A.N. - Just a quick chapter to start me off on this one again. Had to get my head back into it and this will help hopefully. Sorry for the delay.
"You're strong," Sherlock voiced.
Though John knew it was a statement, he answered anyway. "Yes…" His voice was drawn out and his eyes narrowed.
"I'd like you to subject yourself to a few days of my experimenting. You did say yesterday that you had a lot to make up for now that you're back." Sherlock had his fingers steepled as he stared at the ceiling.
John walked over to the couch to look down at him. He was feeling physically better though he still had to use the cane. John wondered briefly if he'd ever be emotionally healed after the life he'd chosen to lead. "Is it case related?" he asked trying to catch Sherlock's eyes. It seemed a futile attempt, what with them being closed and all.
"No. I just finished a case."His tone was, well, demeaning.
"Personal then," John mused. "All right, for what?" He eased into his chair since Sherlock wasn't giving him a glance anyways.
"Obviously, follow along John."
"For what, then? I'm not going to agree to just anything, especially from you." John grabbed his phone and looked through it, hoping his texts would give him some sort of a distraction from the mild frustration with Sherlock.
Just when John was about to look up and demand an answer from Sherlock, his phone buzzed alerting him to a message. It read: For you, John. "Sherlock, what have I requested about texting from the same room? Unless you're in one of your moods, which you don't really seem to be, speak to me. You know, like a human being." John tossed his phone aside and then fully registered what he'd read. "What do you mean by 'for me' anyway?"
"Honestly, I don't know how you follow along with most conversation." Sherlock sat upright on the couch, feet on the ground and body leaning towards John. "But do try to keep up with this one. I want to experiment on you, I'd like your permission, and I'd also like your trust as this is for you."
John stared at the man for a few long beats. When his heart thudded slowly against his chest for the fifth time he drew in a noisy breath and nodded. "All right then, what would you like me to do?"
Sherlock pushed up off of the couch and looked towards the stairs. "We should go upstairs. I'll meet you there; first I have to talk with Mrs. Hudson about interruptions." Sherlock flounced away, bathrobe following along gaily.
Twisting his lips in confusion and thought, John finally decided it was fine. He did trust Sherlock, after all, despite putting up a fight. Mainly, he wanted to know what the man was planning. Grabbing his cane he made his way up the stairs, slowly, and into his room. Since he wasn't sure what he would be doing, he decided to sit at the edge of his bed and wait for Sherlock's instructions. He was actually very curious about what was going to happen. While he'd often helped Sherlock with experiments, John had never really been the experiment. He scratched at the back of his head with his right hand, his gun hand, and tensed a little. It had healed up nicely and as he looked at it, he noted the nerve damage couldn't be much. It didn't stop the bloody thing from trembling whenever he gave it any sort of attention. John wondered if there was a name for the psychological problem he had. Boredom, Sherlock called it. Maybe mixed with stupidity, he could hear the man continue. Shaking his thoughts away he listened to the footsteps making their way up the stairs pretty rapidly.
Sherlock popped into the room carrying rope and handcuffs. John felt his heart thunder painfully. "What are we doing with those?"
Sherlock shut the door behind him, ignoring John for the moment. He locked the door, set the rope and cuffs on the desk next to the bed and walked over to the dresser. John watched him open the top drawer where John kept a rather thorough medical kit. Sherlock was working quietly and quickly while John tried to keep himself under control.
Once the blinds were closed, the medical kit was opened next to the cuffs and ropes, and Sherlock was setting his iPod up on the speakers John had for his own, the man turned to look at John. "Take your shirt off."
"Whatever for?" John asked eyeing the instruments and then Sherlock warily.
"Trust, John. We're going to need it." Sherlock was planted firmly at the end of the bed, arms folded over his chest, and silver eyes set on John's gray-hazel ones.
With a sigh, John tugged the jumper and button-down off of himself. When he looked back up at Sherlock the man had shed his robe and was rolling the sleeves of his black button-down up. John ran his hands down the Y-cut on his torso, trying to push away self-conscious thoughts that would have him scrambling for his shirt once more.
"Good, now move up the bed, to the headboard." Sherlock was walking around to the table that held the rope, cuffs and kit.
As John shimmied up the bed to the headboard, he watched his flatmate grabbing the handcuffs. Silver eyes swung around to John's wrists.
Instead of resting back like Sherlock had expected from John, the man vaulted to the other side of the bed and stumbled on his legs nearly falling to the floor. "No Sherlock, I think this is a rubbish idea. Let's stop playing around, I don't like it."
Sherlock sighed and put the handcuffs back down. "John, I want to help you. I can't do that if you won't allow me to."
"Help me? With those?" John eyed the handcuffs and shuddered a little.
"Yes with these. Honestly, John I'm just looking for a little faith from the one person who used to have it regarding me." Sherlock sat slowly on the edge of the bed and watched John with a cool, calm precision.
