Sherlock barely spoke in the taxi, other than a single barked command to the driver ("Two two one Baker street, I prefer my own flat, John, I hope you understand,") but the smoldering looks he kept directing across the confines of the back seat were nothing short of incendiary. John practically threw a handful of cash at the cabbie before sprinting after Sherlock, who merely let himself into the unassuming flat next to a small restaurant and left the door open behind him. The ground floor flat was clearly let (owned?) by an older woman, judging from the decor, but the stairs in the hallway led to a flat on the first floor which also had the door wide open. John took a brief glance around, more out of habit than anything else, then followed at a more sedate pace up the stairs.
The room at the top stopped him in his tracks. It looked a bit like a mad scientist with a Victorian fetish had started to decorate, but had gotten bored and wandered off - every imaginable surface was covered with something, some of it identifiable but much of it not. John counted two skulls (one human, one bovine), some antique titration equipment on the table in the kitchen, what looked like an honest-to-goodness harpoon in the corner, and everywhere books, books, books. He recognized a few from his medical training days; others looked to be ancient to the point of falling apart. The floor was (mostly) clear, leaving a safe path to the only other open door in the flat. John closed and locked the main door behind him, then gingerly made his way through the mess to what he assumed was Sherlock's bedroom. The flat was silent, which set his senses on high alert, but surely Sherlock was still there -
"John." Sherlock - who was totally nude already, and how had he managed that so quickly? - turned and indicated a chest at the foot of the bed. The lid was open, displaying a stunning variety of restraints, gags, and other toys. "I assume you'll want to shut me up as quickly as possible, so please feel free to use anything you see here. Would you prefer me on the bed or the floor? I find that most of my partners find my fellatio technique well above-average, although if that's not your preference you are certainly welcome to put me in one of the masks or the ball gag. I don't usually find 'safe words' to be practical, as I already consent to anything, but if you require one my usual choice is 'Vatican cameos.' Not a term I've ever had come up in the course of interactions otherwise, although I suppose if you're into role play there could be a possibility-"
"Sherlock, stop." John couldn't even think as fast as Tall Posh Git was talking, but he heard enough to realize this would perhaps require going a bit slower than he'd expected. He took in Sherlock's look of surprise for a long moment, then nodded. "Right, so you can take direction. That's the first step."
Tall Posh Git scrunched up his face into an expression of annoyance. "I'd hardly have a trunk full of bondage gear if I couldn't," he said. "This is what you followed me home for, isn't it? For deviant sex?"
"You think of yourself as a deviant?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Slightly over half of adults in Britain have an interest in sexual behaviors which could be termed a 'kink,' depending on how you define it, but that vague majority is only acquired through grouping several dissimilar 'kinks' together. An extreme interest in sadomasochism, submission, and bondage is generally perceived as 'deviant' no matter what scale it's measured in. Why, don't you?"
"I try to just think of myself as good in bed, most of the time," John answered honestly. "That takes a lot of forms depending on who I'm with. BDSM is certainly one of them, but it's not the only one. It takes a bit of negotiation first."
"Oh. Talking." Sherlock sighed dramatically and folded down onto his knees in the middle of the floor. It put his mouth at just the perfect level to reach John's cock, if John would only step a bit closer. "Can't you just shut me up already?" he demanded.
"No, I don't think I want to." John flashed his most placid smile and moved past Sherlock so he could sit on the edge of the bed and take off his shoes. Sherlock bowed his head, but didn't turn around.
"You'll get sick of my voice," Sherlock said, resignation in his tone. "Everyone does. I can't help but observe things, sometimes, and when I'm aroused I have a diminished verbal filter. I don't want to ruin the mood."
Diminished filter - does Tall Posh Git have some great state secrets I'm supposed to uncover, then? It didn't sound likely, but then this assignment had been sketchy on the details right from the start. Maybe it was just a possibility of acquiring intel. John took a moment to look over the smooth planes of Sherlock's back - acres of pale skin, unbroken with scars or blemishes. Not the body of a field agent, then. Scientist? Possibly, given the state of the sitting room, although that could just be a hobby. Or the odds and ends could belong to a flatmate - there had been another staircase leading up to what was presumably another room in the attic and the bedroom itself was relatively uncluttered. Although from what John had seen of Sherlock so far, he didn't seem the type to cohabit peacefully.
