The morning sun's rays passed through the blinds and cast a stripped muted light over the bed. Victor lay on his side with his head supported by his hand, just watching a sleeping Sherlock, a rare pleasure for anyone.

The bedcovers untidily bunched around Sherlock's body leaving the upper half of his back naked, with each breath his chest moved gently and his parted lips sent out sighing puffs, his eyes moved under pale eyelids, his long fingers gently curled around a pillow over which his face rested. He was already stirring a bit and in a few moments those brilliant eyes would open. The urge to reach across and just touch was great, but he did not have permission. Victor waited patiently and paid silent homage.

He is an artist's wet dream.

Victor ached. He could imagine the pattern of the crop and Sherlock's fingertips imprinted on his back, the backs of his upper thighs and the cheeks of his arse. His jaw hurt. His arsehole felt puffy and sore when he had moved a warm wet sponge over it a few minutes earlier, needing to get the flakes of dried up lube off. He had lubed and stretched himself again just in case Sherlock wanted to have him again this morning. He knew from experience that the discomfort would last for a while and that for the next few days every time he moved he would think of Sherlock.

It was beyond delicious.

It was rare to receive a summons from Sherlock, usually it was the other way around, with Victor needing and asking for his attentions. But then he met John Watson and the purpose of last night became clearer. One does not associate with Sherlock Holmes without learning a thing or two about deductions.

Sherlock stirred again and opened his eyes which went from sleep-filled to full awareness within a fraction of a second.

"Good morning," he said, voice hoarse with sleep.

Victor smiled, "Good morning."

Sherlock stretched languidly and then raise a hand to touch Victor's hair gently and murmured, "Let me see."

Victor grinned and rolled over till his back was facing Sherlock. He lay quietly knowing that every mark was being inspected. Feather light fingers ran over his back in deliberation moving from one mark to the next, stroking, feeling, caressing gently.

Victor was used to begging for pain, for roughness, for dominance from Sherlock, often on his literal knees. But tenderness from Sherlock was a gift every single time, one that Sherlock made of his own volition. And it had a devastating capacity to overwhelm Victor completely, much more so than any carnal act could. Sherlock knew this and was careful to dole it out in small quantities and sporadically only.

Victor gasped softly as he felt Sherlock's finger probe his cleft and circle his anus, feeling the lubricant around it. Sherlock's chuckle sounded pleased, approving, "You prepped….." The finger dipped in lazily and then retreated. Tugging on Victor's shoulder he said, "Come here."

Victor turned around and let Sherlock position his head on his stomach. Sherlock bent his knees to create a back support to cradle the head and stroked his hair softly.

"When do you have to leave?" he asked softly.

Looking up from the cushion of Sherlock's tummy Victor answered, "I have a meeting with Mark, my agent at four this afternoon. The exhibition starts on Saturday. Will you come?"

"I'll be there," Sherlock promised.

Victor rubbed his cheek on Sherlock's skin, "Half the paintings have already been sold, but we made a deal with the buyers to allow me to continue to exhibit them before they can take them home. The Europe tour starts in a month and is going to be on for a month at least. All the major cities have been booked. Mark estimates that by the time it is done I'll have made a quarter of a million pounds."

Sherlock smiled and tugged his hair gently, "I'm proud of you."

A radiant smile flashed across Victor's face and then he turned his head and placed a soft kiss on Sherlock's belly almost shyly.

There was silence as they both lay there lost in thought.

"So, John Watson…" Victor said hesitantly after a while. "He seems nice. And not very happy to see me last night."

"Yes," was the brief response.

Another long pause followed, Sherlock still stroking Victor's hair absently.

"Would you like me to talk to him?" Victor asked.

In lieu of an answer, Sherlock pulled another pillow and propped himself up further and then fixed his gaze on Victor. He stayed quiet, his gaze contemplative, a faint frown on his face. Silence from Sherlock had its very own significance. One that Victor was getting better at reading.

Sherlock resumed soft touches to Victor's face and hair.

"Victor, if John and I do get together, the balance of probability is that he would want an exclusive relationship. He is quite old-fashioned in that sense. I am not sure what my response would be to that proposition. Does it not bother you that you may not have this anymore?" he waved his hand between them to indicate this.

Victor frowned as he considered his response.

"Not really."

Sherlock's eyebrows went up questioningly.

Victor continued, "It is just that I cannot imagine that I might need you as a friend and you would not be there. And I certainly cannot imagine that I might need you as my Dom and you would not be there."

Sherlock smirked and closed his fist around Victor's hair and pulled; a friend's playful tug not the warning tug of a Dom.

"Such faith, Victor? So much trust?" he asked, his tone teasing.

