Holy cow. We're already at chapter eight. I can't believe I've gotten here so fast. Regardless, here's the next installment. I hope you all enjoy. As always, leave me feedback through a comment or review. Also, if you have a prompt you'd like filled, feel free to drop it in my PM and I'll see what I can do. Cheers.
When John woke up the next day, Sherlock was gone, his side of the bed stone cold, almost as if he'd never been there in the first place. John sighed and went about getting ready for the day, frowning when he realized that Sherlock wasn't even in the flat. Checking his phone, his frown deepened when no messages were unread in his inbox. Searching the flat, John came up with no notes explaining Sherlock's absence. By the time noon rolled around, John was officially worried, and fired off a text to the missing detective. He received no reply.
Around dinner time, his phone pings with a half-hazard "he's fine, don't fret," message from Mycroft. It's barely enough to keep his rage from boiling over. John chose to go to bed early, tossing and turning, stifled with the sheets that still smell faintly of Sherlock. When he woke the next morning, John's mood was worse. He begrudgingly trudged his way into the clinic to catch up on his paperwork.
Two mornings after their last visit to Leather, John gets a call from Lestrade, summoning him to a crime scene. With a very large, very hot travel mug of coffee, his favorite cream cabled jumper, and his Browning tucked into the waistband of his jeans, John trekked across London as requested.
Donovan and Anderson parted away from Lestrade as soon as they saw him. It was one of the only times they made the smart choice, John mused as he greeted the Detective Inspector. He's briefed on the victim, a man in his late twenties or early thirties, murdered just like the other three. When he was given clearance, John made his way inside, his bad leg acting up from the stress.
John froze when he saw Sherlock bent over the body, his magnifying glass cradled between long, pale fingers. John's fingers twitched for his gun when those grey-green-blue eyes met his. John took a large swallow of his coffee before looking closer at the body. He smirked when he saw Sherlock shift awkwardly on his knees, his throat bobbing as he swallowed thickly.
The two men danced around each other, neither saying anything directly to each other. John didn't have to speak for Sherlock to know he was furious, he knew the detective could read it off of his every action and facial expression. John watched as Sherlock flitted away from the corpse, only pausing to relay his deductions to Lestrade. He watched as Sally smirked and opened her mouth, no doubt saying something offensive, and then John saw red as Sherlock exploded.
He marched across the crime scene and grabbed Sherlock by the back of his neck, pulling him sharply away from the scene. "I'll call you later, Lestrade," he said, sidestepping one of Sherlock's arms as it flailed towards him.
"Going to punish your little boyfriend, John?" Anderson called after them.
John dropped his hold on Sherlock and approached Anderson, his face deceptively calm, the corner of his mouth barely turned up. "I believe," he murmured, his voice eerily even, "that what I do with Sherlock, is none of your business, Anderson."
Anderson paled comically, Donovan looked impressed, and Lestrade looked shocked, his eyebrows shooting towards his hairline. He caught John's gaze and held it for a moment, a silent understanding passing between the two of them. Lestrade nodded once and turned his back, allowing John time alone with his team.
"He's a bit out of control though, isn't he?" Donovan asked, gesturing over to where Sherlock was standing still, watching them with wide eyes.
John's fingers twitched at his side, itching to wrap around the handle of his gun. He took a deep breath and turned to stare at Donovan, his gaze intense.
"I'd be out of control, too, if I had to deal with your endless commentary every time I tried to do my job, Donovan," John remarked.
Donovan took a step back and looked as if John had slapped her.
John narrowed his eyes at the pair of them and twisted his lips up in a ghost of a smile. "Now, if you'll both excuse me, I believe that Sherlock owes me quite the explanation as to why he disappeared for two days without a trace," he said, directing the second bit over his shoulder towards the detective. John stalked off without another word, wrapping his left hand tightly around Sherlock's right bicep as he caught up to him. John dragged Sherlock through the streets of London, walking the few miles back to Baker Street. When they returned to their flat, John shoved Sherlock unceremoniously inside, pushing him towards the couch as he pulls his gun from his waistband, setting it on the kitchen table.
The two men stared at each other for a few minutes, Sherlock looking guilty. A flush burned across Sherlock's cheeks, and the taller man looked away, focusing on the yellow spray paint marring the black damask wallpaper. "John, I-"
"Shut up, Sherlock," John interrupted. He sat down in his chair and bent over to untie his shoes. John knew he needed a moment so that he didn't strike his flatmate in anger. Never before had he been so angry with a submissive. John leaned back in his chair once his shoes were off and pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing in deeply and counting to ten before releasing his breath. When he opened his eyes, he was surprised to notice that Sherlock looked sheepish. "I believe," John murmured, "that we need to have a serious talk, Sherlock.
The detective nodded, not daring to speak before it was asked of him.
"Why did you disappear without telling me where you went?" John asked, crossing his arms against his chest. The two men stared at each other for a few moments before John realized that Sherlock was waiting for permission to answer. "You may speak," he said.
