The Man
The Banker In The Yellow Blindfold
Part One: No Instructions Needed

Notes: No smut in this chapter, so sorry. It'll appear soon. I promise! Also: The intro chapter was ridiculously long, but the rest of the chapters will be posted in parts to prevent this.

"Let me make some deductions about you. You'd be surprised how easily I can read people after working a job like this. Sexually anyways."

First, you'll test the waters. You have to make sure I hold your interest, after all.

It was almost as though Sherlock was having second thoughts, though John knew that wasn't it. He'd been doing this job for a long time and it was something he was immensely good at. If there was anything people liked, it was being in charge. John could let him be in charge. He could let them break his skin with whips and teeth and nails all while not making a noise. It wasn't sexual most of the time and John knew that he actually helped people in a very unorthodox way.

It had to stop now. He couldn't put Henry in danger, or his family. John came across all kinds of things in his work and it wasn't until Moriarty threatened his life did he realize how dangerous his little collection was. He would be more careful. The little plastic box on his ankle assured him that he was relatively safe, but the rest of him told him that Moriarty didn't care if Mycroft Holmes came after him. It was a game they played, the Holmes and Moriarty, and John was worried what he had gotten himself into.

Standing beside Sherlock was probably the stupidest thing he could have done but, despite everything, John couldn't refuse the fact that his heart lunged a little every time he thought of the brilliant man. Under normal circumstances, he didn't allow his clients any sexual activity, but Sherlock was hardly a client. He doubted Sherlock knew the hard specifics of his work, especially considering everyone was a little different, but it was clear Sherlock needed this way more than any of his clients before had. He was clearly stressed and every part of him was screaming to let go. That was okay, though. Some people just needed help letting go and Sherlock needed a lot of it.

John slipped his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and abandoned them in the doorway with a skilled, graceful step. He glanced over his shoulder with his quiet, completely nonaggressive beige eyes to watch his new roommate follow him. His slim, pale fingers belonged around the dark handle of the crop. He offered a small arch of the back where a few of his old scars were still fading away. John was very good at hiding, after all, even from his most obsessed clients.

"Sherlock," he called casually, bringing the man's attention back to his face. John wasn't entirely sure what he'd been looking at. Sherlock was so hard to read even when his pale blue eyes stared without reserve.

"Naturally, a safeword is needed." He might actually need it this time, if he got the little detective to let go. John wasn't sure he could with just one session, though. He was great, but Sherlock had some serious self preservation built around himself. The taller man simply nodded at him and John could already see him thinking. In this situation, unfortunately for the man, it wasn't what he needed to be doing. This wasn't a problem that needed to be solved, but no amount of words would make Sherlock understand that.

"Mm. Vacation Cameos." John decided without the need for confirmation; he knew the consultant was listening to him; Sherlock didn't 'zone out.'

"Then you will stop, Sherlock," he said with a sudden firmness that gave away his discomfort with the situation. Relationships like these required a lot of trust and the only thing worse than standing by Sherlock was trusting Sherlock. It wasn't that Sherlock was untrustworthy, it was simply that some people didn't know what to do with trust and could easily cause pain where it wasn't intended. In a profession with constantly changing partners, John could always rely to the larger Henry to subdue anyone that couldn't follow the rules. There was no one around if Sherlock suddenly wasn't so Sherlock. He turned eyes on the taller male to make sure he was understood and Sherlock watched him with an unwavering stare. Someone else might have thought he hadn't heard a word of it, but John knew better. Sherlock heard everything.

"Good." Extra effort would be put into his spare escape route, just to make sure his safety was secured. With that understood, John watched patiently for some sort of instruction. He wasn't sure if Sherlock knew what he was doing, but unless he was asked, John wouldn't dare try to help him. He didn't have to wait long and as John already knew, Sherlock was very direct.

