Holy Hiatus. I'm sorry it's taken so long to get the next installment up. It's finals week at my college, so I'm scrambling to get through all my papers and exams with high marks. The next installment will likely not be uploaded before I'm finished with my semester, (4 days from now), but should be up within a week. As always, please let me know what you think through a comment or a review.
To all who have been kind enough to leave reviews: Thank you. I'm so thrilled to know that you're all enjoying reading this, especially as I'm enjoying writing it! I hope you like this chapter! Cheers.
It would be a week before Sherlock and John could return to Leather. In the meantime, Sherlock had completely taken over their sitting room with various experiments and evidence to their case. Pictures of the victims were plastered over their far wall, the black damask hidden behind butchered bodies, blackened brand marks, and basic sketches of what John assumed was the killer. Sherlock had pinpointed her age and height, but nothing else added up.
"Her hair color changes, John. It's hard to pinpoint her DNA because the hair is so damaged!" Sherlock had said, curling up on the couch, turning to face the wall. He had been in what John had deemed a "black mood" for three days, and John was at a loss of what to do. It was only after Sherlock somehow managed to contaminate everything in their fridge (a few hours after John had returned home from Tesco's, arms laden with enough food to keep them fed for two weeks, mind you) that he dug out a few items from his fetish bag.
"Sherlock," he called, returning to their sitting room. "Kneel by my chair."
The detective turned his head and stared disbelievingly at his flatmate, no doubt attempting to deduce John. "I'm on a case," Sherlock huffed.
"I know. I've let you carry on for a while now, and I've had enough. So, I'm going to help you, and you are going to let me," John said, sitting in his chair. "Now come here and kneel. If I have to ask again, I'll get the paddle."
Begrudgingly, Sherlock rose from the couch and made his way to kneel beside John's chair. He pouted as John buckled the now familiar cuffs around his wrists, followed closely by John's dogtags being slipped over his head, the metal cool against his flushed skin.
"Close your eyes," John instructed, pulling a silk scarf from his lap.
Sherlock closed his eyes, his mouth falling open when John wrapped the scarf over his eyes, knotting it firmly in the back. "John, I don't see how this will help," he commented.
"You're going to tell me everything you know about the case, preferably in terms that I'll understand. You'll know when to start," John said.
The pair of noise-cancelling headphones are slipped over his ears a moment later, and Sherlock felt ridiculous. He waited a moment, taking time to collect his thoughts, and oh, finally he understood. Sherlock swallowed thickly and takes a deep, steadying breath. "The killer is twenty-five," he murmured. "She's naturally blonde, but has dyed her hair no less than three times to hide her identity. She has a cat and lives in central London, alone, with a landlord that's never around."
Sherlock jerked when John rested a warm hand on his shoulder, stroking the sliver of skin that was on display. After a moment, Sherlock smiled softly and continued. "She's petite, doesn't have a lot of strength as indicated by the ragged dismemberment. Likely a victim of rape, for it's doubtless she would be killing in cold blood. She picks men that look alike and all have been picked up at Leather, so I'm assuming they're all dominants. It's likely that they all resemble her rapist."
Sherlock paused again, his tongue peeking out to wet his slightly-chapped lips. "What concerns me," he murmured, "is that you fit her ideal profile, John. When we go back, we need to do something to get her interested in you."
John trailed his fingers up Sherlock's neck, resting his palms on the ear pads of his headphones. He pulled them off Sherlock slowly, bending down to kiss his head. "Brilliant," he whispered, reaching for the knot of the blindfold. "You are absolutely fantastic, Sherlock. So good for me."
Sherlock blinked rapidly, his eyes re-adjusting to the light as he basked in John's praise. "How do you want to get her attention?" Sherlock asked after a moment, turning his focused gaze to lock with John's.
"Well, people seemed to flock the last time we scened. Would you be adverse into another play session?" John asked.
Sherlock shook his head. "Whatever you think is best, John. You are obviously more well-versed in places like Leather than I am," he replied.