Victor frowned as he thought. "Faith is a hopeful belief in something that is not yet proven. And trust is relative, it can be given, it can be taken away. This is neither faith nor trust."

Suddenly Sherlock went absolutely still and just stared unblinkingly at Victor.

"Then what is it?" Sherlock's voice was husky.

Victor's heart started thudding in his chest, wondering whether he had said something wrong, overstepped his boundaries somehow. He took a deep breath.

"It is knowledge. I know you could no more abandon your Sub in need than a mother could turn away from her starving child."

He knew he had said the right thing the moment he saw Sherlock's eyes darken and his cheeks became tinged pink with arousal. The grip on Victor's hair painfully tightened till his eyes teared up. Victor whimpered aloud, I have pleased my Dom, aroused him.

There was a flurry of movement and Victor found himself being flipped over and suddenly flat on his back. He was surrounded by a cage of Sherlock's arms, pinned by piercing green-blue eyes with an intensity that took his breath away. And then Sherlock was kissing him, devouring him….. open mouthed kisses with his tongue invading every crevice of Victor's mouth. Victor's hips moved up, seeking friction, reassurance as his mouth moved submissively under Sherlock's assault and his entire being seemed to sing out, yes, yes, YES.

Sherlock paused and looked down, both men breathing heavily.

"You have thought about this, a lot," he murmured against his lips.

"You taught me how to think this way, Sherlock. Have I pleased you?" Victor asked in response.

Sherlock smiled slowly and then placed a soft kiss on his lips, "Stay."

Victor watched in wonder as Sherlock slid down his body slowly, kissing as he went. He spread Victor's legs wide and suckled on the sensitive skin at the junction of the leg and groin.

"Sherlock?" his voice trembled, his tone questioning.

"Shhhh….. lie back, enjoy," Sherlock said as he leaned forward. Victor gasped out as he saw his Dom take his turgid cock into the warmth of his mouth.

"Oh God, Oh please….Oh God!"

John sat up at the edge of his bed and ran a weary hand over his face. It was mid-morning but that was okay, no shift today, nothing to do.

It had been another restless night. Thinking of Sherlock downstairs with his friend, Victor. About what they might be doing. About how could he not have known these things about Sherlock? Re-evaluating his entire time with Sherlock. Fuck, he had been so naïve, thinking he was the experienced one and Sherlock was the anxious virgin. How could he have been so wrong? What had he not seen?

He trudged downstairs, before the thoughts had a chance to overwhelm him again, pulled by an invisible string towards his kettle and the promise of a hot cuppa. And stopped short at the landing when he saw Victor folding a pile of clothes which lay on the sofa. Sherlock's clothes.

"Oh, Good morning, John. I used your washing machine, I hope you don't mind," Victor said cheerfully.

John raised his eyebrows, "Good morning," he said gruffly. He waved his hands at the pile. "Does Sherlock know you are doing this? He does not like his things touched."

Victor grinned, "It's almost become a ritual by now, John. I tidy up after we've….. you know." He waved his arm around vaguely. "I guess it's become my way of saying 'thank-you'."

John looked uncomfortable as he asked, "Would you like some tea?"

"If it's not too much trouble, thank you."

John moved towards the kettle and Victor moved to the fridge to get milk out. "Sherlock has gone to St Barts, something about some body parts. I thought I'd spend some time here, getting to know you. You know I've read so much about you in the papers, in your blog and Sherlock talks about you from time to time. I feel like I almost know you."

John looked at him over his steaming cup of tea. Victor had the blissed out look of the well-shagged. John hated him for it. But his expression was friendly and without guile, and dammit he has known Sherlock for so long, I am so bloody curious about all this and there is no one else I can talk to.

Aloud he just grunted and took his tea over to sit on his favourite chair. Victor followed and put his cup down on the coffee table. He resumed folding the clothes.

His tone was conversational as he said, "You know, John, we Englishmen specialise in not having meaningful conversations about subjects that may make us uncomfortable. This degree of reticence is not always helpful."

"What do you mean?" John's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Victor shrugged, "You may have questions. I know I had several. It was the most confusing time of my life."

John stared at him and then looked down at his tea, without saying a word.

Carefully gathering the sleeves of a shirt together, Victor watched him and bit his lip hesitantly.

"If you don't mind, I'll just ramble on. Stop me if it gets too personal or uncomfortable, okay?" he finally said.

