One not-so-beautiful day John got enough of his flat mate´s pout and ungrateful attitude and decided to help him. Dom!John teaches Sub!Sherlock to behave. A glimpse to the domestic life of the world´s only consulting detective and his loyal blogger. A bit dark.

Disclaimer: They don´t belong to me, I don´t make money, I am just using them.

Warnings: sub-con/con, graphic sex, bondage, verbal and situational humiliation, organism denial, bdsm, masturbation.

I am not yet decided, if I will make this a series of short domesticity stories, or will this be the only one. It depends on many things, how I feel about it, if I have an inspiration and time for it.

In the early days of the sulking of the genius at 221B Baker Street

Sherlock just didn´t react to anything. When John went to work at the clinic, Sherlock lay on his sofa like a corpse, head against the back. When he returned, his hands full of shopping bags, his flat mate had hardly moved. He did that sometimes, Sherlock had warned John the day they met, for not only hours but days or even a week. The world's only consulting detective had been without a case for a fortnight now, and he had sulked all of the past week. John knew he had to go to the loo, drink, even eat sometimes, but he at least didn´t do it when John was looking at him. John didn´t want to nurse a friend.

John tried to converse with him, but it turned soon into a monologue. John couldn´t help himself, but he felt so frustrated with the unresponsive, ungrateful man. He was unable to figure out what was wrong with him, although as a doctor he felt he should. He wasn´t the consulting detective in this flat, his task was to accompany the genius. And now even this was a bit challenging task, when his genius was as entertaining as a mummy.

So one day John decided, that when Sherlock was so proud as to pretend he was comatose, he could help him.

It was nothing but a casual thought that crossed John´s mind, as he watched his pouting flat mate lying listless on the sofa – his sofa. John had done many different things in response to Sherlock´s intolerable retreat from the world: he had gone to a walk to get fresh air, to meet one of his girlfriends or to a pub, but never this before. He wondered to himself, why hadn´t it come to mind earlier? He hadn´t tried this kind of thing before… But now he climbed astride his recumbent friend. Before Sherlock realized what was happening, John handcuffed his wrists together, and then his ankles. He gagged him with his scarf (later he bought something more suitable for this purpose). He couldn´t leave before John decided it was time.

Naturally, Sherlock didn´t like it very much; he wasn't used to giving up his control. But now it was time for him to learn to be patient, and to listen other people, if he wanted keep John by his side. Soon John realized this was the solution to their problems: obedience training.

Sherlock wasn´t very easy to persuade regarding the training, nor would he understand the benefits of John´s effort. He managed to free himself from the handcuffs, dislocating his thumb in the process. It hurt, but as John, his doctor, told him, he was the one who had caused the injury. His hand continued to swell painfully, until John finally decided that Sherlock had learnt his lesson and gave him some pain killers. John had also learnt not to underestimate his flat mate´s Houdini-esque skills of escapism, and bought new, tighter handcuffs which bit at Sherlock´s skin nastily. At least this way Sherlock didn´t try the trick again.

Once, he fell from the sofa onto the floor. He tried to get away (where? There was nowhere to go.) It didn´t change anything, he only lost more of his highly valued dignity. John caught him in time, as he crawled towards the front door. The only result of his efforts was that John locked his wrists around the feet of their coffee table and his ankles around the sofa´s legs, leaving him there for the rest of the day. Sherlock stared at him murderously when John used his flat mate as his footrest after a busy day, but John ignored him absolutely. He sipped his beer whilst watching the football match, which he usually couldn´t enjoy without Sherlock´s sarcastic comments. But not this time, now he lay under John´s feet, the gag keeping his mouth shut. John leaned back against the sofa, pressing his feet against Sherlock´s stomach and crotch, feeling his pathetic arousal under his soles. They spent a tranquil evening together.

Today

Sherlock is lying on his sofa wearing his blue dressing gown, silent, compliant. His hands are behind him. His ankles are cuffed tightly together. He's like some forgotten antique. He lets out a muffled sound through the thick gag that fills his mouth, but he isn´t as noisy as before. He has noticed that he can't befuddle John with his tricks. He doesn´t try any more, at least not as often as he used to. He has to be bored, after how long I've kept him there, John thinks to himself.

