Here's the thing: I'm obscenely done with shool. I hate it, I am a the point where I want to throw my hands up and curl into a ball and die rather than make it to Friday (btw that's when I graduate), simply because of how bad it has been over the last few weeks. Absolute murder. So today I feel like whipping the shit out of Sherlock and making him beg. You with me? Good. Here we go.

Sherstrade ahead, lots of pain, binding, dub-con (but it's totally con) and orgasm delay/denial. Dom Greg, sub Sherlock (duh). Let's see what the DI can do.

Whipping Boy:

John sat in his chair silently, eyes following Sherlock around the flat as the eccentric man paced, growled, grumbled, tore at his hair, threw his jacket across the room, kicked a stack of magazines, and finally stomped into his room. He'd been having a hard time lately, god knows why, but he was not exactly inclined to tell the good doctor about it. So the good doctor simply sat, and waited. If the imbecile wanted to tell him what was wrong, he could. Or he could disappear, which t now looked like he was doing.

"Oi, where are you headed?" John called, craning his neck to watch Sherlock fish his shoe out from under the sofa where it had been thrust in a fit earlier. The detective smashed his foot into the leather and got up, swishing his Belstaff around his calves and trying the scarf a bit too tight as he fingered his mobile. He seemed to be contemplating something. Surprise.

"Out. I will be late, don't worry." Sherlock sounded oddly calm for how he was carrying on, and John made a face as he fetched a few of those scattered magazines, straightening the pile again before turning on the telly to relax. The flat was quiet after the final door slam that signaled Sherlock's departure. The doctor rolled his eyes and thought about going to see if he could coax a lady home.

The firm implantation of his arse in his red chair followed by a warm cuppa on his belly told him to stay put, and he did.

oOo

Knock knock knock. Lestrade had just managed to get home and kick his shoes off, and there went his door, now ringing madly. If it was that stupid sociopath again…he headed for the door and paused as the form behind the frosted glass made his blood boil. Sherlock had been a right prat lately, to the point where Lestrade actually hauled him of a scene and into a cab before he could punch him in the face a few times. He would have deserved it. Something was off, and Greg desperately wanted John to figure it out, but he didn't think that the good doctor was getting the same treatment at home that Greg had been getting on a scene.

Sherlock's usual penchant for making everyone hate him was getting worse by the day, and now Greg himself was having a hard time even looking at him. Since he'd gotten back, ever since that Reichenbach case he was…well he was ruder, more hostile. Different. Like he expected something but wasn't willing to tell anyone what it was.

"Lestrade, I can see you standing in the hall. Open the door." Greg rolled his eyes and made his way forward, glaring at the younger man for interrupting his time off.

"What Sherlock? Look I don't have any cases here. You'll have to wai—" he was cut off.

"I do not want a case, Greg I am here to see you for a different matter." The taller man shouldered into the dingy little flat, eyes cast anywhere but at the DI as he stood there with his hand still on the knob, incredulous. "Do you remember our deal so many years ago?" Sherlock was practically whispering now. Greg's mind reeled.

"Sherlock—" he began, getting interrupted again.

"I don't want to hear why we stopped or why we shouldn't start up again, Greg. You have nothing going right now and I need it. God, I need it so bad, I'm sure I've scared John away for good this time, I've been so irate. When he marries Mary it will be over, I won't be able to function. I need the distraction, Lestrade, please. I will beg…again…if you make me." Those pale eyes were locked on his own, pleading. Greg could see that saying no was not going to end well. He shifted his weight and thought for a second.

He had known Sherlock for a very long time. When he finally got the man off the drugs so many years ago…what was it, nearing ten now? No, closer to seven. Regardless, it had been his unwavering hand and the blows it delivered to Sherlock's pale skin that had made him listen, got him to quit the drugs and get straight again. And ever since they'd stopped he'd been feeding Sherlock cases and then helping John maintain the crazed idiot. When he'd disappeared, it had all gone to hell. John got depressed, Greg never stopped searching…and then John found Mary, and left Greg alone to deal with the worry. He'd gotten over it, while Greg never really had. And yet here the git was, begging to be beaten.

"Just one more time?" Greg asked. His own voice sounded strange. It was his body telling him that he didn't want to stop this time, even if Sherlock needed him to. It wouldn't stop, and he knew it. Sherlock opened his mouth but Greg interrupted. "No." He closed it again, looking startled. "If we do this again, it ends on my terms, and you have no safe word. I know what you can handle, and you deserve every drop of blood you lose because of this hell you continually put all of us though, but most of all me. We do not stop this time. If you need me to, I will move in when John leaves. But I can't get that far sunk in again with all this shit just for you to get bored, or to get a new flat mate that will distract you." He looked hard at the younger man and expected the rebuttal.