John looked at him and took a deep breath, "Look, I just want to enjoy my tea and then I have some chores to run. You do whatever you're doing, there is no need to make small talk. Besides, Sherlock would not like us talking about him behind his back." There, that sounds like a good enough reason, fucking hell, who does he think he is, my therapist? But….. no, no, for fuck's sake don't stop talking, I want to know, I need to know.. What did you and Sherlock do? Did he whip you with that riding crop he had in his hand last night? Does it hurt a lot? Did he fuck you? Why does he not show any interest in me? Surely he knows how I feel by now. Does he talk about me? What does he feel about me?

Victor chuckled, "Do you really think Sherlock would leave you and I alone, if he did not mean for us to talk? You don't know him very well if you think that, John."

John thought about that for a bit. Fucking hell, that sounds just about right.

Aloud he murmured, "Yeah, he is manipulative all right!"

Victor put the clothes aside and sat down on the sofa with his cup.

"But always to a good cause, John," he grinned.

John snorted, "Yeah, I bet."

Both men were silent for a while, sipping their tea. Victor looked at John thoughtfully.

"I met him when I was 19. I wasn't as they say, 'in a good place'." Victor said, his tone reflective. "My parents were in the midst of a nasty divorce. I had just come out about my sexual orientation to them. My father was a blatant homophobe and he was scathing in his reaction when he found out I was homosexual. It was very hurtful at the time. It is amazing, don't you think, John, how we keep looking for our parent's approval long after we've grown up and it shouldn't matter anymore?"

John looked at him, intrigued despite himself. Victor was staring at his tea intently. John stayed quiet.

Victor grimaced as he continued, "And as if that was not enough, I found that I had these urges…... I tried to fight them, you know." He looked up briefly into John's eyes and then looked down again.

"Went to therapy, anti-depressants, support groups. I thought there was something wrong with me."

After a pause, John asked, "What happened then?"

Victor swallowed, his hands gripping his cup tightly.

"For a while, I experimented. Thought I should get it out of my system. Slept with a bunch of guys, often with more than one at a time; guys who enjoyed beating me, humiliating me and then having sex with me. I convinced myself that that was what I needed, what I deserved. Because I was less than a man somehow," Victor shrugged.

John looked horrified as he listened, his empathy aroused.

"Then I met him."

Victor looked up and smiled at John, "He was two years my senior, doing a Chemistry major. He was….. God John, he was hauntingly beautiful even then. And so intelligent. But for a person like me, the most attractive part was that air of absolute self-assuredness that he had. Like he knew what he was and he was completely okay with that."

He put his cup down again and shook his head, "I'd already been to a few therapists. You know, we go to the therapists hoping they will help us sort out our psychological issues. The truth is psychology just puts people into neat little pigeon holes of pre-approved diagnoses after having validated every single emotion and response."

He stared out of the window looking contemplative. "I often think Sherlock would have made a brilliant psychologist. He knows what makes people tick, what their deepest desires and fears are, where the root of the problem lies."

John laughed, this is too ridiculous for fuck's sake. "Sherlock! A psychologist! He is capable of driving someone mental all by himself. He would deduce the hell out of them and drive them into running away from him."

Victor leaned back and smiled, "Ah, that's because people don't know how to deal with the truth. As long as it is pleasant and agrees with what I feel about myself, it is fine. If it is objective and true and hits a raw nerve, then I don't like it? Does it make it an untruth?"

John leaned forward and poked an emphatic finger in the air as he hissed, "I have seen him cut people up with that serrated knife in his mouth that he calls a tongue. You are saying he could heal someone? Ha!" he settled back in his chair with the air of a point well made.

Victor's voice was soft as he replied, "But he did heal me. He gave me everything that I needed and more. I am what I am today because he gave me back my self-confidence."

Startled John looked back at him, frowning. "How? By beating you?" He shook his head, "I don't understand any of this."

Victor turned his head to look out of the window and was quiet for a while before he spoke again. "John, a good Dominant does not give his Sub what he wants. He gives him what he needs." He turned back to look at John.

He leaned forward and took a deep breath. His tone was earnest as he and continued, "Look, I realise we don't know each other well. But I look at you and I see me, all those years ago. I need to say a few things to you. You are going to ask me to mind my own business and that is okay. But please, just hear me out first."

John stared hard at him, clenched fists by his side, his face grim. Part of him wanted to tell this young twerp to go fuck himself, who the fuck do you think you are to claim any knowledge about Sherlock and I. We have been best friends for years. We've been through hell and back together. How could you even know the depth of our feelings, our bond. Another part of him wanted to hear, wanted to KNOW.

John gave a curt nod, silently asking Victor to continue.

"Sherlock cares about you. More deeply than I have seen him care about anyone. He has a deep regard for you and your friendship. And you are the only person towards whom he has ever shown an inclination to enter into a relationship with. You are the only one I have seen whose company he actively seeks out. I wouldn't dare to presume on your feelings for him. But at the risk of being very rude, I would say, you are obviously very attracted to him and judging by the way his fake suicide affected you, you too care about him very deeply."