He's nice to watch whilst John does housework, writes his blog about their adventures, or just reads or watches telly, but sometimes even the most beautiful decoration starts to bore. So John decides that he deserves a little change- for example, an evening out with a normal person.

When Jeanette asks him out, he doesn´t hesitate. He needs it, he explains himself. And he says aloud:

"Sherlock, I'm going out with Jeanette tonight."

No reaction. John sighs. All right, if that's the way Sherlock wants to play.

Let´s see if he is worthy of my trust. This is an educational opportunity.

John takes the key from his pocket and presses it against Sherlock´s left hand. He can use it, if he wants. But then he's on his own.

"I suppose you're capable of helping yourself. Don´t forget to go to the loo," and then: "Let´s see if you are worthy of my trust."

Sherlock doesn´t react to anything John says. Only his eyes betray him; they narrow a little, for less than a second, but John notices it. The stubbornness is still there. He will beat it down.

Before he goes, he turns to his flat mate. "Remember to behave."

Why repeat it? Sherlock snorts to himself. He never forgets anything significant.

When John closes the door, he thinks to himself, that Sherlock doesn´t show him enough respect. He is progressing very slowly. He has so much to learn. He's taking him for granted. Sherlock needs to learn or he will lose John for good.

Eventually Sherlock turns to watch, how John leaves, and then there follows the sound of the closing door, which tells him that John is really gone. To meet Jeanette, he said, John is meeting his… girlfriend?... the word sounds false in his ears, although he knows that he has no reason to complain or any right to question John´s decisions. They're going to a film, and then having dinner. Normality. Sherlock feels sick. He has no reasonable justification for feeling disappointed and neglected and abandoned, but he still does.

John even left him the key. It means something. This is the first time that John has shown such trust. Or is this is a test?

But John wants more than a night out with a nice girl. Sherlock knows this better than anyone. It's all an act, for fun, to tease Sherlock.

John likes to make him mad- even jealous.

He uses the key easily. He releases himself without trouble, first his wrists and then his ankles. Finally he removes the gag which covered his mouth. Pleasing John would be a more troublesome task…

Behave. As if he had ever understood what people meant when they told him to behave. People didn't seem to understand how meaningless this word was to him.

By the time Sherlock goes upstairs, he has already forgotten John´s so-called girlfriend´s name. It isn´t important.

Sherlock steps into John´s room. He shouldn´t be there, he certainly doesn´t have John´s permission. He should walk out right now. But he doesn´t, of course. He's Sherlock Holmes. He wouldn´t like it if John did the same with his bedroom, if he invaded his privacy. But John isn´t like him, and this is what he does. This is how he became the world´s only consulting detective.

There will be consequences, which won´t be pleasant. But Sherlock doesn´t worry about them now. That's your problem, he can hear John´s voice. You never think about the damage you cause. It's always only what you want.

The room is in order. John Watson is a military man, a lover of order and discipline. John´s bed is made, his medical books and some novels on the bookshelf, papers and his laptop on the table. Everything has its own place. But Sherlock doesn´t waste his time on these things, but instead opens the wardrobe. He is mostly interested in John´s clothes. Sherlock lets his fingers dance on the surface of the cotton and wool. His t-shirts, jeans and jumpers all smell like John. Sherlock sniffs them. He throws them all over John´s bed, one by one, undresses himself, and finally lies on them, surrounding himself with John´s smell. John is almost physically there, if he only closes his eyes and imagines a little. Imagining nonexistent objects was a waste of time when he could put his brain to more useful work, there was no point in wasting energy for something so useless. But he can sense John´s presence at this moment (when John isn´t actually near) and this welcome sensation passes his normal filters, filling him with warmth. He wants to make the illusion more plausible, so he puts on John´s jumper. He wants to feel its rough softness near his skin, wants to feel John. He, a man of reasoning, suddenly wants to feel more.

He touches the material. It's soft and tickles a little against his bare skin.

John.

His hand descends slowly to his groin. It happens without thinking. His fingers find their target, make good contact, start their determined movement. His thoughts are on John, his body does its lonely dance.

John… John… John…

John John John John…

His semen spurts onto his skin, and John´s favorite jumper.

John will notice it. It's a bit not good. But he doesn´t think about it now.