"But, John," Sherlock breathed, eyes getting a bit panicky.

"He'll accept that we're in a relationship and you know it. He doesn't need to know for a while. Just when he's gone and you're out more often. Then we'll tell him. Good?" Sherlock nodded, a bit dazed. He hadn't expected Lestrade to cave at all, let alone so easily. But he'd always been the only one to see Sherlock actually be weak, and so he had taken this begging transport system to him with the offer and the desperation. Luckily enough for him, Greg was just as desperate.

"Are we starting now?" the DI asked, taking a step back and looking at Sherlock a bit more focusedly. The younger man nodded, just once, and rather weakly. Oh, how he cowed in one-on-one interaction. Greg just ate it up. "Then strip and go kneel by my chair, pet. I've got some picking up to do." Sherlock strode across the flat, leaving his coat and suit jacket in a pile by the door. "Oi," Greg called. His boy froze mid-step, fingers on his shirt buttons. "I said I had to pick up, why would you think that you can leave a mess behind you? Hang those up and fold your clothes in a neat pile on the sofa, slut," Greg pointed to the coat and Sherlock stooped to get it, trembling slightly with anticipation and the fight to get his brain to deteriorate into sub-space so that this could work. He hung the coat and jacket on a peg, along with his scarf, and went back toward the living room, doing as he was asked.

It was like they'd never stopped, picking right back up to the old dynamic from seven years ago. As he finished his shirt and folded it neatly, hands drifting to work on is trousers, Sherlock looked up to see Greg leaning on the doorframe, watching intently. He'd always loved that perfect, marble skin. Seeing it slowly exposed after being covered up by wool and polyester for so long made his mouth water. Once naked, Sherlock kneeled with his hands on his thighs, flat like he was used to doing, back straight as a board and ready for orders. Greg marched forward and ran a hand through the younger man's hair, mussing it lightly and letting out a noise of approval for the longer texture. It had been much shorter when Sherlock had been more unpredictable, mostly because clipping it messily himself had been cheaper than the barber's and that was money he could use on drugs. Sherlock closed his eyes and waited.

The DI stopped and Sherlock felt the cool twist of leather around his long neck. It was his old collar, he could feel the familiar texture sliding over his skin, worn to the point of overuse in the past by the two of them taking things more seriously than they probably should have. The tag that dangled in front had Greg's name and address on it. He was still in the flat they'd started this in originally. The divorce proceedings had just begun when Sherlock had ramp[aged into his life earlier, and he'd be lying if at times it felt like he was taking out his frustration on the younger man, when he had lines of blood on his back and an arse so sore he could barely take a shower for want of the water touching his skin.

But it was all worth it, and what's more, Sherlock only ever begged to be beaten raw; he loved it more than anything. To get in that sub-space, to not have to think about anything… with a mind like his, that was an incredible feat. And only Greg had that kind of hold over him.

So Sherlock sat silently, fingers twitching every now and then out of boredom as he watched Greg tidy up his little flat a bit, stuffing coats into the closet, wiping down tables, putting dishes in the dishwasher…picking up beer cans. It was all so mundane, but he couldn't stop watching, because he was here. He'd succeeded, and soon, the fun would begin.

Forgetting himself (maybe a little on purpose) Sherlock rolled his shoulders a bit and yawned, making a low noise of frustrated boredom about half an hour after the clean-up started. This…this was what Greg was waiting for. He had never been able to beat Sherlock for no reason, and now at least he had one.

"Oh, sorry am I boring you, sir?" Greg asked, plating his hands on his hips and coming to stand directly in front of Sherlock. The younger man knew enough to keep his eyes on Greg's feet at least. He'd taken his shoes off and one tiny hold gave the detective a little peek of skin on the tip of Greg's second toe. He focused on it. Greg fisted a hand in his hair and pulled his face back. "Well?"

"No—no sir," Sherlock managed, trying in vain to avoid Greg's eyes. "I'm just—"

"You were just trying to provoke me." Lestrade spat. Sherlock flinched, forcing his hands to remain where they were. "Well, good job. Now I'm angry," Greg dragged Sherlock by his hair and collar, a hand fisted in each, into the bedroom a few feet away. There was a good ceiling hook in there; he'd need it soon. Sherlock whimpered when he was finally let go on the carpet, one hip and his knees red already from the carpet burn of being dragged over the low-pile. "Get on your feet," Lestrade growled, moving over to the closet slowly. Sherlock did as he was told, crossing his arms in front of him. His cock was already throbbing with interest as he watched Greg root around in the darkened space for a moment before flicking on the overhead light and coming forward with a length of rope, a gag, an anal hook with a bulb on the end the size of a Ping-Pong ball, and a flogger.