That look was one John didn't recognize. He'd never seen the man use it during his experiments, or at a crime scene, or even direct it at the telly. It was new, fierce, and directed at John. So John froze and took a few deep breaths. The man was right. No point in him being home if he wouldn't trust Sherlock. There was certainly no reason he shouldn't, now that he thought long and hard about it. Then again, John did leave a sociopath…
Taking a few ginger steps to the bed, John climbed up and slowly sat back against the headboard. "Here?"
"Arms over your head." There was no please with Sherlock, no polite questions, just direction but his voice was soft. He didn't need the please as it rested in his tone.
Lifting his arms up, John had to slouch to let Sherlock loop the handcuff chain around the post and to John's other hand securing him to the headboard. Then the rope was pulled out and Sherlock stood at the end of the bed.
"Spread your legs, John."
John shivered, slowly spread his legs apart so that his ankles stretched out towards the posts at the end of the bed. Sherlock's hands were slightly cold as they wrapped easily around each ankle, roping them to the posts. He was quick and gentle with John.
Once John was secure to the bed, Sherlock moved away from him and over to the iPod. John tried to take everything in quickly and he wondered if the influence was more military or Sherlock's doing. The room was warm enough, the only lighting from a lamp on the desk, the flat was quiet, and then music started to play. Jazz music from Sherlock's iPod. Though the setting was different, the familiarities involved started to bring back snippets of John's time with Moriarty. He snapped his teeth together, trying to keep a calm composure. This was Sherlock, not Jim. This was home, nowhere else. All of this…all of this was okay.
Sherlock turned from the dresser and iPod and walked over to the edge of the bed. He stood there, looking down at John and the corners of his lips pulled up in the slightest hint of a smile. Those silver eyes bore down intensely and wandered over John's body.
Sherlock didn't want to go slow, but the look in John's eyes was one between fight and flight. Buried beneath those gray-hazel depths, Sherlock thought he detected trust, but this wasn't going to be an easy thing. Sherlock would have to be careful and read John's body language. Sherlock could facial cues and the like just fine, knowing how to act upon them was sometimes the big question. It was harder to do with a relationship that he cared about, one in which he cared how the other actually felt about Sherlock. This experiment would test them both and hopefully be good for them both.
Picking up the small knife in the medical kit, Sherlock climbed up onto the bed and straddled John's hips. The bed dipped with their weight, pulling the consulting detective very tightly against the doctor. Sherlock leaned down and put his lips to his ear. "Trust, John." His voice was barely a whisper and he felt the man underneath him shiver.
"Yeah," John breathed out and the breath tickled Sherlock's neck.
Sitting up and putting the blade against the side of John's cheek, Sherlock actually smiled. "I'm glad you're home. I don't blame you either, John. I understand."
"I left you, Sherlock. Of course you blame me." John's eyes flickered to the knife, trying to get a look at it. The angle was too low, Sherlock knew. He was keeping it that way on purpose.
Dragging the blade down over John's chest, following the Y-cut on his torso, Sherlock shook his head. "No, I want to hear you say it. I want you to tell me that you know I understand why you left. I want you to say that I don't blame you for leaving." The knife traced up and down, up and down, never cutting just playing over his ruined skin.
It's not ruined. It's delicious. Amazing. Beautiful. Sherlock froze his thoughts, blinking a few times, but never stopping his hand. John was twitching under him, twisting every now and then trying to get the blade away from his skin.
"It's my fault." John closed his eyes and took a few, deep, steadying breaths.
"No it's not." Sherlock pressed the blade a little harder, not breaking skin. He didn't want John to bleed; he didn't want to hurt him.
The music quieted for a few seconds and moved onto the next song. A female singer started in with an upbeat, improvisational jazz song. Sherlock leaned down and put his lips to the meeting point of the Y on John's chest. He kissed it lightly and let his lips follow the trail of the knife.
"Sherlock!" John gasped. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Fixing you, John. Now tell me it wasn't your fault." Sherlock kissed his way back up to the shoulder with the old bullet wound.
He didn't say it, not yet anyway, and Sherlock continued tracing each little cut, scrape, and bruise with his knife. He could see gooseflesh rise on John's skin and couldn't help adding kisses, nips, and little dashes of his tongue across the same healing wounds.
On the sixth time that Sherlock dragged the knife down the Y-cut, he heard John muttering. Looking up he found the man's eyes closed, his eyebrows drawn in intently, and his lips moving to something that he was trying to say.
"Yes, John?" Sherlock's lips were to John's ear again. He felt the doctor shudder and jolt upwards as far as the restraints would allow. He very nearly bucked Sherlock off of him.
John's eyes snapped open and he looked into Sherlock's silver eyes. "It wasn't my fault. You understand."
Sherlock smiled and climbed off of the bed. Glancing at the clock he dropped the knife on the bed and scrambled over to the desk. Picking up a pen and pulling out a notebook from the drawer, he scribbled down 'two hours'. "Good. Let's have some tea, shall we?"