"Get on the bed on your stomach," Sherlock instructed and John followed blindly. He crawled onto the bed with every delicate arch and movement that came naturally to him now. He laid his head down on the crisp pillow and placed his hands neutrally at either side of his head. From this position it was hard to keep a firm eye on his new client, but that wasn't exactly new. What was new, however, was the room John wasn't familiar with and the soft steps of the detective, giving him absolutely no idea where he was, let alone what he was doing. It was a small thrill, he discovered, to actually be completely blind to his partner. Sherlock was something new to him and it had been a long time since he'd had something new.

A few moments went by when nothing happened and then cool, soft fingers were on his shoulder. Pale fingers traced over the webbing of his war scar with the uttermost gentleness. This wasn't part of it, though. Sherlock was examining the wound with a completely different eye to satisfy his own curiosity. John allowed him to. He hadn't known Sherlock long, but he knew one thing to be true. Sherlock was curios. Why was he curious about John? John wasn't exactly sure yet, but he was glad for it. For reasons unknown, or at least none he would admit to, John felt something for the strange detective and he had ever since Sherlock had first appeared in his business.

Then came the testing. The cool leather piece brushed against the back of his neck, caressing the skin there before traveling down. Sherlock traced a few of his fading scars but for now, didn't offer the slightest bit of force or pain. John's spine was traced with the triangular bit but he didn't respond in any way. Sherlock was a little more tricky to deal with than most of his clients. Usually he could tell what they wanted after minimum amount of conversation and respond accordingly without appearing as though he were faking. Exaggerating, really. John would have to keep Sherlock's attention without knowing what he had caught him with in the first place. He deemed the best way to do that was not try to 'exaggerate' at all.

The first strike didn't bother John in the least as it struck against his leg. He didn't flinch and it didn't string, but it wasn't that hard of a hit, either. He wasn't fragile and they both knew that, but Sherlock was testing the waters. Most people did, just to get a feel of the new sensation or the new sub. Sherlock needed more than that and John could take a lot more. The next strike came at least thirty seconds later by John's count and was much firmer than the first. The leather made an audible noise against his back and while it stung a little more, John still made no significant response. Then, as if Sherlock suddenly realized that most of his clients actually left scars, the intensity increased.

The next hit tore through his back and the pain bloomed along the line with only a split second of delay. It didn't break the skin but just barely. John's fingers twitched against the sheeting and he sighed a shuddery breath, but it wasn't a cry or a sound by any proper means. Following the hit was a pregnant pause. Sherlock had all the information he needed, then, to decide whether he wanted to continue or not.

I will. Then you'll hesitate. You won't know what to do. No. You'll want to do everything at once. You'll focus on one thing, though. There's plenty of time for everything else later. The crop; it's clearly your favorite.

Sherlock did. He wanted to continue but that wasn't surprising at all. Even when John's eyes were off of him, everything about him was tame. He was clearly more than capable of taking the abuse, though Sherlock doubted he would be in this line of work if he couldn't. The Man was clearly smart enough to realize that faking it with him wouldn't cut it. If it wasn't an automatic response, what was John trying to get out of Lestrade by faking distress during their last meeting? Another client?

Sherlock found his attention was more focused than it usually was, but he also knew that wasn't unusual when he was thinking or interacting with John. All of his attention was required when he was dealing with the smaller male, after all, otherwise he might very well miss the little trigger and warning signs he sported. John had mixed feelings about not being able to see him, but he wouldn't try to turn his head. It was a mixture of not trusting Sherlock and still recovering from being threatened by Moriarty.

The back was the ideal canvas for striking, however, and it was clear Sherlock wasn't the only one to think so. It was probably because John had a preference to it, as well, if his previous flourished movements of his hips and back was anything to go by. It was curious, though. If John usually pretended to lower his threshold for pain, why did he have so many scars? How much pressure and strength did it actually require to leave a mark? Bruises would surely form quicker and disappear easier, but Sherlock drew his question up to find out how much force he needed to put behind his riding crop to leave the sort of scars John had sported when they first met. That image was filed away neatly in Sherlock's memory and it would likely never leave.