Either way, a gag was out of the question. "I prefer you free to give input," John answered instead. "The first time with a new partner always has extra pitfalls, and I believe in clear communication."
"I already said I consent to everything," Sherlock snapped. "What more could you possibly need from me?"
"Patience." John punctuated the word with a flat-handed slap on Sherlock's bare shoulderblade. He didn't hit hard, barely enough force to redden the pale skin, but the sharp crack of noise drew Sherlock's spine straight like he'd been set on fire. "You can't possibly consent to everything - you don't know me. You don't know what I might want to do."
"I know you're proud of your sexual prowess," Sherlock answered immediately. "It's part of your identity - this is how you define yourself. You're career military, at least three tours, with a few months' break in between . . . I'd put your age at what, thirty-four? Thirty-five? And you're openly bisexual. Given what I already know about you, I'd estimate four to five 'long-term' partners, between sixty and one hundred casual partners, with whom you've had intercourse more than once but less than ten times, and another fifty or sixty one-night stands. Your sexual interest is fairly evenly split between genders but opportunity has provided you with more male partners than female. And at least one long-term partner whom you chiefly refer to publicly as intergender, although the odds are on you mentally defining that partner as a 'girlfriend.' You don't always employ the trappings of BDSM, but you miss it when the sex is purely vanilla and when you do get the chance, you much prefer to be the dominant. You take great pride in the fact that you've never had a submissive use his or her safeword during one of your encounters, although you're pedantically attached to the concept. That's enough to be going on, don't you think?"
Bloody wanker. John sighed, then stepped forward and wrenched Sherlock's left arm up behind his back in a careful hold. "This," he growled. "This is me overstepping your boundaries." He forced Sherlock's elbow higher, until Sherlock had to scramble to his feet to keep his arm from being twisted off. John kept up the pressure, though, stepping in to keep Sherlock off-balance and prevent him from straightening fully. "This is me pushing too hard. You think I've never had a sub safeword on me before?"
Sherlock was panting through the pain, now. He could have easily twirled his body away and freed his arm, but he kept his position until John's careful grip finally got to be too much. "Vatican cameos," he breathed.
John instantly let go and stepped back. Sherlock brought his arm around to his front and started massaging his elbow with his other hand.
"Using your safeword is nothing to be embarrassed about," John said. "Now you've used it and I've had a sub use it and we can get that little pissing match behind us, okay? If you can't follow my rules, we can't do this."
"Rules," Sherlock echoed. He looked startled at the thought. Like he's never realized that the whole bloody consent structure was part of the rules in the first place. "I . . . all right."
"Tell me what you like," John pressed. "I can't read your bloody mind, and I want to make it good. For both of us."
Sherlock remained standing, but he looked at the ground as he pondered. "Being tied up," he admitted finally. "I particularly like when I can't move. And - impact play is good, but I don't like bloodplay as much."
"Good, that's good," John said, nodding in encouragement. "What else? What about actual sex?"
"I like it," Sherlock answered immediately. "As long as I'm allowed some refractory period, anyway."
I should fucking hope so. "I have done this before," John pointed out. "And one of my own non-negotiables is that we use condoms. I'm disease-free and would like to stay that way."
"So am I, although I appreciate your caution." Sherlock finally met John's eyes. "I think that's it - can we be done with the talking part now?"
John gave him a long, slow once-over, filthy enough to have Sherlock's cock bobbing to half-mast by the time he was finished looking. Sherlock's eyes were wide and full of lust.
"Done with the talking," John promised. "Now's the part where I show you why Mike said this will be the best shag of your life. Close your eyes, make your way over to the bed, bend over the side, and stretch your hands over your head as far as you can."