He lies still for a while. Finally, he recovers enough to move. He thrusts most of the clothes back into the wardrobe, leaves the room, and decides it's time to get some sleep.

When John comes home late that night, Sherlock isn´t lying catatonic on the sofa any more. The handcuffs lie there, where he used to be. His lazy flat mate had finally decided to move himself. John doesn´t suppress his smirk. His bedroom door is closed, so he has probably gone to sleep. John plans to do exactly the same thing. He continues up to his own bedroom, opens the door and… stops. Had there been a hurricane? No, but his flat mate has seemingly fought against boredom in the wrong bedroom. Some of his clothes are still spread over his bed, and they look like someone has been lying on them. John finds the rest of his clothes in a bundle in his wardrobe. What had he been thinking? John bet that he hadn´t thought about anything at all. He picks his favorite jumper from the bed. The marks on it look like… yes, it definitely is. That bored, aroused brat. He'll be sorry for that. All right, if he wants to play, then let´s play. He asked for it. Next time he will think twice before he assaults John´s bedroom. John opens a drawer and takes some equipment with him. If he thought that he was aroused before, he'll have no idea about this. He will learn what it's like to be truly needy.

John tries Sherlock´s bedroom door and it slides open silently. In the relatively darkness of the night, he can just about see Sherlock´s slim figure sleeping in his bed under a blanket. John smiles. This is too easy, he thinks, like taking a candy from a baby. He prepares Sherlock for a surprise. He cuffs Sherlock´s wrists up to the headboard of his laughably big bed. King size, naturally, for the man who always sleeps alone. He straightens Sherlock´s left arm, cuffs it to the headboard and then does the same to his right arm. He still sleeps. Sherlock is a good sleeper when he's not on a case. John kisses Sherlock´s mouth, which is slightly open, and then slaps him hard on his cheek. Sherlock startles to life and opens his eyes. He notices that his hands are awkwardly stretched out and cuffed.

"John? Aren´t you supposed to be with Sarah?"

"Sarah? You don´t even bother to remember her name? I said goodnight to her like a gentleman and returned home. I was tired, ready to go bed. But I'm not any more. Do you know what's happened? Someone has messed with my bed. I notice that I have work for you."

"What are you…?"

"Aren't sleepy any more, are you?"

Sherlock tests the handcuffs. He can´t slip his hands from these ones without injuring himself. He remembers his dislocated thumb. Luckily, he has his own doctor at home. Unluckily, said doctor was the cause of his injuries.

"What are you going to do?" His doctor has scissors in his hand.

"Your pyjamas costs two weeks of an average salary, but do you know, I've never been partial to silk on a man. It's not a proper man´s material?"

Then John simply cuts Sherlock´s pyjamas to pieces, rips them apart, throwing the precious pieces into a corner. Sherlock feels the sharp cold steel of scissors against his skin. He waits for the edge of the scissors to cut him, but it never does.

"You look better without it."

The pyjamas were one of his favourites, and John´s too, he had thought. He was clearly mistaken.

"You have been a very naughty boy. You have played with my clothes and messed up my room and my favourite jumper. You have violated my privacy. You don´t respect me or my property. Most importantly, you cannot control yourself. You don´t have any limits!" Such a long list of accusations…

"You know me. You left the key. You were away," Sherlock says simply, as if this explains everything.

A child´s reasoning, the doctor thinks. He presses the tips of his scissors to Sherlock´s chest to get his full attention.

"I have been with you for weeks. I can't leave you alone without securing you. You hardly speak to me. When I spend one night away, you destroy my room. You behave like a child, who needs desperately a lesson."

"Don´t exaggerate. There was nothing to do."

"Really? Have you missed me that badly, or did you just get bored?"

John´s smile turns almost predatory. John grabs Sherlock´s jaw and leans to kiss the detective again, without passion. He takes detective´s lower lip between his teeth and bites. Red pearls form on the thin skin of his lip.

A virgin? Moriarty had no idea. He should check his files.

"Prove to me how much you've missed me. Do it well, and be gentle. Afterwards, I may reward you." He has no intention of doing this for a long time, but Sherlock couldn´t know that. He could give him a little fun, before John left him on his own to think about how he should behave.

"Who. Needs. A. Lesson?"

"I do."

"I can't hear you."

"Please, John, teach me a lesson. Teach me."