Greg manhandled the younger man until he was stood facing the bed and tied his arms wrist-to-elbow behind his back tightly, leaving no wiggle room. Sherlock gasped, forgetting how much he liked this part. He cock stood a bit more proudly now, totally interested in the proceedings. Once his arms were done and the gag wedged between his teeth and buckled tight, Greg laced the eye of the hook with the rope and held it in front of Sherlock for him to see.

"Think you can still handle this one?" he asked, rubbing a slicked up hand over the bulb. Sherlock winced as two fingers probed his entrance but nodded. If he couldn't handle that, then there was no way he could handle Greg's cock, and he fully intended to get that inside him today. He forced his back to relax as those two slicker fingers slid in slowly, twisting around for a moment before scissoring. He hissed against the gag, pushing his arse out a bit more for Greg to go faster. "You know," Sherlock rolled his eyes. He forgot that Greg was a talker in the bedroom. Tedious. He closed his eyes and focused on working back against those fingers, was it three now? "I have to admit, I'd much rather it be this way, where I can take you home and smack you around a bit after a case when you're acting so awful. Much more fun," Lestrade pulled his fingers away, swatting Sherlock on the arse hard as he whimpered and moved back to find them again. "You do love things in your arse, don't you love?" Sherlock nodded and groaned as the cold metal bulb was pressed against his entrance. "Shhh, relax," he did, and in it popped, the feeling not at all what he wanted in that moment as it seated deep inside, just past his prostate so he got no friction. Just there to hold him open for Greg to abuse later. The detective snorted and shifted his weight, trying to look as nonchalant as he could manage with a ball in his arse and an angry Dom behind him.

After licking up a trail of fire on his back, he felt his shoulder pressed down by Greg's hand until his face met the bed. He relaxed into it if only for a second before a whisper in the air and a perfunctory hand grazing over his skin told him that the thrashing was about to begin.

"Sherlock?" Greg caught his attention. He turned his head to the side and grunted questioningly. "Today we'll start with the flogger, get you nice and pink. You're not to come, at all. You understand? Not at all today. You've been awful to John and to myself for a while now, and you don't deserve it." Sherlock groaned and buried his face in the duvet but nodded. "What was that?" Greg asked, swatting his arse.

"Yes sir," he managed around the gag. The rubber was getting slick now, drool clinging the material of the duvet to his cheek a bit. Filthy.

"If I need to I have a cock ring. Can you manage without it?" the younger man squirmed and nodded. He hated that ring more than anything else. He'd rather Anderson—THWACK!

"Ah!" Sherlock cried, his back arching convex to tuck his arse up under him instinctively. He caught himself halfway, relaxing back into his original pose with ease so that Greg could continue.

"Oh, good boy," Greg purred, his fingers tracing the lines of the flogger as they dappled up that paper-white skin perfectly. "You sink back into it so instinctively. I miss it." To this Sherlock merely groaned and pushed his arse out again, seeking another blow. Greg happily obliged, striking Sherlock over and over until he was starting to shrink away once more, tenderness taking over the original pleasure. Sherlock's hands were fisted in his bonds, his balance only held up by the fact that Greg had pushed him up onto the mattress to his waist at one point because his knees were starting to cave. The DI reached forward and unsnapped the ball gag, reaching down to tug at the hook a bit and get Sherlock's attention again. He wasn't quite shut off, not yet. That mind was still whirring.

"Do we need to go deeper, boy? Do I need to find a nice cane or a riding crop and make your whole back ruddy? I can still fell you in there, Sherlock," Greg murmured, tapping the younger man's temple. Sherlock whimpered and tentatively thrust back into Greg's hips, grinding against the erection that had bloomed there during the flogging.

The older man dropped the flogger back into the toy box in his closet and reached behind the clothes for the bamboo cane pole that was leaning against the wall. He could feel the sub's eyes on him, the tension in the room growing to a palpable thickness. For once, Sherlock felt a bit scared at the imminent pain, but his mind slipped deeper into sub-space at the thought, so he didn't opt out, he didn't beg for mercy. He wouldn't have gotten it anyway.

