A/N: Disclaimer etc., see first chapter.

Chapter Two: Domination

"I want to put myself absolutely at your mercy for good or evil without any condition, without any limit to your power."( Leopold von Sacher-Masoch)

He's gone. Misses Hudson stares at the broken plates, shocked by John's behaviour. She wouldn't have been shocked if it had been me, of course.

"Sherlock, dear. What have you done now?"

What have I done? Well, let's state it simple:

"Every action causes a reaction, Misses Hudson", I reply calmly. "That's a physical law."

She shakes her head, the good, poor Misses Hudson – I bet she never thought I'd be that much trouble – and says: "I am not going to help you clean up that mess."

And she goes down.

Silence, finally.

I stand up, ignoring the mess on the floor, and walk over to the couch. Normally, I lie there, when I am thinking, tired of the world outside.

But to lie down is not an option for today; neither will it be an option for tomorrow. That one yesterday had a good grip on the whip.

I know of course where John is heading. He's heading to her, like he always does on these occasions. He will ring her doorbell and she will lead him in. And then he will complain about my bad behaviour, without respecting my privacy and then they will end up in her bed (not on the couch, John's an honourable man). He will be tender and caring and she will be whispering stupid love quotes and clasp him in her arms.

That's what people call "making love". It's not what I do. It's not what I need.

He isn't completely wrong, after all. Moriarty is involved in all this, but in a way he would not imagine. It's not a coincidence that it all started right after the events at the pool. In my life, there is no coincidence. It's all logic.

I remember that night, remember it very well. I remember all the tones and grimaces of Moriarty, but they are not important. Important is only the moment when he walked in, the bomb under his jacket.

I was taken aback in that moment. Taken aback by a sudden flash of anger that seemed to burn my whole body. How could he have been so stupid?

He is a soldier, after all.

And still, I didn't know what this anger meant. Moriarty knew it, of course. He had known it from the start, I believe.

But I couldn't see it.

I was blinded by the wish to slap him in the face, ask him why he couldn't watch his steps for one single time.

As I was ripping the bomb off him, I was very, very close to rip the rest of his clothes down in the same time, pin him down to the floor and take him right there, no matter how much he would have fought me. And he would have, of course. But I wouldn't have mattered. I would have laid my hands onto his shoulders, to keep him down. I wouldn't have wasted any time with caresses or tender words. I would just have nailed him down to the ground, moaning his name from the bitter beginning to the bitter end.

But none of this happened.

Instead, I strolled around with the weapon in my hand, totally unable to get a single clear thought for minutes, speaking stupid lines.

But I understood, then. I understood what Moriarty had meant when he had said he would burn the heart out of me. I understood why I felt the urgent wish to dominate him right there, even against his will.

I would have done it until now, a dozen times, if I hadn't found another outlet. Every day I feel close to it, I go out, down the streets and to the stations. I always choose men with a complete different physical appearance and I always choose the ones who are so high on drugs they wouldn't think about anything.

They always do what I want. I give him the whip, then undress and get down on the floor. I tell them to hit hard (seldom I have to advise them to hit harder) and none of them refuses. None of them cares about my screams. None of them really hears them. I need to muffle my screams.

The walls are thin.

He shall not hear his name.

When I've had enough with the whip, I redress. I order them to be silent, then offer them something to drink.

I will drink in a standing position, of course.

I don't need them to fuck me. The humiliation with the whip is enough for me, enough domination. Until now, at least. They will leave a little later and my thoughts will be cleared. The images of me taking him will have vanished.

The images of me making love to him will remain.

But they aren't dangerous.

The intervals are getting shorter. It worries me sometimes, but then I tell myself that there is always someone at the stations who is willing to come with me.

And yet, there might be the day when it won't be enough.

Moriarty would be the final solution.

There is sexual tension between us, but it's only coming from him. He wants to beat me, intellectually, emotionally, sexually. Simply in every possible way.

If I went off for him, he'd show me domination in its purest form.

I wouldn't think off dominating John afterwards.

I wouldn't think off making love to him as well.

He is worried about me. John. And he is angry, of course, because he doesn't understand. He doesn't understand I do it all for him.

He made me laugh.

That, exactly, was the critical point. Though I didn't deduce it then, I have deduced it now.

I laughed. Honestly, openly, like all those ordinary people do day by day.

I am smiling now, just by the thought of it.

How could he make me laugh?

No, I was never really searching a flatmate because I couldn't afford the flat. It was an experiment, actually. I was up to study the relationship between flatmates. It could have been useful, someday. You never know.

And then, all of a sudden, I caught myself laughing. Laughing because of an ordinary joke that shouldn't have amused me.

I didn't see it. I was blinded by my own genius, my own idea of this experiment, too blinded to see that the experiment was going out of line.

I should have seen it as Lestrade was searching our flat for drugs and I told him to shut up.

I didn't worry about Lestrade. I worried about him, about his opinion of me if he knew I had been a little addicted (out of boredom, of course).

I could feel his disappointment as I did. And it hurt. God damnit, it hurt!

I should have realised it with the milk, at least.

I never go and buy real food. I have my dinners on the way. I don't waste time with cooking. I don't eat breakfast. I don't seriously need milk.

But I said yes. Not to distract him, as it may have seemed. I was really wanting to. Wanting to buy stupid milk, just to do him a favour. Just to see him smile, to see those soft eyes shine with happiness because he would have believed he'd finally achieved something.

He's an idiot.

He's achieved so much more he bargained for, more than I bargained for. The experiment is out of control.

I need the whip. I am seeking absolution in the whip, but I'll never receive it. My absolution is him.

(So, here we have it, the second point of view. Shall we continue with the third, the tender one?)