Fair warning: bloodplay. Yes. Consensual cutting with knives and ingesting of blood. This picks up right where the last chapter left off.

Greg counted to thirty before he let go of the tie and allowed Sherlock to gasp for breath. God. He was beautiful like that. Face flushed, eyes wide, wearing Greg's rumpled tie, with red marks around his neck. How was Greg supposed to control himself?

"You bring out the worst in me, you know that?" Greg sighed before tangling his fingers in Sherlock's hair and yanking. "It's not fair. You push, and you push, and then when I break, I'm the one that feels guilty about it. Because what if I ruin that pretty face of yours? That would be quite the travesty… strip. Slowly."

Sherlock's fingers trembled slightly as he began to unbutton his grey shirt. There was an obvious erection straining against his trousers. The taller man shrugged out of the shirt and let it fall to the ground.

"Don't make a mess, whore. Fold it up nicely." Greg tapped Sherlock lightly on the cheek.

Sherlock reached for his shirt wordlessly, folded it, and placed it on the table. He loosed his belt buckle and pulled down the zip of his trousers.

He began to stand. Greg tugged on the tie, pulling him back down.

"Forgetting something?" The older man cocked an eyebrow.

Sherlock looked flustered for a moment—and my, was it a wonderful sight. Then his expression cleared. "May I stand so I can remove my trousers, sir?"

"Yes, you may," Greg smirked.

The younger man stood slowly, and Greg let go of the tie to allow him rise to his full height. He toed off his shoes, then slid his trousers down at a leisurely pace. He folded them and placed them on the table next to his shirt, along with his socks. Bastard wasn't wearing pants. His cock stood at full attention against his belly, the crown of it a dusky pink. Straining was the first word that came to mind. Gorgeous, was the second.

Greg leaned back in his chair, and just for a moment, he pondered the madness he'd somehow tumbled into.

"Bring me my handcuffs." He didn't raise the volume of his voice above that of normal speech. But he tried to put a weight into each word. It's how he talked to particularly rowdy criminals when they started whining or pleading in the back of his cruiser to let them know there was nothing they could do about the current situation, and they might as well accept it.

Sherlock turned on his heel, giving Greg a nice view of that gloriously lush arse, and stepped towards the coffee table. He bent at the waist to pick up the cuffs, all but shoving those wondrous globes of flesh in Greg's face.

Greg couldn't help himself. He reached out and smacked the right cheek, painting a light pinkness over it. He supposed Sherlock's pale skin might have its advantages. He showed color so easily.

The taller man jumped slightly at the contact. But he straightened up, turned, and held the handcuffs out.

Greg took them and slapped one of the cuffs around Sherlock's already presented wrist. He fancied that he felt the man shiver at the little click of the metal locking in place. He grabbed Sherlock's other arm roughly, and finished cuffing him. Oh, he did like the way it looked. Shiny metal around bony joints. Sherlock wearing nothing but Greg's tie, while the DI remained fully clothed.

It was indecent how hard Greg's cock had gotten.

Greg stood unhurriedly. Sherlock stared at him. Waiting. The DI wetted his lips, and began mentally reviewing all the utterly nasty things Sherlock had ever said to him over the phone.

Bruises were a big one. Choking as well. Those were easy… but Sherlock had also said he wanted to be cut. Perhaps Greg didn't possess Sherlock's intellect. But he was still a detective. Sherlock was a junkie. Pain released endorphins. Fear released adrenaline. Violent sex dropped a ridiculous blend of chemicals on the brain.

Really, it wasn't such a mystery why Sherlock wanted to be hurt.

"Stay," Greg commanded.

Then he walked towards Sherlock's kitchen. He opened several different drawers, hoping he wouldn't find any cocaine. It didn't take him long to locate the knives. He tested a few of them for sharpness, before deciding on a pairing knife, with a wooden handle, and a wicked edge. It was small, maneuverable, lovely in its own right.

He ran the blade under warm water, giving it a few swipes with the sponge sitting on the edge of the sink to make sure it was clean. Then he turned the water cold and let it run until the metal was near icy before he walked in measured steps back towards the living room. Sherlock swallowed hard, eyes fixed on Greg's hand.

The DI's heart was racing. Something, buried deep under the blanket of arousal, told him that this was wrong. He shouldn't hurt Sherlock. Shouldn't cut his skin open.