Lestrade turned all muscle for the next few moves. He untied Sherlock's wrists and tugged him into a standing position. "Face me," he commanded, and Sherlock did, keeping himself from rubbing his forearms where the blood was returning, making the skin prickle. "Give me your hands," and they came to rest in his own. Greg suppressed a smile. "Why on earth can't you be this easy on a crime scene? You like showing off too much, eh?" Sherlock nodded meekly. "You're being awfully quiet tonight. Even for you," he murmured, coming close, squeezing in a bit tighter. He saw Sherlock prep for the kiss, and decided to hold out on him. Unbelievably, Sherlock actually whined at the hesitation, his need for contact wearing thin on his sub-space. Greg rolled his eyes so that Sherlock would see and tugged the taller man down to meet their lips in an agonizingly slow circuit of tongues. By the end of it, Sherlock's hands were clutching at Greg's where they had been held. The Di was shaking blood back into his arms, little by little, and the younger man sighed as they began to feel normal again.

"Now, Sherlock, I am going to have you turn around and hold the arms of the chair," Lestrade said, pushing Sherlock in the direction of an armchair in the corner under a reading lamp. Sherlock bent over it beautifully. "Gorgeous," Greg commented, sliding a hand down over Sherlock's unmarked back and down over the thin welts to his thigh. He felt more than saw Sherlock's smile and knew that the man loved to be complemented. For a person with such a prickly outer ego, he was certainly worse for wear in his own mind. He needed the constant attention, the compliments. They made him feel…safer? Maybe that wasn't the word, but it was at least partially true.

"How many, sir?" Sherlock prompted, startling Greg into remembering his cane and the lashing that needed to ensue. Oh, how he loved to break this man's skin, watch the red turn up just under the skin, ready for release. Sherlock would be healing for a solid week, he was sure. And John would notice, somehow…he'd just have to order Sherlock to wear clothing at all times at Baker Street.

"How many do you think you deserve for being so rude lately?" Greg asked in return. Sherlock looked back at the cane and thought, biting his full bottom lip. Greg stepped forward and claimed the soft flesh, sucking it into his mouth and biting down slightly, enough to raise the blood and swell it up a bit. When he straightened again, Sherlock had his number.

"Seven," he muttered. His lisp was getting bad, and Greg took it as their usual marker that he needed to hurry the fuck up and do this so he could bury himself inside the younger man and watch him scream. Because he wasn't allowed to come. Regardless the DI nodded, recognizing the significance, and took up the cane, moving it over to where Sherlock still bent and placing the wood between his teeth so that it held out like a bit. Sherlock held it there perfectly as Greg tugged the hook out of his arse and ran cool, lube-slicked fingers over his arse gently before letting the hook clatter to the floor with the last of the rope. He unceremoniously stuck two fingers in the tight heat, making the younger man hiss around the cane, probably biting deep gouges into it.

"If you mark-up that cane you'll get another lash for each divot," he commented, and saw Sherlock's jaw release instantly. Silly boy, thought he was sneaky. Greg pulled his fingers out and held his hand under the cane, waiting for Sherlock to drop it into his palm.

"Now, Sherlock, I am going to hit you, and for every line I want you to count, thank me, and ask for the next number, understand?" Sherlock nodded, stretching his long legs out a bit wider so that he had a firmer stance. This was going to be no picnic. "Actually, put your knees on the cushion and your hips up against the back, yes like that. Now, rear back, hands behind your head…that's the ticket. These'll land here," he tapped the tip of the cane between Sherlock's shoulder blades jutting out of the thin man like wings and he shuddered. "Steady," Greg reprimanded. He took a step back.

Sherlock was now kneeling on the chair, his cock being teased by the soft suede material as he held his swaying position and held his hands behind his head, burying them in his own curls. The younger man heard the whistle and tensed slightly, letting the crack of pain rush the air out of his lungs better than any high he'd ever had. His back arched impressively, a cry ripping from his lungs before he could catch it. He felt the blood pooling beneath the surface and groaned, remembering his script.

"Ah, fuck…one sir, thank you. May I have another?" he asked, fumbling over the words with his stupid lisp. Every time Greg really got him going it started cropping up agai—aah!

"FUCK!...oh..gah—shit, two, thank you sir may I have another?" he asked again. He felt Greg's chuckle grace the air and a tentative finger come forward to brush a stray tiny drop of something hot off his scapula. Greg brought the tiny grace of blood round and had him lick his finger clean before he would continue. This time, Sherlock put his head down.

