Please come home, John. SH

Back to asking politely. This isn't going over nearly as smooth as I'd hoped.

Sherlock had been sitting in the flat waiting for John since he'd ran away. The detective had been laying on the sofa, hands steepled under his chin, for almost the entire time. Really, the only time he moved was to text John and read the responses. Sherlock's mobile buzzed in between his hands.

I'll be there soon. JW

Good. Oh, John.. When will you start to play the game with me?

With a victorious sigh, Sherlock wandered back to his mind palace, back to the room marked DR. JOHN WATSON. He took a deep inhale and a strange feeling - content, I assume - washed over him. There was a bookshelf on the left side of the room. Half of the books were John's blog entries, new ones appearing every so often. A sofa sat just next to it against the adjacent wall. The upholstery was like a patchwork of different fabrics that made up John's jumper collection.

"Sentiment," Sherlock said aloud. "Never did I imagine feeling such a pointless emotion."

He sighed and grabbed a book from the shelf. A Strange Meeting, the blog entry of their first encounter. The checked pattern of the shirt John wore that day covered the front and back. The spine was the dark blue of his coat. Sentiment. He sat himself on the sofa and read the words that his flatmate had written about him.

'…Somehow he knew everything about me. He knew I'd served in Afghanistan and he knew I'd be invalided. He said my wound was psychosomatic so he didn't get everything right but he even knew why I was there, despite the fact that Mike hadn't told him..'

"Definitely psychosomatic," Sherlock said.

'It's mad. I think he might be mad. He was certainly arrogant and really quite rude and he looks about 12 and he's clearly a bit public school and, yes, I definitely think he might be mad but he was also strangely likable. He was charming. It really was all just a bit strange.

So tomorrow, we're off to look at a flat. Me and the madman. Me and Sherlock Holmes.'

It always seemed rather wonderful how well their names went together. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock and John. The detective and his doctor.

He liked to read this particular book. It reminded him of his own initial reactions to John. Seeing the now familiar face for the first time.

It was also remarkable how much they had changed each other. John had seemed to accept his own tedious life by the time Sherlock strolled into it. Now, John can get almost as antsy without a case as Sherlock does. The detective used to spend his time alone, isolated. He'd manipulate whomever he wished, whenever he saw it fitting. Once John limped into his life, that .. Well, that didn't change all too much. But, here Sherlock was.. Wading in a pool of sentiment, however shallow the pool may be.

Like the sound of a PA system, John's voice echoed in the room.

"Sherlock, are you asleep or just out of it?"

"Mind Palace," Sherlock said, opening his eyes and sitting up. His eyes fixed on John, who had apparently been home long enough to change into his pajamas and robe.

"Right. And, what was so urgent that I had to come home?"

"I wanted to make sure that I didn't scare you off for good. But, you came back, so I guess it couldn't have been that bad."

"Sherlock, will you do me a favor?"

"Unlikely, but what is it?"

John walked into the kitchen and grabbed a chair from the table, bringing it back to the sitting area.

"Sit," John demanded, in a commanding tone.

"What?"

"Sit in the chair, Sherlock. Actually, straddle the chair. Face the back of it."

"I don't understand what this is."

"This is me giving you an order."

It must have just been Sherlock's curiosity for where this would lead that made him get up and sit on the chair.

"Now, listen to me, Sherlock," John said. "I know that you get overwhelmed-"

"I don't get overwhelmed, John."

John grabbed Sherlock by the back of his neck.

"I didn't say you could speak yet." John released him. "Since you get overwhelmed when you're touched, I'll give you the option of unbuttoning your shirt yourself. Otherwise, I'm going to do it. Which would you like?"

"You can do it, John. I don't get that overwhelmed."

"Good," he said as he stepped behind Sherlock. John put his own head next to Sherlock's and wrapped his arms around to the buttons on his tight, white shirt. As he began to slip them undone, John also started to nip at Sherlock's neck. He gave small bites all the way up from his shoulder to just below his ear.

Sherlock's exhale had more of a shudder than he anticipated. He felt John smirk against his neck.

"Like that, do you?" John asked, clearly amused.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Well, the transport obviously seems to."

"Right. Just the transport," he said before licking up his neck. Sherlock bit back another breath and sat up straighter.

"John, I think the unbuttoning would go faster if your hands were still on them and not slipping under the shirt."

"And I think that if you keep acting like that, you may regret it."

"Why would I regret it?"

John's hands went back to the buttons and released the rest of them. He practically tore the shirt off of Sherlock. As he nipped on his shoulder, John raked his fingers down Sherlock's chest before removing himself.

"I must thank you, Sherlock," John said.

"And why's that?"

"You gave me an awful lot of ideas."

There was a strange sound - cloth running against cloth, not that strange - from behind him.

"Put your hands together in front of you."

Sherlock's hands intertwined on the other side of the backrest.

"Good," John said, moving in front of Sherlock. He was holding the belt from his robe, and began to tie Sherlock's hands together. "Where is it?"

"Where is what?"

"The whip."

"Where you left it in your haste."

John smirked and walked to the kitchen. Sherlock turned his head in time to see John pick the whip up. He stood there with it, looking it over more carefully than he had a couple hours ago.

He's taken a liking to it. Although, he plans to use it on me. Not that I mind it on my skin, but I was supposed to use it on him. This isn't going according to plan at all. How did I not see this one coming?

John turned and walked back to Sherlock's waiting skin.

"A present you clearly intended to use on me. How do you feel about it being used against you?"

"Not too bad."

John dragged the tendrils of leather over Sherlock's back. It sent an electric jolt up and down the detective's body.

"How is that?"

"It's fine," Sherlock said, though he wasn't entirely sure.

The whip was separated from his skin for a second or two before it collided with his skin with a rather loud slapping sound. Sherlock inhaled quickly and breathed out slowly to avoid making any unnecessary noise.

John whipped him again, harder than before. An unexpected, low rumble came from Sherlock's throat.

"You're starting to get a bit red."

"That would be a normal reaction, John."

John's hand came from behind and grabbed Sherlock by the throat - loosely, not choking.

"Didn't I tell you that you'd regret it if you kept acting like that?"

"You did."

John's hand squeezed a bit and he brought his mouth to Sherlock's ear.

"Then I guess I'll have to make you regret it, won't I?"

"You can try, but I wouldn't get my hopes up if I were you."

John moved his head and stepped to the side, keeping his hand on Sherlock's throat. He squeezed it a bit harder and brought the whip down across his back again, causing Sherlock to arch his spine forward and let out another shuddered breath. Whether the shudder was from pleasure or the pressure on his throat, the detective couldn't tell. In quick succession, John collided the whip to Sherlock's back multiple times. Sherlock released a low, rumbling growl that was hardly human.

Sherlock heard the whip hit the floor as John released his throat and walked in front of him. He ran a hand over his face and through his hair. The sensation of contact on his scalp was electrifying. John's hand curled into a fist in Sherlock's hair, and the doctor leaned in and gave Sherlock the roughest kiss he'd ever received. It was assertive, dominating, and unrestrained. And with a nip of Sherlock's bottom lip, John moved away again. The detective was taken aback by it.

"John," Sherlock started.

"Shut up, Sherlock," the doctor replied.

John untied him and walked quickly to his own bedroom, taking the robe belt with him and not looking back.

Why would he leave? Surely I didn't do anything this time.

It must have scared him.

Oh..

John is finally playing the game.