John sat staring at the carpet as he listened, jaw clenched. Part of him was drinking it all in, wanting to believe so badly. Part of him was angry to have such a personal topic be issued out in the open.

Victor looked at his face anxiously, but decided to finish saying what he needed to say.

"John, please don't think your inner conflict is unknown to him. He is Sherlock Holmes. He sees everything. He calls it his curse. And do not think he has been discussing you with me. But I know Sherlock. I know at a visceral level that he cares about you deeply."

John frowned as he looked at Victor, listening intently.

"Then why has he not said anything? Do you know how confusing this is for me?"

Victor shrugged. "Ask him. He is the source of your confusion and he is the source of all your answers. Trust him. Ask him."

"It isn't that easy."

"Why?"

"Because if he cuts me down, if he …."

"He won't," Victor interjected. "He is the best friend a man can have and in his own unique way he is the kindest man I know."

John gave a short laugh, "Are we talking about the same man here? Sherlock is not kind. He is only kind to …. To you and Peter and others like you perhaps."

Victor leaned forward, "Then kneel for him. It really is that simple. Find out for yourself how sublime, how beautiful a relationship like this can be when it is someone like Sherlock looking after you."

He put his hand in his trousers and removed a card from his wallet. Handing it over he said, "Look, I've said what I needed to say. Rest is between the two of you. These are my contact details. Call me anytime if you have questions."

He stood up and picked up the pile of clothes. "I don't know about you, John, but I am famished. Would you like to join me for lunch? I promise to stay away from all personal topics and Sherlock" He smiled, face full of charm and warmth and suddenly John felt like he had found an ally.

He took a deep breath, what the fuck do I have to lose here anyway?

"Yes, I'd like that."

It was dark by the time John woke up from a dreamless exhausted sleep. He felt momentarily disoriented that often happened when one goes to sleep during daylight hours and wakes up in the dark.

Lunch with Victor had been surprisingly cordial and true to his promise they had talked about everything else but Sherlock. John had come back and as had become the norm, started looking at webpages about BDSM, aftercare, various videos again. He read and he watched till his head swam and then he had dozed off.

He glanced at the bedside clock. 8.30 pm, it blinked back.

Putting on the bedside lamp he laid back and sighed up at the ceiling. Victor's words came storming back into his head as he slowly gained awareness.

Could it really be that Sherlock cares about me and is waiting for me to make the first move? Could it really be that simple? But from what Victor said, Sherlock's preferences lie in a BDSM style relationship, with Sherlock being the Dominant? What does it entail? I've read every bloody webpage on this in the past few days and still I don't know what it all means. What if I can't do it, can't be what Sherlock wants? What if Victor has misread everything and Sherlock has no intention of having any kind of long-term relationship? Could I have a casual one with him? Like Peter and Victor? Would I want to? Would he want to? I think I will explode with sexual frustration if I don't get laid soon. Should I go out and find someone? Pay someone to do it? Pay someone to beat me to see if I can take it? Get it out of my system and then maybe I will be able to think clearly?

It is no use, John thought. The same thoughts kept percolating in his already muddled brain and there seemed to be no possibility of any practical resolution lying here on this bloody bed.

He got up and wore his jeans. Might as well go downstairs and…. Should I talk to Sherlock? Was Victor right? Is it just a matter of asking him to help me come out of this maze of confusion in my head?

He headed down and peered around.

Sherlock was sitting on his table in the kitchen amidst his experimental paraphernalia. He was sitting ramrod straight, looking into his microscope, wearing his royal blue robe over black trousers and a white shirt. He flicked his eyes up to watch John walk to the fridge and grab a cold beer, then flicked them back again to his microscope.

"Case?" John asked briefly.

"Yes," replied Sherlock equally briefly.

John grunted and walked to the living room and sat on his chair, staring out of the windows as he opened his beer.

Sherlock looked up thoughtfully at John's profile and after a while seemed to come to a decision. He walked up to the living room and sat down on his chair, hands coming up to join in front of him in his thinking pose.

John stared at him blankly. Part of him felt cornered. Part of him felt relief at having Sherlock's attention.

Sounds of cars moving, people talking loudly or laughing filtered through the open windows into the flat. Several moments of quiet followed.

Sherlock's voice when he spoke was soft, yet it seems to boom due to the silence that had preceded it.

"You really should ask any questions you have of me, John. The internet is a notoriously unreliable source upon which to base knowledge."

John looked away and swallowed, torn. Should I? What if….?