He formed a rhythm, the only rest coming from the need to draw his arm back before each strike. Steadily, Sherlock increased the intensity of each hit. John clenched his hands around the sheets and his toes curled, but he didn't make a sound or even seem that bothered by the systematic blows. Nerve damage due to repetitive strikes would cause a need more stimulation to earn the desired effect. Finally, the pale skin gave way under his leather weapon. Sherlock was awarded with a small hiss of a moan from John and a small line of blood over the length of his welted back.

John definitely had some form of nerve damage, raising his threshold for pain greatly and most likely giving him the desire for more and more stimulation, in this case it was clearly pain. It required too much force to break the skin with a blunt object for John to have so many scars. With the crop, at least. More experimentation necessary. The next clear question was to find out where John's limen ended. The man was clearly already aroused, but Sherlock had expected as much considering the basis of John's occupation.

You'll probably get a little distracted at first, which is fine. You won't be Sherlock if you didn't get distracted by your curiosity. You'll make it back around to the task at hand, most likely on mistake, but I'll take what I can get.

That was one experiment out of the way. John only allowed himself to shift mildly on the bed, currently working without Sherlock's instruction. Sherlock didn't yet understand that John would follow any verbal instruction, but most new clients made the same mistake. Unlike them, Sherlock would discover this quickly and use it to his advantage. John would clear things up later when the unavoidable arose and Sherlock attempted to talk him into doing something outside of bed.

After Sherlock's initial finding of just how hard he had to hit to leave a scar, he didn't draw any more blood. Instead, he seemed to be searching for more sensitive spots on his back, thighs, and shoulders. It was still organized and overthought, however, and John knew he would have to patiently wait it out. Sherlock wouldn't get frustrated or angry, but instead, he would change tactics until he received the desired result. The crop brushed over his new gash again and again and John squirmed.

Much to The Man's dismay, Sherlock instantly was aware of his weaker, more tender spot. The same gash Sherlock had made only moments earlier was swiftly turned into a long, gapping, nerve worthy of all of the consultant's attention. The crop wasn't as rough, however, only gracing over the edges of the deep red spot. The gentleness was almost worse in comparison to the predictable strikes. John groaned at the back of his throat.

"More," the sub answered his strike with an airy noise of wanton need. "Please Sherlock." In all honesty, John hadn't expected Sherlock to give in on the first session. He appeared so cold and shielded off, but thankfully, it turned out he was right about Sherlock. The man wasn't nearly as emotionally unattached as he lead people to believe. The collection of following strikes lost their systematic rhythm by just enough to be noticeable. Then the power behind them fluctuated. John was a little surprised.

John began to move even more. Each hit drove him to arch into the leather bit and every run over his open wound left him yelling louder than before until Sherlock had him bucking and screaming. This wasn't an unusual occurrence for John. The completely free and wild lashings bit at his pale back and thighs and left welts and tears with no clear pattern and the overstimulation was thrilling. Sherlock could seriously hurt him. Sherlock might as well have been a stranger. Who was to say he wouldn't try to maim him? Who was to say John could stop him indefinitely? It was dangerous and John got off on it.

More on point, Sherlock was letting go in pure, uncontained violence.

And finally -finally- you'll stop thinking. Tonight if I'm lucky.

Sherlock was surprised to discover that the way John moved was intoxicating. He was interesting, he already knew that, but this was a completely new experience. Every move he made was erratic and unpredictable like Watson himself. He made the mistake of thinking the sub was harmless when he faced away and somewhere trying to think of a way of catalog his responses and forming and incoherent thought, he stopped thinking. It wasn't sudden or quick, but his realization was.

Before he knew it, he was striking the bloody back with no reserve, his mind far away from his task. Then his mind was purely on the task and drawn in purely by the hypnotizing submission that just wavered from John in both the form of verbal begging and compliant movements. How could he be so submissive and still so obviously not? If the army man wanted to, he could very easily snap around and stop him by force, if it was necessary. Sherlock was sure even that would be submissive.