"I needed to think… without you around, John," Sherlock replied.
John frowned. "I would have given you space if you asked for it, Sherlock. But instead, you left for god knows where, and I was left here to worry about you."
"I'm sorry, John. Everything was just so overwhelming. I didn't know what to do, so I left," Sherlock said.
"What was so overwhelming?" John prodded.
Sherlock paled and looked away, staring at their coats hanging side by side beside the door.
"I expect an answer," John demanded. Sherlock turned to look at him, his expression pulling on John's heartstrings. The other man looked hopeless, and John decided then and there that he never wanted to see that look on Sherlock's face ever again.
"It's you, John," Sherlock whispered, dropping his gaze again. "You've surprised me, John, with this case."
"How so?" John asked.
"With everything. With your dominance, with your sexuality, with your knowledge and skill… John, you've done the impossible and made my mind quiet. Multiple times. Last night, it shut off completely. For me, it was both the most terrifying and amazing thing to experience, and when I woke this morning, I did not know how to deal with it," Sherlock said.
John was stunned into silence. He stared at Sherlock, his mouth gaping open. "And now?" he asked after a moment.
Sherlock flushed hotly. "And now, I'm not sure I'll ever be able to function without you to ground me ever again."
John swallowed and nodded, mulling his flatmate's words around in his mind. He didn't know when it happened, but somewhere between the beginning of the case and now, Sherlock had managed to worm his way into John's being. Never before had he been so enraptured with a partner and, truth be told, he was scared of what it meant. "I have a proposition," he said, resting his forearms across his knees.
Sherlock nodded, urging John to continue.
"For the remainder of this case, I will act as your dominant at all times. We will have rules, and you will obey them, or face the consequences. Once the case is solved, we can either extend the arrangement, change it to better fit us, or terminate it. Is that agreeable?" John said.
"Yes, John. That sounds...perfect," Sherlock agreed, leaning forward to mimic John's posture. He startled when John shot up from his chair, crossing the room to sink down in the empty spot beside Sherlock.
John pulls Sherlock to him and stretched out on the couch as best as he could. They stayed like that for an hour, discussing various limits and rules. In the end, they decided on a simple list: no leaving the flat without either telling the other first or leaving a note; experiments are only to take up half of the kitchen table and if they require refrigeration, are confined to the crisper drawer; no antagonizing Donovan or Anderson; and above all else, speak up if something is wrong.
Once everything was settled, John sat them up and pulled away from Sherlock. "You acted like a spoilt three year old at the crime scene today," he commented.
Sherlock paled and hung his head. "I know. I'm sorry, John," he replied.
"I think, this has earned a punishment, don't you, pet?" John asked, tilting Sherlock's chin up so he could look into his flatmate's ever-changing eyes.
Sherlock tensed, but nodded all the same. "And then I'll be forgiven?" Sherlock asked.
"By me, yes. By Anderson and Donovan, well, only time will tell," John replied.
Sherlock nodded. "So what's the verdict?"
John considered it for a moment before speaking. "Clothespegs and a spanking with the paddle. Come upstairs with me."
Together, the two climbed up the stairs, John having to pull Sherlock along a few times. When the door shut behind them, John carefully began removing Sherlock's clothes, easing buttons open and sliding each article of cloth off his partner's body. He folded everything and set Sherlock's clothes on his side table before fishing around for his bag of laundry things.
"Bend over the end of the bed for me, pet, arms at your sides. You'll get twenty clothes pegs and twenty paddles. You're to count each peg as it goes on, every swat from the paddle, and then the pegs again as they come off. Do you understand?" John instructed.
"Yes, Sir," Sherlock breathed, his shoulders tensing.
John stroked a hand between his shoulder blades and started in on the punishment. Over and over, he pinched the skin of Sherlock's back, sides, arms, and legs before working the clothespegs on. As instructed, Sherlock counted each one, whimpering and squirming between each addition. When all twenty clothespegs decorated Sherlock's body, John retrieved his paddle.
"How are you doing, pet?" he asked, rubbing his right hand over the unmarked flesh of Sherlock's arse.
"It hurts, John," Sherlock replied, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
"It's supposed to," John replied, rubbing his free hand over Sherlock's arse, steading him. "Now hold still, if you move, I'll miss and you'll hurt even more."
The first hit was rather mild, if you'd asked John. Sherlock, who counted out a breathless "one," would disagree. John worked as quickly as he could and paused just long enough between swats. He smiled as Sherlock counted, and rubbed his back when the detective's voice broke. After twenty, Sherlock's back glistened with a film of sweat, and John found it exceedingly difficult to refrain from bending over and licking it from the small of Sherlock's back…
John shook his head and put his paddle away before reaching for his bag of clothespins. "You've done so well, Sherlock. It's almost done," he murmured. One by one, John plucked the pieces of wood from Sherlock's body. He didn't like the way Sherlock seemed on the verge of tears, but he knew that punishment was necessary. He also knew that he could reward Sherlock for good behavior later.
