Heliotrope

When it did actually come time for dinner, John had Mexican on the brain. She left Sherlock to her moping and came back to the kitchen with bags of tacos and chips. Who really wanted to live to 80 anyway?

John ran down the steps to Mrs. Hudson to drop off her loaded nachos -because everyone is allowed to indulge now and again- and back up again

"Sherlock," she called towards the bathroom since her royal princess was not pouting in the living room anymore. "I hope you like tacos. I got you-" she stopped when she saw the bag of food had moved back a few inches, a strip of black lace in its place. "-beans."

John reached out and ran her fingertips over the ruby heart, a smile crinkling the corner of her mouth.

You have the ability to make it all stop.

The lack of clues leading to the lock box and the Millers and Grant were all driving Sherlock mad. John supposed this was a form of 'please' then. Please make it stop.

How could she deny a plea like that? If she ever had the ability to do so before, it was gone once she saw Sherlock openly cry in front of her for the first time, that thin body shaking in her arms, likely to break at the slightest wrong move. Who knew she could be glass? Behind those layers of steel, sarcasm, genius and rudeness was something so fragile. John did not break down who Sherlock was to see her open up. Sherlock did it willingly and trusted John to hold her in her arms without fear of judgement. Allowed her to see this hidden side. There was a bit of sentiment swirling at the center of her after all.

John heard the bathroom door open. Sherlock entered the hall but stopped before entering the kitchen.

John slipped the necklace into the pocket of her jeans and turned to the tacos, whispering, "After dinner."

There was a pause in which John would bet her extra hot, hot sauce that Sherlock smiled before the whining started.

"John," Sherlock moaned and flopped into her black leather chair. "How can you possibly think of food right now?! All that acid will no doubt make you bloated and slow. You cannot ask me to join you in this descent towards laziness. Really, you might as well give up now."

John smiled. "We have antacids. Farting is perfectly natural. And do you really want to fight about which one of us is lazy? You were up playing a very pointless video-game for at least thirty hours. Take-out Mexican is at least one step above that. So. Eat your taco."

"Pointless?! I sacrificed my valuable time ensuring every inch of that pointless game was dissected for clues. Must I remind you what valuable information we gained?! How many cases I solved without having to lift more than my two thumbs?!" She scoffed again, "Pointless."

There was quite a bit more moaning but eventually Sherlock ate at least half of her taco and gulped down some actual, old fashioned, water.

Every time silence fell between them, John seemed to focus on the bulge in her pocket, wondering exactly what Sherlock had in store for her once they were finished. They had discussed exactly what had gone wrong the last time and Sherlock seemed to understand -even if she did not agree. Whenever John safeworded, Sherlock always listened. There was no reason to worry.

Sherlock needed it.

John wanted it.

There. No harm in admitting that. John Watson wanted to do unusual things with her flatmate Sherlock Holmes. That could be on their business card and no one would blink an eye.

Well, Martin. There was always Martin to worry about. But he had agreed to this experiment. Besides, Sherlock would get bored soon enough. Hell, probably by next week she would find another project that would work just as well clearing her mind and things would go back to normal. Sherlock might even be looking for something already, after John's declaration of marriage. It was the first time she had brought it up to her. While the fallout was hard, Sherlock would pick herself back up and move on from all of it, including this thing they were doing.

This D/s thing. It was ridiculous to even think John would miss it. She lived most her life without it -knowing of its existence and never daring to explore it. She never really had the time. She had to keep on the straight and narrow all through her life. Harry was a mess as a teen and caused their parents enough grief. Her coming out ended John's fantasies of ever dating the "bad boy". Sure, there were parties and one or two sexual dalliances of the scandalous nature. But that was life in college. She had always dated nice boys who did nice things and would never, ever do anything but nice to their sex partner. Girls were never a question because they could never be the answer. This thing with Sherlock was a fluke. A glitch in her system. It would pass and they would move on.

They had to.

When John finished cleaning up, she decided to prepare herself to the fullest extent. She called, "Be right back," before running up the stairs to her room. If things went as they had every time before, showing skin was probably going to happen.

John grabbed a sports bra and boxers and threw them on instead of the bra and knickers she had been wearing. It was a relief to take off that bra anyway. The strap did not quite fit around the middle and the wire poked at her arms more time than any bra had the right to do.

When she was back in her jeans and t-shirt she jogged down the stairs and dug into her pocket for the necklace. Sherlock was waiting at the bottom of the steps for her, hands behind her back, suit jacket thrown off, her silken purple blouse rolled up to the elbows.

John slowed the last few steps and stopped when they were at eye level.

"What's on for tonight then?" John asked, with what she hoped was a playful tone, but was sure she missed the mark.