John was muddling his senses again. Why could he do that when no one else could stop Sherlock in his tracks like that. It was problematic. There were only a few times where he had gotten a good look at the man who, by all scientific means, loved him. They were only the smallest slivers of information, though and none of it was enough to actually make sense of anything. In fact, they raised more questions than they answered and John seemed to just smile at him. He was being taunted and goaded, clearly. John was good at that.

Why though? Why would John do that? He wasn't asking for help, even if he might have been when Moriarty was after him. He was safe. Not only was he physically safe, he was mentally secure. John didn't strive to hide anything and Sherlock knew if he asked the right questions, he would easily know everything about The Man, about John. Those questions were complicated and likely, not even questions. Which was illogical, but not incorrect. John would clearly answer a statement.

What did he want? Sherlock suddenly realized how vulnerable he had set himself up to be. John could want anything, be anyone, and here he was in his flat, quietly whispering things in his ear to do things Sherlock wouldn't have even thought of doing before. He didn't like that. He didn't like people trying to control him. He didn't like not knowing. He didn't like people knowing he didn't know. He hated being used. He hated people using him.

He hated being abused by idiots that didn't understand! He hated being treated as if he didn't know what they said about and what those things meant. He hated people thinking he was a tool. He hated that people were so easily scared away. He hated that no one appreciated fully what he did. He hated that some people thought he needed to be protected. He hated that some people thought he needed to be attacked.

Sherlock swung the riding crop again and again in a violent frenzy. He was angry at John and everyone else, but John was the only one in his sights. He ran out of breath and paused in his assault of the little blonde man to catch his breath. It was only then did he suddenly realize that his mind had gone dormant. What was he doing? This was illogical. He could hit John all he wanted and it wouldn't actually gain him anything. Sherlock supposed that it was possible he felt minutely better. He pushed his hair back with his free hand and examined the quivering mass trying to collect his breath as well.

John's back was in ribbons. It was easy to see how he managed to collect so many scars now. There was something about John, Sherlock was swiftly coming to realize. Something that brought out the worst in everyone by giving them power.

"Are you okay?"

For a split second, Sherlock thought he'd spoken without realizing simply due to the backwards nature of the question. John was asking him if he was okay? John shifted a little, weakly bringing himself onto his knees and drawing his shoulders towards his chest to stretch the broken skin on his back. Beige eyes glanced at the taller male and Sherlock offered a curt, calm nod.

"Good." John sighed casually, placing his feet off the side of the bed with only a mild wince and using his shirt to dry off as much of his back as he could reach. "How do you feel, then?"

And then you'll feel so much better. So much calmer and collected.

Sherlock wasn't sure there was a clear answer to that. A tad unconvinced, if anything, and maybe a little annoyed for allowing himself to be sidetracked. John's question wasn't clear enough to know if that was the answer he was looking for, however. John seemed to understand this and went on.

"I mean, your brother did just rub your nose in your failure like a bad dog," he murmured nonchalantly. Sherlock wasn't all that bothered by it. That was new. He explored the feeling further in his own mind before coming to the conclusion that he didn't care all that much that Mycroft had, essentially, done just that. He'd come out the clear winner, but on any normal occasion, Sherlock knew he would have been bitter at his brother for a little bit longer. John chuckled lightheartedly.

"You did quite the job. I'm going to get cleaned off," the smaller man informed as he carefully picked up his discarded clothing. He plucked the piece of paper out of his trouser pocket and gladly handed the folded piece of paper over to Sherlock like a well deserved cheque.

"I obviously haven't had time to write anything else or change anything," John answered smugly. Sherlock watched him leave the room in nothing but his now slightly blood stained pants and waited for the sound of the bathroom sink running before unfolding the man's 'prediction'. As if anyone were actually possible of predicting anything about him.

Except one John Watson apparently.

One John Watson who was foreign and new to him. Sherlock was sure that even if he did try to pull out now, the hooks of interest John had so slyly thrown into him would only bring him crawling indignantly back. How tedious.

"Come help me put salve on, Sherlock."

Quite tedious.