But god he wanted to.

Greg grabbed hold of the chain between Sherlock's wrists and tugged it, setting their course for the bedroom. Sherlock didn't struggle. He followed without so much as a hint of protest.

Once they crossed the threshold, Greg backed Sherlock up against the wall and ran the tip of the knife along one of his cheekbones. He applied enough pressure to leave a thin, red scratch, but not enough to really cut.

"Are you afraid?" Greg's tongue felt heavy. Brain foggy with lust. Damn. He needed to focus. Now was not the time to slip.

"No, sir," Sherlock kept perfectly still. His body taught as a bowstring.

"I am."

Greg trailed the tip of the knife down Sherlock's neck and pressed in to make the first cut on the pectoral muscle a few centimeters above the right nipple. There were two rapid intakes of breath as blood pooled along the small incision, collecting at the edge before the tension released, and the first red trickle began to meander down Sherlock's torso.

"Have you been tested recently?" Greg raised his eyebrows. "You are a junkie."

"I don't share needles if that's what you're implying. And I can assure you that I'm disease free."

"You didn't answer my question." Greg drew another line of red, this time up along the underside of Sherlock's ribcage. It was long, and a bit deeper. Sherlock hissed slightly.

"I was tested last week. The results are in the top drawer on the bedside table. I thought you might be interested them at some point, sir. Aren't I a good little pet?" Sherlock smirked.

Greg maintained a neutral expression as he trailed another cut, this time diagonally across Sherlock's abdomen. He watched it bleed for a moment before walking over to the bedside table in question and pulling open the drawer. There were indeed some official looking papers, stating that a Mr. Sherlock Holmes was perfectly clean.

"Kneel on the bed," he nodded towards the mattress.

Sherlock complied, kneeling so that he was facing Greg. His cock somehow looked even harder than before. Greg trailed his index finger across the cut under Sherlock's ribs, and the younger man winced. The DI then held his finger up to Sherlock's mouth.

"Lick it."

Jesus.

Sherlock's lips enveloped Greg's finger and his tongue swirled around it, licking off the blood. And then just sucking.

He couldn't take it. He pulled his hand away and shoved Sherlock onto his back. He set the knife aside carefully, and returned to the bedside table drawer for the tube of lubricant and the condom he'd spotted when he first opened it.

Sherlock had been getting ready for this. Of course he had. Greg squeezed some of the lubricant into his hand and kneeled at the edge of the bed, leaning forward to brush a slick finger between Sherlock's arse cheeks. The younger man squirmed slightly.

"You want me to fuck you." He circled Sherlock's entrance, teasing, but not quite pushing in. "I bet you're just aching for it, aren't you?"

"Yes, Sir," Sherlock moaned.

Greg pushed his finger in, past the tight ring of muscle, biting his lip at the way Sherlock constricted and then relaxed around him. He picked up the knife with his other hand and pressed the dull edge of it right under the crown of Sherlock's cock.

The taller man froze. His breathing quickened. Greg slid another finger inside him, even though he knew Sherlock wasn't ready, and began to slowly stroke Sherlock's cock with the flat edge of the blade—taking care not to cut him. Just to hint at it.

He scissored his fingers, stretching Sherlock, pressing all the way in to find that eager little bundle of nerves inside him. Tiny gasp. Slight squirm. There it was. He teased a third finger in, and Sherlock moaned unabashedly.

"What a greedy little cock slave. I bet you can't wait to be impaled." Greg meant to sound cruel, but he probably sounded more astonished than anything.

Because nobody saw Sherlock Holmes like this. The wanton, sweating, writhing creature underneath him was nothing like the brilliant and infuriating man that usually stormed about his crime scenes.

Greg withdrew his fingers, unzipped his trousers and pulled his prick out. He ripped the foil packet with his teeth and rolled the condom on.

He leaned over Sherlock, supporting himself with the blade still in his fist, making sure the sharp end was pointing away from them. He positioned himself and sank in.

The taller man let out a small cry when Greg's cock pressed into him. Greg paused to let him adjust, but Sherlock bucked back against him.

"Please, sir, I need more."

Greg didn't need telling twice. He sank further into Sherlock, shifting his weight onto his free arm so he could press the edge of the knife against Sherlock's throat.

"Is this what you want?"