"Ropes," Sherlock said with the slightest hint of a smirk.

John's eyes widened. That immediately brought about images from her porn history. Guys and gals tied to bed posts as their partner thrust into them with enough force to make the bed slam against the wall.

"Oh," John squeaked.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and a smile curved her pink lips upwards.

Despite the flush creeping up her neck, John still managed to ask, "What's my safeword?"

"Heliotrope. Repeat it back to me."

"Heliotrope, miss."

"Good girl," Sherlock murmured, her eyes dancing over John's neck, down her collar bones, seeing through her clothes and around her waist and down her legs.

Right, that was... Right.

John silently held out the necklace and turned so Sherlock could place it around her neck, the instructions coming forth as nimble fingers clicked the metal into place.

"You are not to speak unless it is your safeword. You will strip your outer layers and put your hair up. Wait for me in the center of the room, ma chérie." Sherlock disappeared into her bedroom.

Furniture had been moved out of the way and a small fire was crackling, a welcome sight as John shed her shirt and jeans. The nights were dropping well below comfortable to be in just a bra and boxers.

John sunk to her knees facing the fire and breathed in deep. Well, at least Sherlock knew enough to avoid the bedroom so soon after what happened last time. And after John thought about her while masterbating. And after that thing in the kitchen. Oh god, she kept forgetting to forget about those things.

A few shakes of the head sent those thoughts elsewhere and she breathed deep again, focusing on relaxing herself and staring into the embers, waiting and wondering what Sherlock could possibly do with ropes that did not involve sex.

There were no chains hanging from the ceiling. Hog tie her to the couch? Did people hit each other with ropes? Was that a thing? Maybe it would be a roleplay thing. John would be the southern belle tied to the train tracks while Sherlock twirled a fake mustache and cackled over he helplessness.

Sherlock returned a moment later with coils of black and red ropes curled inside her fist, dangling from her side in dozens of loops.

That was a lot of rope. Enough for train tracks and then some.

Sherlock dropped the pile behind John on the floor. The smack of it made her jump a bit and her eyes flickered in Sherlock's direction.

Sherlock ignored her outright and set about closing the drapes, turning off the lights in all the rooms, and sliding the bolt in the door.

John sighed in relief at the sound of metal clicking into place and closed her eyes for a moment, soaking in the darkness of the room around her and the heat of the fire in front of her.

Yes, very relaxing.

Until Sherlock clipped her heels over and blocked any warmth from those flames. "Good girl, ma chérie."

John smiled softly but kept her eyes on Sherlock's delicate ankles, her hands flexing.

A rope suddenly swung in front of John's face, a silk tie curling around its length.

"I think it best you not see what I'm doing until I'm finished, don't you?" Sherlock asked rhetorically, separating the silk and bending down as John closed her eyes.

The tie was cool and velvety and tickled the back of her neck with a chill when she swayed her head.

John felt more than heard the rope Sherlock dangled moving towards her skin. It tickled over her shoulder and down her spine and around again, smooth and light. John's body moved with the gentle brushes, relaxing even more into herself rather than twitch away. A content sigh left her lips and Sherlock hummed.

Fingers circled each of her wrists and Sherlock pulled John's arms behind her back, placing fingertips near opposite elbows. She squeezed John's hands and John held her arms square. The hold pulled at her shoulders the slightest bit but it was not uncomfortable by any means. Then the fingers were back, tracing up and down the entwined arms, up to shoulders where they splayed over bones, muscles, and scar tissue.

Those deft hands went to tracing along the pattern the bullet left and John shuddered. It always felt strange, the lack of feeling in some places and the sudden feeling in others. Sherlock loved looking at her scar and this was not the first time she had touched, though it was the first time she had been so gentle about it.

Suddenly, Sherlock was gone and the rope was back, the smooth outer surface sliding over and around shoulders, up and down her spine, until it snaked its way through her elbow and back. Sherlock wound the rope around wrist and tied it off, winding the long length of it from one elbow to the next before tying it off again, her fingertips tracing the gaps between spirals, nails tickling at the places where rope met flesh.

John squirmed and let her fingertips loosen, allowing the rope hold her arms for her. If she truly tried, she could probably break out -the ropes were not cutting off circulation and she could move her fingers- but she felt secure. It was no effort at all to let her arms relax.

Sherlock hummed and suddenly warm breath was puffing against John's lower back as she reached around her waist and did some kind of complicated maneuver with the rope before bringing it back around. John could not help flinching then. Her stomach had always been sensitive, ticklish.

Fingers and rope were lost twinging in and out of each other, every brush against bare skin making John tremble and then flush. The air was filled with hot whimpers and nothing more, words too dangerous to be spoken aloud.