John raises his chin. The first stroke lands on his cheek. John hits with an open palm to avoid severe damages.

"Count them aloud!"

Sherlock's self-preservation instincts tell him to avoid the smacks. He tries to turn his head away, but John´s grip is steady.

"Don´t even try."

His skin start to smart.

"Count them, you lazy git!"

The slaps hit his face over and over again, until his skin is red and raw, almost broken. He counts and John continues to talk.

"You don´t know how lucky you are. You need a good reminder. I've tried to teach you, but do you listen? No. You think that I'm always here for you, ready to serve, quick to give compliments, always praising you. Like some idiotic angelic chorus. How wrong you are. I could walk away at any time and leave you alone. Is this what you want?"

Sherlock shakes his head. No, no. Don´t go. I will be good. So good. I'll learn.

"Count louder!"

Twenty one, twenty two, twenty three…

His cheeks have reddened further, the skin is giving up, it will break.

"Thirty- thirty-six."

"That will do."

John stops beating his flat mate.

"Right. And that means?"

"Your age."

John slides his finger over the bruised skin (he had avoided his nose and cheekbones). Sherlock winces involuntarily.

"What is your age at this moment?"

"My age…? Thirty-one."

"Wrong."

"No."

"No, you're wrong. Your age is three: a negative age. Sulking, disobedient, arrogant, and antisocial. Badly behaved children need education."

John unzips his fly.

"Right. Enough of that. It's time for you to be useful. I want you to show me how much you care for me. Prove your affection. Open your mouth."

John is only half hard at this moment, but he knows that Sherlock is skilled and motivated to do his best. He sits astride Sherlock´s chest, making his friend´s breathing laborious. Ignoring the discomfort he's causing his friend, John penetrates his waiting mouth, and feels himself harden inside Sherlock´s soft, warm, giving mouth. He has to raise himself a bit to get a better angle. He keeps Sherlock´s head steady by grabbing his hair, and thrusts himself rhythmically deeper into this incredibly long throat, until lust starts to take over him and takes care of the rest. John lets out a happy sound as he empties himself into his lover´s throat. Sherlock swallows John´s gift willingly.

John withdraws from Sherlock.

"Now I can concentrate on duty in hand."

Without warning, John grips Sherlock´s right nipple between his thumb and index finger, stretches and rolls it between them like a piece of dough. Then he does moves to his left nipple, and finally does both together. Sherlock writhes from the sharp pinch, but gathers himself and doesn´t utter a word when John continues to torment his sensitive nipples with his teeth. John carries on, licking the skin of his chest and stomach, until his playful tongue finds Sherlock's navel. He lets his tongue explore for a while. Sherlock sighs. John raises the detective´s legs against his shoulders to get better access, then his hand proceeds down playfully until it finds its way to Sherlock´s hole. One finger plays around the entrance, and then two fingers scissor him. He gently massages with three fingers, preparing him for more, until his whole fist pushes inside Sherlock. A surprised gasp escapes the detective. He didn´t expect this. He fists Sherlock, creating more interesting noises. Sherlock´s cock starts to demand attention, attention which John isn´t going to give to it, not yet. He has some more plans for his playmate. He lightly touches Sherlock´s glans with the nail of his index finger, letting his finger wander for a while, careful not to push too hard, until he hears a moan escape from Sherlock. He stops. Wonderful. He's so needy for John, and John likes him like that. He has no intention of letting Sherlock forget how unhappy he is about his behaviour. Sherlock has to learn to obey. He continues for a while, watching, satisfied, how Sherlock tries to behave, tries not to let his lust control him despite his full erection demanding friction. John withdraws his fingers suddenly, and Sherlock moans, disappointed, feeling empty and abandoned.

He isn´t empty for long. John takes a toy- a vibrator, dripping with lubricant, and pushes it inside. He twists it until his partner wails.

"Please." He hears the barely audible whisper. He pushes his hips up, offering himself to John.

But John doesn´t respond. He isn´t going to listen his flat mate´s whining. He wants him quiet. John has witnessed this too many times, the man simply doesn´t know how to keep his mouth shut, and because of that he gets into trouble. He forces a red ball gag into Sherlock´s mouth. Sherlock´s eyes seem to beg, but John ignores them. His flat mate looks just perfect. Naked, chained with handcuffs to his own bed, gagged, plugged, with a dark erection. The glazed look in his eyes… He lets some muffled sound from his throat, as if he is still trying to say something. As if he has something relevant to say. John doubts that.