"God, yes," Sherlock was nearly breathless.

Greg began to slowly thrust deeper into sherlock, applying as little pressure to the knife as he possibly could. The younger man stayed still, wary of the game they were playing. But god, he was so beautifully warm and tight. So tight it almost hurt. It was like fucking a virgin. A somehow filthy, slutty virgin that moaned obscenely and begged for more.

The best of both worlds.

Greg could feel Sherlock's prick rubbing against his stomach, leaving wet spots on the front of his shirt. Probably blood stains too. That seemed like a thing Greg should care about, but he really, really didn't.

He was fully seated in Sherlock's arse, and the resistance had lessened so that it no longer bordered on painful. He gradually picked up speed, until he reached a moderate pace that Sherlock seemed to like. The younger man's lips were parted, breath ragged. Every so often, Greg heard the clink of the handcuffs. Sherlock was struggling just to feel the restraint.

Greg angled upward and Sherlock let out a noise that could only be called animalistic.

"Oh fuck—oh please sir, right there. Harder."

The DI complied, but he also pressed the knife down slightly, enough to sting. "You don't tell me what to do."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't think you are."

He tossed the knife aside, because he didn't trust himself, and dipped down to bite Sherlock on the neck until he tasted blood. Sherlock arched up against his thrusts, trying to drive him deeper. Greg pulled back, grabbed Sherlock's right thigh, and positioned it over his own shoulder. This did two things. It pinned Sherlock in place, and it changed the angle enough to make him go almost entirely slack with pleasure as Greg began to hammer against his prostate.

"You're such a lovely little tart," Greg grunted, "you love being filled. Claimed. I'm going to fuck the come out of you."

Sherlock just whimpered. Greg took that as a good sign, and continued driving into him at a punishing pace. He could feel the younger man trembling. The DI ran his finger across the cut on Sherlock's abdomen, pressing into the narrow wound, causing the blood flow to increase. Sherlock's breath hitched.

"Sir!" His voice was suddenly urgent.

Greg could feel the tension in Sherlock's internal muscles. Gathering, tightening, before the imminent release.

"Oh god... Sir, please, I'm going to come."

"Wrong. Try again." Greg reached up for the end of the tie and pulled, choking Sherlock. He counted to twenty before releasing him. Sherlock's cheeks were a dark crimson, from the lack of air, and improper level of arousal.

"Please let me come, sir. I can't—I can't take it."

"You're taking it right now. You're taking every inch of my cock like a greedy little whore."

Greg paused for just a moment, and Sherlock let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob. When he began to thrust again, the poor man was almost frantic. Writhing around, like it was going to help anything.

"I need it so badly," it was almost a whisper, "master."

Ungh.

Greg barely kept himself from toppling over the edge. "All right. Come."

The DI began thrusting erratically. As deep and fast as possible. Sherlock let out a series of rapid little moans, and then he was clenching down around Greg. Every spasm caused a near white-out of pleasure. That was it. The heat coiled uncomfortably in Greg's stomach. Then the orgasm ripped through him. Wrecking him. He crashed and burned on the surge of dopamine and endorphins—emptying himself into the condom.

He barely managed to withdraw and roll off of Sherlock before collapsing on the bed.

Silence rang through the room. The only noise was their labored breathing.

"You're quite twisted." Greg could hear the barely repressed chuckle in Sherlock's voice.

"Like you're not."

"That was a compliment, Detective Inspector."

Greg didn't have the energy to come up with a reply. He peeled the condom off and tossed it in the rubbish bin that stood in the corner. Sherlock sat up and looked down at the hand cuffs. "The key is in the drawer, if you would be so kind."

"I should leave you like that," Greg smiled. But he managed to struggle to a seated position and unlock the cuffs. Sherlocks wrists were slightly red. Greg didn't want to think about the urge he suddenly had to see them raw and bloody.

The DI zipped up his trousers, and buttoned his jacket to mostly hide the blood stains on his shirt.

He was already halfway down the street before he realized he'd left his tie around Sherlock's neck.

Yep. Greg's not the only one who is twisted. I think I'm worse than both of them for writing this. At any rate, since these chapters are getting longer, and my other Fic is picking up momentum, I think we might have to drop back to weekly updates. Saturdays seem like a good day for it right? Right. I love you, smut friends.

xoxo