After all the clothespins were back inside their bag, John eased Sherlock up and helped him get dressed. "You did so well for me, Sherlock. So well. I'm so proud. There's just one bit left, pet, and then all will be forgiven," John murmured, stroking through Sherlock's curls. He felt the detective tense in his arms, but he was relieved that he didn't pull away. "Now let's get you cleaned up and head back to Scotland Yard so you can apologize."
Sherlock followed him into the bathroom and straightened up while John passed a cool flannel over his face and the back of his neck. When John was convinced that Sherlock looked normal again, he set the flannel down and leaned into the shower, pulling out his bar of soap. "Sit on the toilet stool, pet," he said, gesturing for Sherlock to sit.
Sherlock did as he was told, watching quietly as John fumbled through their under-sink cupboard for something. He frowned when John stood up a moment later, a triumphant look on his face, holding one of his straight razors.
"We have to do something about that harsh mouth of yours, Sherlock," John said, holding the soap over the sink, the straight razor gliding over the top. Open your mouth, Sherlock," John ordered, abandoning his bar of soap for a good sized soap shard. Certainly John wouldn't do that, would he?
It seemed, Sherlock found out a moment later, that he would. John had placed the soap shard on his tongue and instructed him to close his mouth with the soap still inside. The soap, while it smelled lovely on John, tasted absolutely repulsive. He gagged around his mouthful, but did not spit it out. He'd already endured one punishment spanking tonight, and he was not keen on making it two.
"I hope that you will remember this next time you smart off to Donovan," John said, bending to place a kiss on Sherlock's forehead. Silently, he led Sherlock to the door, helped him put on his shoes and coat, and hailed them a cab. It seemed John was serious about apologizing, a feat Sherlock wasn't quite sure he was even capable of.
Half an hour later, Sherlock followed as John marched through the doors. The soap had dissolved about twenty minutes ago, but try as he might, he could not get the taste to leave his mouth. He swallowed thickly as John knocked on the door to Lestrade's office and felt his cheeks burn when he walked in to see Donovan and Anderson waiting for him. They were seated casually on twin chairs in front of Lestrade's desk, and Sherlock felt uncomfortable with four pairs of eyes staring at him. He turned and stared at John, hoping his expression would convey everything he was thinking.
"I believe Sherlock has something to say, don't you, Sherlock?" John asked, anchoring his hand on his flatmate's lower back. Sherlock seemed to sink into his touch, and John couldn't help but smile softly. He knew he'd probably be on the receiving end of countless looks and comments, especially from Lestrade, for the foreseeable future, but in the end, it was worth it; Sherlock was worth it.
"It has come to my attention," he started, turning to look at Lestrade, "that I have acted in a less than appropriate manner. I apologize for my misconduct and will attempt to hold my tongue in future instances."
The room was quiet, both Donovan and Anderson staring open mouthed at Sherlock. Lestrade chuckled quietly and stood up from his seat, crossing to approach Sherlock and John.
"Thank you for your apology, Sherlock. That was quite big of you," Lestrade said, offering his hand to the detective.
Sherlock took the offered hand with a small smile, shaking it firmly before dropping it. "You should really thank John. He was the one who pointed out my wrongdoings," he said.
"Good on you for keeping him in line, John," Lestrade commented, patting the doctor on the shoulder.
John smiled uncomfortably and took a step back. "Yes, well, he needs it sometimes," he said, shifting his weight to his left foot. "Now, please excuse us, but it's time for us to go home. Neither of us have had a decent meal in a while, and I'm knackered."
Sherlock followed John back to Baker Street, smiling at the doctor when he was settled into his favorite chair. "John?" he asked.
"Yes Sherlock?" John said, rubbing his tired face.
Sherlock crossed the floor and crouched in front of John's chair, leaning up to take the doctor's face in his hands. "Thank you for setting me straight."
John chuckled and bent down, kissing Sherlock's forehead. "I may be wrong, but I don't quite think you're straight, Sherlock," he murmured, a smile spread across his lips.
Sherlock laughed softly, his chest rumbling pleasantly. "I don't think I ever was," he commented, his eyebrows furrowing together for a moment.
"Regardless," John said, pausing to press another kiss to Sherlock's forehead. "I'm so very proud of you. You took your punishment so well. You've been such a good boy for me, pet, and good boys get rewards."
"Rewards?" Sherlock asked. "What kind?"
"Oh yes," John murmured. "Ask and I'll see what I can do."
Sherlock was quiet for a moment, no doubt working through a list of things he wanted. After a moment of comfortable silence, he licked his lips and looked up at John. "I think I'd like a kiss from you. A proper one."
Sherlock wasn't prepared for John to haul him half way into his lap and press his lips against his own, nor was he prepared for the gentle hand that tangled into his hair to position his mouth just right. However, it was the warm, fuzzy feeling in his chest that Sherlock was the least prepared for. He realized, between the press and slide of John's lips and tongue, that submission was not a weakness like he had originally thought; it was something beautiful, and he couldn't help but want more.