John smiled, the corner of his mouth twitching up, his eyes darkening. "Oh Sherlock, it'll be dangerous," John whispered, pulling the detective up so he could press a kiss to his neck.
"I'm counting on it," Sherlock murmured, his eyes fluttering shut again at the stimulation.
"I'm going to confuse your body, pet. Cross your wires and find your hotspots. And you're going to love it, won't you?" John said, nipping at Sherlock's earlobe.
Words failed Sherlock as his cock gave an interested lurch in his trousers. "John," he breathed, hands flying up, searching for purchase on John's back. The doctor's body was warm and hard under Sherlock's fingers, muscles rippling under his clothes and skin. He had known, obviously, that John was strong, but actually feeling those steely muscles sent Sherlock's mind reeling.
As he dragged his hands down between John's shoulder blades, Sherlock was overcome with the knowledge that, although he had about six inches in height over John, that the doctor could overpower him. Easily. The more Sherlock thought about it, the more he wanted it. "Please, John," he murmured, his voice uneven.
"Please, what?" John asked, pulling back to look over his flatmate. A light bulb seemed to light over his head as he took in Sherlock's flushed cheeks and lidded eyes. When he was greeted with the sight of the detective's very interested member, he smirked.
"More," Sherlock said, attempting to pull John down on the floor with him.
John chuckled and resisted, sinking back into his chair. "No, pet. I'm going to play with you tonight, and I want you wound up for me. You'll get your relief when I'm good and ready to give it to you, understood?" he said, rubbing a thumb over the side of Sherlock's face, tracing over his cheekbone.
Sherlock groaned in frustration, but nodded all the same. "Shall I get ready to go then?"
"Yes. Take a shower, and be very… thorough. I might be checking before we go to dinner," John replied. He took great pride when Sherlock flushed delicately before scurrying off to the bathroom. He heard the water pipes rattle as the shower turned on and rose from his chair. He needed to pack a few special things for their night out, and he wanted to surprise his flatmate.
When Sherlock emerged from the bathroom some twenty minutes later, skin flushed pink and still damp from his shower, John stopped him. "I take it you're all clean for me?" he asked, stepping close to the detective, hands gripping Sherlock's slim hips.
"Yes, John," he replied, eyes darting down to stare at John's hands.
"Well you better be after a twenty minute shower," John commented, leaning in to press a kiss to Sherlock's neck, nipping just over his pulsepoint. He grinned as his flatmate squirmed under his touch, grip on the towel wrapped around his hips faltering. John took a step back and let his eyes roam over Sherlock's body once more. "Come into the sitting room, it's time to put your cuffs on," he said, doubling back to his chair.
Sherlock tightened his grip on his towel and followed John. Even though he'd deny it, Sherlock loved the small ritual with John. He loved the way his hands, so steady and sure, gently wrapped the soft leather around his wrists. He loved the fact that he felt so connected to John, and the knowledge that the doctor would take care of him was overwhelming.
When John's dogtags settled just below his sternum, Sherlock basked in the feeling of belonging. Never in his life had he felt so entirely at home, so at peace. Never before had life seemed so worth living. Sherlock was dumbstruck when he realised it was all because of the reserved man sitting in a chair before him.
When the ritual with John was over, Sherlock quickly dressed and followed as John led the way from their flat. They had dinner at Angelo's, their waiter bringing out a candle, winking at Sherlock as he set it down. John ordered for the pair of them and they sat in comfortable silence, waiting for their food. John had worried that wearing the cuffs to a public, non BDSM-friendly environment would be too much for Sherlock, but the clever detective had once again surprised him.
After their brief afternoon session, Sherlock took comfort being led, even in public. He had briefly wondered if wearing his cuffs outside of their flat and Leather was going to be a problem, but the pride in John's eyes as he reached across the table to stroke over the supple leather took away any negative thoughts that roamed around in Sherlock's head. Sherlock loved that John knew just how to take care of him, and how it allowed him to focus easier on finding the murderer, but most of all, he loved the soft smile that would pull at John's lips when he had done something particularly pleasing.