"You look perfect, Sherlock. I think you can stay like that for a while. You can learn to keep your hands to yourself, away from things that don´t belong to you. Oh, and by the way, if you are so partial to my clothes, I'll leave some for you, to keep me in your mind."

John takes off his jumper and wraps it around Sherlock´s crotch. No. No. John rubs Sherlock´s cock a couple of times with the fabric, careful that he isn't stimulated too much, studying Sherlock´s facial expression. He smiles encouragingly and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

Sherlock feels the rough fabric against his organ. He tries to jerk himself against the jumper, but it just teases him more. The fabric is too soft, he feels it against his skin, but it doesn´t offer any relief, leaving him wanton.

John. Come back. But John is gone, probably to sleep. Sherlock can't sleep, his senses are aflame. It will be a very long night. His face swells from the beating. The whirring machine John placed inside the detective is enough to maintain his arousal, not to mention the rough fabric around his aching cock that increases his discomfort. His arousal makes him bump his buttocks against the mattress, in a vain attempt to turn the whizzing vibration off. His erection nudges against his stomach, demanding relief. The frustration collects as a pile in his throat. He tries to swallow it down. He would scream his frustration out, if it were possible. He pushes his heels into mattress. He tries to get his hands free from the handcuffs, but they are too tight to get rid of.

Long hours of dark night surround him.

The next thing he knows, he hears John speaking on the phone. He probably awoke when John opened the door. He had managed to get some sleep after all.

John was using Sherlock´s phone. Sherlock´s phone is his private area, John has no right to touch it. They had agreed. It seems that John has changed the rules without asking Sherlock. Right. That's what he did, all the time. John speaks with….

"Sherlock isn´t at home. He's been out all the night. You know how he is, Lestrade. Someone called him late last evening and he just left, not even telling me when he'd be back. He should know better. He even forgot his phone. I don´t know where he is! He didn´t explain. He probably he didn´t want anyone coming after him. Someday he'll get himself into serious trouble."

Lestrade is offering him a new case, of course he is, it's the only reason he ever calls. John! Sherlock tries to think aloud, so that John can hear him. I need a case! I don´t have any. Give me the phone, release me, please. But John doesn´t notice.

"No, he's not available at this moment. Sherlock said that he can't be available all the time, I am terribly sorry. It's better that you call him later and talk with him. I'm sorry, Lestrade, he is not here. But you have your own forensics team there to help you. I'm sure that Anderson can do the job, if he gets enough time. Yes, I'll tell him. Goodbye, have a nice day!"

John lowers the phone and turns to Sherlock.

"Lestrade has a case for you. Too bad you're occupied just now, you would have liked it. I think that Anderson can do it. He is, after all, a professional, and you… you know it yourself… you are an amateur detective."

Sherlock´s cheeks flush in anger.

"An amateur detective… It's your hobby, you don´t get paid. Your brother, Mycroft, he pays your living. You think you're brilliant, and ah, of course you are, but you're still an amateur detective. You can't even sustain your own living. Don´t think that I haven´t noticed who pays for your expensive lifestyle, Mr Sherlock Holmes."

Insults sting as the slaps had before. An amateur. Anderson's the professional. Mycroft pays. He didn´t know John could be so rude. He has to lie there and listen as John pours the poison of his words.

Sherlock sends a murderous gaze in John´s direction, but John doesn´t notice or care.

"Now let´s see how your night has gone." John continues casually, as he removes the vibrator and the jumper.

"Oh dear, you've lost some of your hardness. I assumed, wrongly it seems, that you had more stamina. Don´t worry, I will help you when the time comes. But you know what, Sherlock? I need a little relief, before I go to work."