Soon, every inch of her torso was covered in a complex pattern that spiralled in and around her arms, over her stomach, and down around her thighs and ankles. Every move she made, every breath she took, pulled on one rope which pulled on another and another, scraping soft knots across her back and front, pulling lines along her torso and legs. John's mind was fuzzy. She panted towards the fire, simply existing in her silken cocoon, knowing there was nowhere else rope could go, hugged from every corner of her body. No where for her to go.

Except, this was Sherlock and there was no such thing as no or stop.

Silently, Sherlock slipped another rope down John's front, ducked a hand between her legs, and grabbed the ties that pulled her ankles together. John bit her lip as Sherlock's hands bumped between her calves and thighs, twisting knots into the rope before threading it through the ties curling around her hip.

John hissed.

Knots pressed against her in three very distinct spots. One rested over her arsehole, one pushed against her entrance, and another scraped against her clit.

Sherlock pulled the rope gently and John's body tensed, stretching her towards the ceiling -but the ropes tying her legs together kept her from escaping the bulges pressing against her most sensitive spots. John groaned as Sherlock continued to play with the line, weaving it up, between her breasts, and down her shoulder, tying it off around her arms, almost creating a complete circle.

John's breath hitched as Sherlock's fingers pressed against her stomach once again, manicured nails teasing at the top of the boxers before pulling that rope tight again.

"Perfect," Sherlock breathed across John's open mouth.

John swallowed loudly, her body bending forward, nearly caving into Sherlock. She would have fallen completely if it were not for the knots shaking her back upright, a tremor running down her thighs and up her sides.

God, she could come just from that, rocking back and forth enough times.

Closed off from the world behind locked doors, a silken blindfold, and an abundance of bindings, she tilted her body back and ground down into the knots, groaning aloud. Her center pulsed and her already damp body felt slicker still.

"Oh god-" she breathed before hissing her breath back in.

There was a loud smack that echoed through the room as Sherlock slapped her hand over John's mouth.

"Did you say something?" Sherlock growled into her ear.

John swallowed hard and shook her head back and forth. The ropes along her front were straining as Sherlock pressed her back, pushing her farther and farther, testing how much pull the ropes had. John tried to peek through the slits of her blindfold but she could only see the fuzzy outline of Sherlock's fingers clenched across her cheeks.

"Perhaps you need a reminder." Sherlock shoved John back and released her mouth.

John only had a moment to gasp for air. She nearly fell to her side and barley wobbled her weight back upright. The moment she did she yelped aloud as the knots at her center pulled tight, shoving too hard into her clit.

As her mouth was open, Sherlock grabbed her jaw and shoved a piece of rope between her teeth. John's tongue lashed out and slipped against the silk strands. The sides of her mouth pulled as Sherlock yanked the rope in both directions, shoving her head back. The choker tugged at her tendons and she panted through her nose.

John's body twitched and every rope pulled and slipped, rubbing against her- not a place on her body left untouched. Every movement she made led to another and another until she was a writhing mess, sweating in front of the fire, nothing quite rubbing her the way she wanted.

Sherlock only chuckled.

John whined and pinched her eyes tight. Another wiggle of her arm lead to a rock which led to a shudder. Every motion caused the floor to creak, the sound of which roared in her ears like a screaming taunt. Look at the girl dance. Isn't it cute how she tries? She was aching to move, to slip her fingers inside her body, to just come already. This was absolute torture.

Sherlock still said nothing. Time ticked by horridly slow as John continued to rock, her center pulsing, her body crying for relief.

"My lovely whore. All mine," Sherlock hummed and John keened. "Do you want me to untie you?"

John's head lolled to the side and she nodded slowly, sloppily, as if drunk.

"But you look so beautiful," Sherlock whispered.

The rope in her mouth pulled tight as Sherlock used it to pull her head upright, bending the lose ends up and holding them together on the top of her head. Sherlock's free hand trailed over ropes and knots and clothes, until she reached that one length of rope, the one that pulled her to the brink of madness. With a harsh tug, Sherlock had John nearly off the floor. She fell roughly into Sherlock's chest, ropes pulling harshly from every uncomfortable angle.

"Five more minutes," Sherlock hummed against John's temple, her hand gently petting at John's shoulder. "Can you do that for me, ma chérie?"

John nudged her head against Sherlock's cheek and twitched again. Slowly, she made herself nod.

Sherlock's lips rested on the top of her head in an almost kiss as she helped John to sit upright once again. John sighed when the pressure released somewhat but her ease was fleeting. Sherlock's hand did not relent from their pets, travelling up and down and around every curve of rope she had set into place. The movement was calm but the effect was anything but. Every jerk of rope had John quivering until she was a hot, hopeless mess. Her pants were slowly turning into pleas.