They made small conversation after the arrival of their food, both men smiling and laughing between bites of pasta and sips of wine. "One glass, Sherlock," John had said, ordering off the menu. "It'll be enough to loosen you up for what I have planned." Sherlock's cheeks had burned pink at John's words, his mind concocting hundreds of scenarios, all staged at Leather. When Sherlock stood from the table to follow John out of the restaurant, he found himself covertly attempting to readjust his pants, attempting to lessen the pressure from his swollen cock. He found, with a grimace, that thinking of Mycroft helped a great deal.
Charlie approaches them the moment they've stepped through Leather's doors, Clarissa trailing beside him. "That was quite a scene you gave us the other night, Captain," he commented, offering his hand for John to shake.
"Thank you, we enjoyed ourselves, didn't we, Sherlock?" John replied, shaking the offered hand, his head turning to his flatmate.
"Very much so," Sherlock commented, smiling briefly at the memory. Sherlock knew, that even if he tried, he would never be able to delete the experience and memory from his mind palace. He shivered.
"Planning something for tonight, too?" Charlie asked, gesturing to the black duffle hauled across John's right shoulder.
"Oh yes. I'm introducing Sherlock to a few new things tonight. Might have a demonstration if enough people gather," John replied, winking. "Might need your help, actually, Charlie. All depends on when Sherlock wants his scene." John turned and looked at his flatmate, hand raising to rub at the back of his neck.
"Whenever you're ready, John. Now is as good as ever," he replied, fighting back the urge to shiver and lean into the doctor's touch.
"Eager little thing, isn't he?" Charlie huffed. "If he were mine, I'd teach him patience."
John bristled, his shoulders squaring a little more as his spine lengthened. "As it is, he's mine. And he's been patient since this morning, didn't even complain when I denied him."
Charlie frowned and shot Sherlock a sour look. "I see. Still, he's gagging for it, Johnny boy. Might as well indulge him, lest someone else snap him up."
"I'd like to see someone try," Sherlock said, his upper lip curling. He didn't have to look to know that John was smirking; he could feel the other man's pride radiating off him in nearly tangible waves.
Motioning for Sherlock to follow him, John walked towards the public play area, stopping to stand in front of a slightly slanted table. It's made of sturdy metal, and has a ledge at the lowest side. There are rings at each corner, raised off the table's surface by a sturdy rod. "Strip to your pants and get up there for me, pet," John ordered, setting his bag down beside his feet.
Unhurried, Sherlock stripped out of his clothing, taking care to fold each piece, depositing it with a small grimace on the ground beside John's bag. When he was down to his pants, he stepped up on the table and leaned backwards, hissing slightly when his heated flesh pressed against the cool metal.
"That's my good boy," John murmured, pulling out the rope from his bag. He made quick work of securing Sherlock in place, dropping a kiss into the detective's curls before slipping out of sight. He returned a few moments later and continued unpacking his tools of choice for the night. Frowning, Sherlock realised that he couldn't deduce why John had stepped away. Squirming against his bonds, Sherlock whined low in his throat, attracting John's attention.
"Shh," John hushed, stepping around to stroke a cold hand down Sherlock's face. "I'm right here, pet. Had to get something special for you."
Sherlock leaned into John's touch, his eyes fluttering shut. His moment of peace was short lived, however; his eyes snapping open and a gasp was ripped from his throat at the sudden trail of cold passing over his chest. Ice, his mind supplied. John is using an ice cube on you.
"How's that, pet?" John asked, trailing the ice across his sternum, allowing the water to puddle in the hollow of his throat.
Sherlock whimpered and squirmed, the icy puddles spilling down his chest, raising gooseflesh in their wake as they raced down across alabaster skin towards the waistband of his pants. "John," he breathed, wide eyes snapping to meet his partner's in disbelief.
