her neck. "Open your eyes," she murmured.

John obeyed and her mouth fell open. The entire bathroom was lit by only candles, all the sent of some kind of honey and resting on nearly every surface. The tub was filled with soapy water, tinted pink. A tray that ran across the width of it was new. On it was a single glass of wine and cutlery, John's most recent book resting where the plate would go.

"You've been very good, ma chérie," Sherlock squeezed her shoulders and she melted, her mysterious tears making a second appearance. "You get your reward."

The necklace clipped off and Sherlock pulled it away, tugging it into her pocket before spinning to John's front. Her hands slid over John's face, pushing away her clinging bangs and smiling with a gentle tug of her lips.

"Thank you, miss." John practically whined.

Sherlock smiled wider and pushed her hands over John's hair again. "The necklace is off, John. You don't need to call me that anymore."

John felt her cheeks heat but could not care. The bath was far too distracting.

"Do you need me to help you undress?" Sherlock asked, tugging at John's sports bra.

John took a moment before she shook her head, sure she could at least manage that.

"I'll be right back," Sherlock said, disappearing from the room.

A moan echoed through the small room and John realized she was the only one left to make such a noise. She struggled to get out of her clinging clothes and threw them across the room, nearly hitting one of the many candles and swearing under her breath. She climbed into the steaming tub and groaned, sliding all the way in and inhaling the scent of roses.

Hot and humid felt wonderful in this context. She ducked her head under the water and pulled her hair tie out, slipping back up and pushing the hair towards her back.

Sherlock had returned with the food, nudged the book over and put it in its place. She even set a towel down on the floor.

"Aren't you going to eat any?" John asked lazily, suddenly finding all her energy gone.

"I have a plate in the kitchen," Sherlock answered and reached out, her arm halting and quickly pulling back into her body. "I'll leave you to it."

Sherlock left before John could say anything. She sighed and dug into her food, mentally complimenting the chef and giggling over her wine. She felt slightly tipsy, though she was not sure why.

That had been an experience, for sure. It was not at all what she had expected but she could easily say she did not hate it. As odd as it was at first, it somehow became easy to slip into the swing of it.

As for her reward, she laid back and moaned again. The payoff was definitely worth it.

When John finished her food and wine and was properly pruned, she decided it was time to vacate her wonderful bath. Outside the bathroom door were her pajamas, already picked out with a brand new pair of knickers. They were a royal blue boy cut with lace on the top, of which she approved.

Sherlock was waiting for her on the couch, silent and clearly in her Mind Palace. John tried to sneak past but she snapped up to a seated position and slapped the cushion next to her.

"Sit," Sherlock said and John did. After a moment, Sherlock turned to her and asked, "Good?"

John's smile was easy and relaxed, just like the rest of her. "Very."

Sherlock nodded and leaned back, causing John to do the same. Suddenly, the remote was in John's hand and Sherlock instructed her to pick whatever she liked. John's eyebrows raised but she dared not question this sudden stroke of politeness.

"Games shows it is," John teased. Sherlock loved to beat out all the other contestants, her complaints about teadium be damned.