They've sat in silence for about two hours, the cane resting peacefully between them on the coffee table. The sun was slowly setting outside and John held the irrational and absurd hope, that darkness would make the whole thing way less awkward. He soon came to realize that being about to spank your flatmate with a cane he gave to you as a birthday present would probably always rise awkward feelings in most people and especially in him – Mr. "not gay" himself.

"What does it do to you?"

"Well, it hurts, if done correctly."

"I know. What I care about is – what does getting hurt do to you? Do you simply get off on it?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John. I wouldn't participate in this kind of action for the pleasure of physical satisfaction alone. It helps me think. Most of the time it's like a spring-cleaning for my mind palace."

"Is it important to you who hurts you? Or could anybody do it?"

"I have to trust the person in some way. And it happens you're the second person I've ever met whom I'd trust with this matter."

"Who was the first one?"

"Mycroft."

"Oh. I see."

Silence filled the room for the second time when John's thoughts drifted off, imagining Mycroft hitting and spanking a younger version of Sherlock. It was a rather disturbing image.

"Please don't think about it."

"Are you reading my mind now as well?"

"Just... just tell me whether you're in or not."

"How about sex?"

"I don't need it, if you don't want to."

"So I'll just spank you and that's it?"

"Do you want to have sex with me?"

"Christ, Sherlock. I don't know. Honestly, I have no idea what we're doing here."

"Discussing how you would like to spank me and what it includes – at least that's what I have in mind now."

"Do you consider yourself as a plain masochist or are you submissive as well?"

"Both. With the right person, of course."

"And you think I would be the right person?"

"Definitely."

It had an almost ironic touch when John suddenly fell into Sherlock's usual thinking-pose: his fingers steepled in front of his face, the gaze drifting off into the distance.

Living with Sherlock had always been far away from anything he would consider as normal and boundaries usually meant nothing to the lanky detective. But John knew, crossing this line meant there was no going back. It wasn't something you could ignore later on.

"I see. So it shall be."

"What do you...?"

John rose to his feet with his gaze fixed on Sherlock's eyes. The last chance to call the whole thing off, to regard it as a joke and eventually tell the whole story drunkenly on a Christmas party. He could almost hear the conversation in his head. 'Ah, do you... do you remember Sherlock? The one time we almost shagged each other?', followed by giggles.

He gathered all his strength before taking the cane and turning into the direction of the stairs.

"I will go to my room now, Sherlock. If you're absolutely sure you want this – and I tell you, you need to be as sure as it gets – you will take a shower now and then come to me. You may still wear your pants but that's it. If you won't come, I will forget the whole thing, we won't speak about it again."

Almost reaching the first step of the stairs, he turned around one last time.

"You've got 15 minutes."

Sherlock rushed into the shower, all kinds of thoughts popping up in his head. There was no need to be nervous, he told himself. Just a favour he asked from his best (and only) friend. He needed something, John was willing to give it. So why did his hands tremble slightly, when he turned on the water?

Internally he was counting the seconds he took for showering, washing his hair, picking the right pants (he went for plain black ones) and leaving for John's room. There was no need to have a look at the clock in their shared living room for Sherlock knew for sure there were exactly 13 minutes and 47 seconds gone since John took the stairs to his room.

Still musing over all the things that could possibly go wrong - which weren't too many as he saw it – Sherlock took two steps at a time, not wanting to wait any longer. His mind palace really needed to be cleaned...

Insecurity spread in John's stomach after he made himself comfortable on top of the covers of his bed. Had Sherlock really meant what he said? Did his flatmate think the whole story through at all? Or was it another of his experiments after all – just testing what he could John to do, how far he could push his borders?

John chewed on his lower lip, his grip still tight on the cane. There was no need in denying all the definitely gay thoughts he had in the last couple of years. To be fair Sherlock didn't make it easy for him to ignore his slightly bisexual side with his dancing around the flat, dressed in only a sheet or - which was even worse - in one of those tight shirts.

More than 13 minutes have passed when John glanced at his watch for the first time. He had heard the shower being turned on and off, but maybe Sherlock had made up his mind afterwards, the idea washed away by hot water and soap.

Probably it was only for the best if Sherlock didn't turn up, they had a solid friendship after all and such things were more precious than plain sex. But John had the urgent need to act on his sadistic side, which he hadn't been able to do for about five years now.

Just when he was going from relief to frustration in his mind, the door to his room opened with a soft creak.

Standing in the doorway was Sherlock, dressed in black pants that didn't leave too much room for his imagination and with his dark curls still wet from the shower.

His voice sounded hoarse when Sherlock muttered the last words before their friendship changed into something that neither of them expected in the first place.

"I'm ready. Please use me."