John chuckled. "I like it when that big brain of yours shuts off, pet, when you can only focus on me," he murmured, gliding the piece of ice down across his nipples, lingering over the peaked nubs.
Sherlock moaned softly, his hips twitching in an attempt to find friction. John was making good on his promise from earlier that morning; even though they had just started their scene, he already felt that his wires were sufficiently crossed.
The ice continued to trail across Sherlock's body, leaving glistening pathways of skin behind as John moved the cube down his inner thigh, up across his neck, between his lips. Sherlock was making such beautiful, soft sounds, and John wanted more. With a smirk, he placed some ice chips every place he could find a dip or hollow on Sherlock's body, lapping at the melted water they left behind.
"As you can see, submissives can respond to more than just pain," John said, stepping to the side of the table, one hand resting on Sherlock's right thigh. "Some of them are incredibly responsive to what we call sensory play."
John stepped behind the table and took a moment to take in the small crowd of interested people flocked around the table. More than one submissive looked interested, and more than one dominant looked confused. Picking up a few more supplies, he stepped back into Sherlock's line of sight, holding up the two taper candles and a lighter.
"If you have any questions, feel free to ask," John said, lighting the candles one at a time before setting them down in a holder on the table. Grabbing another piece of ice, John continued rubbing it over Sherlock's flushed skin.
"Does he really like it?" a voice called out. John nipped at Sherlock's neck before stepping back and smirking when he met the gaze of the same woman who had previously challenged John's claim.
"Pet, why don't you answer her," he said, bending to lick a hot stripe with his tongue just behind the slide of the ice.
Sherlock answered the woman in the form of a deep moan, his back arching up, seeking more of John's touch.
"Sensation play can be incredibly effective, especially for those who are so in tune with their senses to begin with," John continued.
"What does that mean?" Charlie asked, stepping to the front of the group.
"Well," John said, placing the last piece of ice in Sherlock's mouth, "My partner here relies very heavily on his senses every day for his work. He's constantly thinking about what he's smelling, or how something feels against his skin. Sherlock responds well to sensation play because it anchors him in something vaguely familiar, even if he's not used to what I'm doing."
John stepped away and retrieved one of his candles from the holder, the wax just starting to drip down the side. Tilting it to it's side, John allowed a bead of the wax to fall on the inside of his right wrist, biting his lip as it burned briefly. "When using things like hot wax, always check the temperature on the inside of your wrist before pouring it on your partner," he said, turning to address his audience. "Sometimes, the wax gets too hot, and having second or third degree burns end your session prematurely isn't fun."
Turning back to Sherlock, he held the candle over his arm, tilting it ever so slightly. "Ready, pet?" he asked.
Sherlock bit his lip and nodded, squirming against his bonds.
John chuckled and tipped the candle further, a few drops of plum colored wax falling against Sherlock's skin. John smirked as Sherlock's eyes darkened. His partner was enjoying this, and John enjoyed making Sherlock squirm. It was delicious to see the detective all spread out and waiting for him. It was more delicious to see his skin littered with splotches of purple.
When the purple candle had run out of liquid wax, John exchanged it for his blue one, crossing dotted lines over Sherlock's chest and inner thighs, taking care to avoid spilling hot wax over his erection.
The room was silent save for the noises falling freely from Sherlock's mouth. "Please, John," he murmured, his head thrashing back and forth as his body bucked, searching for touch. "I'm so close."
John shook his head. "Not yet, pet. Not until you've earned it," he said, dragging his hand down Sherlock's wax-splattered chest, pausing at the top of his pants, silently asking for permission.
Sherlock moaned and nodded, sighing gratefully when John palmed his erection. "God, John, your hands," he breathed.
"Like that, do you?" John asked. He leaned in and pressed a kiss behind Sherlock's ear. "Deduce them, pet. Ever one of the petite women. Find the killer and you can cum," he whispered, voice barely loud enough for Sherlock to hear.
Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and the targeted the first petite woman, a blonde, in the back. She's the right height, he could tell even with her sitting on her partner's lap, but her hair was the wrong color, her sheer underwear proved that the carpet matched the drapes, so not the killer…
The second woman, a redhead, was standing just off to the side of the front row. Her hair was obviously dyed, (nobody naturally had that specific shade of cherry red, and her roots were growing in a mousy brown). A tall, blonde man stood beside her, hand wrapped firmly around the lead attached to the gaudy black collar wrapped around her throat. The collar and lead were well worn, easily five years old or more. So she's not the killer then, wouldn't dream of leaving her partner, and definitely wasn't strong enough to manage any sort of dismemberment…
Motion brought Sherlock's eyes back to Charlie and Clarissa. He watched as Charlie's hands work over her chest, pausing to release the globes of flesh from their leather confinement. His eyes are fixed at the dark mark that contrasts so strikingly against the pale skin of her left breast. He shuddered when he realised that he'd seen that mark before.
"John," he moaned, eyes flicking from Clarissa to search for John's gaze.
"Did you figure it out yet?" John whispered, leaning in to nip at Sherlock's neck, his palm rubbing agonizingly slowly across Sherlock's still covered cock.
"Yes," he hissed, grinding up into John's hand as best as he could.
"Then cum for me, pet. You've earned it," he growled, stroking his hand firmly against Sherlock's cock.
Sherlock's orgasm hit him like a freight train, the teasing and build up all releasing at once. His vision went grey and fuzzy, and he slumped back against the table when John took his hands away. He doesn't remember John untying him, or John helping him up. When Sherlock came back to his senses, he was in a small room curled up on a bed beside John, his head pillowed on John's sturdy chest.
"It's Clarissa," he said after a moment.
"Are you sure?" John asked, rubbing a hand up his flatmate's naked back.
"Positive. She had the brand on her," Sherlock replied, nodding into John's skin.
They laid there for a few long moments, John's hand rubbing any residual tension out of Sherlock's shoulders while he dozed. "Let's get you cleaned up, and then we'll go out and talk to Charlie, ok?" he asked, twisting to press a kiss to the top of Sherlock's head.
"Please," Sherlock replied, sitting up gingerly in the bed. He followed John into the bathroom and waited as he fussed with the shower taps. When John stepped away, Sherlock peeled off his pants and stepped under the warm spray, sighing contently as it trickled down his oversensitive body. John's hands were warm and steady as they passed over his chest, carefully flicking dried wax off.
"We need to warn Charlie," Sherlock said after his torso was clean. "If her previous patterns are anything to go by, her next murder would be this weekend."
John nodded and stepped back from the shower, wiping his hands on a clean bath towel. "And how do we do that? I don't even know where they are, anymore," John asked. "Besides, I want you to be sure it's her before we say anything. The last thing I need is for Charlie to be on my ass because he's convinced I want his girl."
"Well, her hair is dyed brown, her eyebrows are too light for that color to be natural. She's petite and fits the build we've profiled so far. While she's fairly strong, she's not strong enough to cut cleanly through muscle, bone, and sinew. And lastly, she was branded with the same mark all the victims were, clearly providing her motive for the murders," Sherlock softly rattled, shutting off the water.
"Okay," John said, his fingers ghosting over Sherlock's chest to check for any injuries. He stepped away once he was satisfied no lasting marks were hiding. Gently, John guided Sherlock back into the small bedroom. He pulled out the detective's trousers from the fetish bag and helped him into them, shimmying the dark slacks up pale thighs before buttoning the top and doing up the zip.
Sherlock's black buttondown was next, and John peppered kiss after kiss against Sherlock's chest as he did up the buttons one by one. When the detective was dressed, John placed a lingering kiss over his pulsepoint, hands resting on Sherlock's hips. "Come on," he murmured, lips ghosting across Sherlock's skin, "let's go have a drink."