"Stay with me, Sherlock, don't get caught up in your head. The mind palace is for work, not play, understood?" Greg demanded, jabbing a searing hot line of skin as he commanded this. Sherlock whimpered and nodded. "Yes sir," he whispered. The third crack came down shortly thereafter. Four screaming rants later, Sherlock was a trembling mass of nerves and staved-off orgasm. He knew that he was going to come without permission, and he hated it. But he would not tell Greg, because that hateful rubber ring was just tormenting him, and he knew that Greg anticipated that he'd fail his first command of the day, but he just couldn't make himself give a fuck about it. It was his first time getting human contact since they'd ended it last time, and seven years is a long time to go with no orgasms coming from other stimuli than your own begrudging hand.

Greg let the cane clatter to the floor near the hook as he caught Sherlock's fall backward toward the floor. He was so far gone, he couldn't even make his muscles obey correctly. "Whoa, hey do I need to stop? Sherlock?" he asked frantically, slapping Sherlock's face lightly to get an answer out of him fast. The younger man shook his head and begged.

"NO! No, I just…it's been a while, sir, I wasn't quite prepared to go that far yet. I'm sorry for not warning you," he hung his head and let Greg carry him to the wide bed. The duvet was cool against his heated back and arse, making him sink into it even more.

"I'm going to fuck you, slow and gentle, and then you're going to lay here and let me clean you up like a good boy. I want you to stay, Sherlock. Can you tell John? Just so he doesn't worry." Greg smiled and gave him a tender kiss when Sherlock nodded. He went out into the living room and got the mobile, seeing a missed call from the mother hen himself. Sherlock snorted when he saw the responding text.

Why are you not at Bart's? Or anywhere normal? Greg's not answering either. Just tell me you're okay, please.

He tapped out a reply and set the phone on the bedside table, wriggling into the bed for Greg to crawl on top of him comfortably.

I'm at Greg's. Do not come here, I am fine. I'll be home in the morning. His phone buzzed a minute later, but the two men ignored it as their tongues battled gently in the space of Sherlock's wonderful mouth, he would never tire of these perfect lips, the DI thought, mindlessly trailing his tongue down over that long, pale neck to nip at a collar bone.

Sherlock spread his legs a bit wider, letting Greg settle between them as he sucked on the two fingers that the Di stuck in his mouth, getting them good and wet. "Please sir," he mumbled around the digits, getting some drool on his cheek.

"What is it, beautiful boy?" Lestrade asked, trailing kisses alternating with sharp bites all over the younger man's torso.

"If you don't want me to come, then I need to suck you off. I'm so close already," he blushed, letting out the secret he'd intended to manipulate.

"Well, you were good for telling me, weren't you?" Sherlock nodded, blushing still. "Then I suppose I can let you come. I've taken quite a lot out of you tonight, anyway," he laughed when long pale arms wrapped around his neck, tugging him down for a kiss with a hurried cry of thankyousir! "Now, wrap your leg around—that's it, good boy. You remember," he cooed, lining up his cock with the already-prepped hole of his sub. He sank in slow, like he had said, inch by inch until he felt himself bottom out, a thick cry echoing the room as Sherlock's body gave, letting him in deeper than fingers had gotten in a good long while.

"Please," Sherlock begged, tilting his hips a little and trying to get Greg to move a bit faster. He wasn't having it. He closed a hand firmly around Sherlock's throat and held fast, drawing out slowly as he'd gone in, and right back in again. It was tortuous, sure, but it wasn't driving the detective any less insane. He could feel Sherlock's body already convulsing around his thickness, trying to milk his prostate for all it was worth. A few choice drags of cock here and there did the trick, and between the asphyxiation and the stimulation Sherlock was erupting across both their chests. He whited out for a minute, so Greg drew out and rammed in a few times, getting himself off after a few minutes of this while he had the lovely and perfect body of an intellectual demigod pinned beneath him.

Sherlock came to a few minutes later, as Greg was drawing out and going to fetch a flannel from the bathroom for cleanup. As he was wiping down Sherlock, getting the come out of his shallow bellybutton and over his prominent ribs, the younger man closed a long hand over his wrist, looking at him directly for the first intentional time that night. "Thank you, Greg," he said, and let his eyes close. "I think that you would be a lovely installment at baker street, in the future," he added, letting his mind turn back on as he reached for the message from John and read it, a light smile playing over his lips at the grumbled (he's sure) "okay."

He rolled in the bed and got to where he was not in a wet spot, curled up with his back to Greg, the soft hair from his wide chest playing with his sensitized back so perfectly. He was asleep in minutes. Greg held out a tad longer, rubbing his lips over the knot of Sherlock's bony shoulder as he thought about what he'd signed back up for. It was a wild ride, to be sure, but you can hardly blame him for jumping back in line, right?