He looked back to find Sherlock looking at him calmly. He decided to be brave.

"Why….. I don't understand, why can't we just have a normal relationship?" he began hesitantly, looking down at his drink. He looked up, brow furrowed. "I mean I…." he gulped, "I care about you. A lot. Don't tell me you don't know that. And you. I think… I mean I had hoped…. I mean I hope you care about me that way too?" The tone turned questioning. "Then why? Why can't we just have a normal relationship? Why does it have to be this other kind?"

Sherlock's gaze was sharp, completely focussed as he leaned forward, elbows digging into his knees. His voice became softer, "Define normal, John."

Waving a vague hand John said, "You know….. when two people who like each other go out and have fun." He hesitated before continuing. Fuck it, in for a penny, in for a pound. "And then come home and shag."

He looked away, embarrassed. And then looked back to find Sherlock's gaze still focussed on him, expression still gentle, calm.

After a few moments of silence, Sherlock broke eye contact and leaned back. He seemed to be considering his response, absently rolling his tongue over his lower lip. John watched his face, his eyes, his tongue, his lips as if mesmerised.

Abruptly Sherlock stood up and walked towards the bookcase to pull out his violin case. John watched, startled. In the past six months he had not touched it. A few times John had considered asking him to play, he missed it, missed watching Sherlock as he played. But things had been so forlorn that he had clamped down on that urge to make a request.

Is he going to answer me? Why is he not saying anything? Is he trying to indicate that he does not want a relationship? Is he about to say that I have misread everything, that he cares about me only as a friend? Have I fucked everything up by opening my big fucking mouth?

Absently tuning the wires with one hand, Sherlock finally looked up and responded.

"John, I need you to do something. The next time you are alone, I need you to close your eyes and think about what you feel for me. What emotions do I arouse in you? And ask yourself this question. Will the conventional trappings of a normal romantic relationship- walking hand to hand in the park, candle light dinners, spending time with one another, vanilla sex, saying I-love-you every so often….. do you think this kind of relationship can ever hope to fully express the entire range and the depth of feelings you have for me? Ask yourself this."

John gaped, his mouth moving ineffectively even as his mind tried to process what Sherlock was saying.

"I….. I…." he stammered.

"NO," Sherlock's voice was emphatic as it broke into his thoughts. He stood there with the violin in one hand and the bow in the other. He pointed the bow at John. "Not now. I said when you are in the right mental space. Think about it then. And then let me know your conclusions."

He lifted the violin with one hand and the bow with the other. He stood quietly and continued to look at John.

John was blinking, his eyes darting around as he started to get a glimpse of what Sherlock was trying to say. He looked back at Sherlock, who stood there watching him with approving eyes as he watched John deduce his meaning.

"And what about you? What is the depth of your feelings for me?" John's voice was strangled as he pleaded. "What do you feel when you look at me?"

John rose and walked towards Sherlock, emboldened and hopeful, finally we are talking, really talking.

Sherlock looked away and stared into space for a while. Both men stood there, both aware of the weight of their conversation. Sherlock's jaw muscles were clenched tight and there was a sheen to his eyes. Fucking hell, are those tears? His face seemed to crumple on itself for a fraction of a second and then John watched as the impassive mask came back on. He looked back into John's unblinking eyes.

"The truth?"

"Yes …. Please Sherlock, I need to know. When you look at me do you see the 'trappings of a conventional romantic relationship', as you put it?" His voice trembled with need.

Sherlock's eyes were narrowed with resolute focus as he murmured, "Absolutely not."

"Please tell me, what do you see? When you look at me what do you feel? Please….." John's voice was imploring, insistent.

Sherlock's eyes smouldered like a laser beam trying to burn up all of John's doubts and anxieties. His voice was husky as it whispered, "Possession."

He tucked the violin under his chin. His other hand came up with the bow.

"MINE." The word seemed to ricochet in the room even as he closed his eyes.

John staggered back to his chair and watched as Sherlock started to play.

The tune was soulful, beautiful. Almost as beautiful as Sherlock looked as he swayed gently, his robe draped intimately around his body showing off the gentle curves and hard edges, his cheekbones casting long shadows over his face, eyes closed gently, nimble fingers and hands playing the instrument as though it were an extension of himself.

Mine, Mine, Mine….. the word echoed off the walls of the living room of 221B and within John's head.

His, His, His… do I belong to him?

The revelation was too profound to chew on immediately. John decided to save it for tomorrow, when I am in the right mental space. That is what Sherlock has just ordered me to do. That is what I will do.

He relaxed back into his chair and just watched and listened, his mind blessedly blank for the first time in a long time.