"Plea- can't- Sher- can't-" John tried to stop herself but she could not. The rope mumbled it all together anyway. Her mouth was starting to dry, tasting of fabric.

Sherlock's hands stopped their ministrations and she leaned in to whisper. "You're almost done, ma chérie. Do you need to safeword?"

It took a thick five seconds for John to contemplate that option. She shook her head.

Sherlock did not lean away. Her breath puffed against John's cheek as she writhed until there was only ten seconds left. For four minutes fifty seconds, it was just the two of them twined together, in their own hazey world of heat and whispery breaths.

"I'm going to ask you to do something," Sherlock said slowly. "I want you to count down from ten. When you get to zero, I will remove the ropes. Can you do that for me?"

John nodded quickly and squirmed. Just the thought of being free and able to move her aching body sent another pulse of adrenaline into her.

"Good girl," Sherlock hummed and pulled the rope from her mouth.

John smacked her lips together and tried to swallow.

Sherlock pet the corners of her mouth and slid her hands to the choker around her neck, thumbing around the lace. "Start."

"Ten," John gasped, her voice rough and cracking.

Sherlock's fingers dove down suddenly and pulled at the rope riding her center, sliding the knots along her folds and causing her to erupt in a moan, "Nine."

Another pull of the rope had her almost falling to her side. Only Sherlock's other hand kept her upright.

"Eight."

Another pull.

"Seven."

Another.

"Si-"

Sherlock pulled faster this time and John yelped, her thighs shaking.

"Sherlo- I can't- I"

"Yes, you can. Six, John."

John swallowed and nodded. "Six." John's lips trembled as she mumbled, "Five."

The next pulls of the rope were faster than her count, sending her into a tizzy trying to keep upright without pulling the rope over herself double time. "Four- Three- Two-"

The hand Sherlock used to keep her upright suddenly dropped to her thigh and pinched at her skin as she yanked one last time, simultaneous to John's broken, "One."

Sherlock's hands were everywhere. The ropes slackened one by one and John's breaths quickened, taking in as much air as she could. When everything had been undone and the rope laid in a pile at her side, she still did not feel like she could move. It was only as Sherlock came behind her to remove the blindfold that she collapsed on her bum and threw out her legs.

Sherlock was right behind her, holding her upright with her chest and hands, rubbing out the sore spots and swiping away the beads of sweat that had risen. John moaned and rocked back and forth, the memory of those knots still pulsing between her thighs.

"Sherlock-" she gasped and spun around, effectively straddling her. "Sherlock I need-"

Sherlock's fingers trailed up her thigh fast. Nails scraped up and in, hands grabbing at her hip bones. "What do you need, John?"

John bit her lip and cried out, her chin dropping to her chest. "I- I-"

Sherlock's hands kept petting up and down her thigh, following the rocking of her hips.

John looked up into Sherlock's eyes and sucked in a harsh breath. Sherlock looked positively wrecked. Her breath was just as fast as John's. Her hair was flung across her brow, her pupils were blown wide, her tongue darting out to lick her lips.

John shook her head. What the hell was she doing?

Sherlock's hands squeezed her stomach and the spell was broken as John let out a sudden squeak from the jolt of tickled nerves and promptly fell onto her side where she sprawled out and gasped in a broken breath.

Sherlock's hand smacked down, landing perfectly on her bum. "Go on upstairs then." Sherlock leaned in and whispered, "You deserve it, my lovely whore."

John slowly pushed to her feet and wobbly legs led her up the stairs and to her bed where she automatically collapsed. Her boxers could not get off fast enough for her hand to dive beneath the fabric and start rubbing against her clit. She moaned into her shoulder and kicked them off the bed. Two fingers dove into her sex and she fucked into herself fast and hard, already pulsing and slick.

It barely took thirty seconds with her thrusting into herself and Sherlock's handprint still stinging across her arse, the sound of her voice whispering, 'you deserve it, my lovely whore', for her to cry out, louder than she ever intended, moaning out something that sounded like, "Shhi- Shh- llll- oh fuck!"

Panting for breath, she laid back in her covers, spooning them around her. Thoughts were flitting away from her. She knew they had something to do with 'a bit not good' and 'what the fuck was that?', but she was too tired to pay any attention to them. She fell asleep, warm and completely spent.

Tea was waiting for John when she woke up. Still steaming, though it was next to her bed. She sat up and gladly drank it down, only mildly affronted that she had absolutely nothing on her bottom half, knowing Sherlock must have walked into the room and seen whatever the cover could not hide.

Next to the mug were some scones that she happily picked at as she read the small handwritten note propped against the lamp.

You deserve happiness, ma chérie