John releases the gag from Sherlock´s mouth, only to replace it with another kind of plug. John doesn´t give him the opportunity to protest, hardly time to gasp for air. John grabs Sherlock´s curls and rips at them, telling him it's time for his breakfast. Sherlock naturally agrees. John takes his time in taking off his pyjama trousers. When his swollen organ pops into sight, Sherlock inhales sharply, but manages not to let a word out whilst John shifts his position to his flat mate´s mouth. John guides Sherlock´s head, keeping his firm hold in his hair as he swallows his length. "Good boy. Yes, so good…" Sherlock knows how to do the job, it isn´t his first time. After John has moved in, he wasn't inexperienced for long. Sherlock feels the organ moving in his throat, deep. Despite his difficult position, he continues and doesn´t even gag. Oh, John has taught him so well. Soon John starts to moan, he doesn´t give him the luxury of controlling the rhythm, this all part of his training. It's important to master this skill perfectly. He does. He swallows it all, it would have been an insult to let any go to waste.

Besides, it is his breakfast, as John told him.

He knows not to wait for anything else, but that's fine.

John replaces the ball gag. It would help Sherlock remain silent and remember how useful his mouth could be when it stops spitting his usual, hateful words. How much good he could do for John with it.

He needs to empty his bladder. To Sherlock´s horror, John fixes a catheter to him. Sherlock can´t see exactly what is happening, but he can feel, how John grabs his softened organ, inserting a flexible tube in his urethra.

"I'll go and make some breakfast. Ham, toast, marmalade, fresh coffee… You'd like it. Such a pity that you can't join me. You can digest your breakfast in peace there. When I've eaten, I'll prepare you for the coming day. You better to be ready. This is your only chance."

And he adds:

"You should appreciate that I give you a chance to do this neatly. I could let you piss your bed as well."

Sherlock feels so humiliated. He wants to go to their loo, lock the door and do this in private, but John turns his back and goes into the kitchen.

His need to go has become almost unbearable. His full bladder feels like a football inside of him, but he won't go like this, tied to his own bed, into a plastic bag. He won't… ever… He's a fully functioning adult. He won't give in. He has hardly drunk anything. He doesn´t understand this urgent need to empty himself until he remembers that he really hasn't gone to a loo for a while…. Not in at least 24 hours.

He needs to… No. He can concentrate. Sherlock presses his toes deep into the mattress, his head against the pillow. He tries to relax his stomach, to think about something else, like… What kind of case does Lestrade have for him? If he doesn´t believe John, will he come to visit? If he walks to his bedroom and finds him here, naked, chained and desperately holding in his piss… Stop this. Not good. Think of something else… Think... Count. It helps him to distance himself from this situation.

"Sherlock, what are you waiting for?" John's back. "I just has a piss myself, I recommend the same for you, for the sake of your own comfort and health. Trust me, I am a doctor."

John steps by the bed. He lays his hand on Sherlock´s stomach. Sherlock tries to set himself against the inevitable. John presses a spot just above his bladder, massaging it determinedly until Sherlock can't hold it inside any longer. When he feels himself give up, he tries to stop it, but it's too late. Sherlock hopes that he doesn´t blush when the yellow liquid starts to fill the plastic bag. Finally, relief, almost like pleasure. When he's finished, John undoes the catheter.

"There you go. Don´t look like that, admit it, you feel better now."

John jerks Sherlock´s limp organ and gets it to wake up in his skillful hand. Sherlock tries not to react, but couldn´t prevent a shiver going through him. "Mmm… I thought that you had more self-control. I have badly overestimated you. You're tense, excited, like a young maiden waiting for her fiancée's touch. Oh dear. You are simply adorable."

He stops only when the wet slickness of his palm warns him not to continue further, if he wants to continue their game. He leaves his hand still around Sherlock´s cock, touching it lightly, but not so that he could come. Sherlock tries to nudge himself into John´s fist in vain. John enjoys watching Sherlock in distress. Even Sherlock´s bruised cheeks suit him so well.

"… For your own good." He hears John´s voice telling him. "One day, you'll run out there alone, leaving me behind you, and then… what will happen? You'll be dead. I'm here for you to keep you safe. Who else would do it? Your brother wants the best for you. You owe Lestrade so much, you can't even measure it. How would you pay him back?"

John continues to stroke his shaft as he speaks.

"How would you pay all of them back? Me? How?"

John pinches the top of his member. Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, he can't handle it….

"How?!" John shouts suddenly.

Sherlock shakes his head.

"Badly, Sherlock, awful! Are you even human? They help you and you respond shamefully. Shame on you! And how you treat me…"

"Nnnnngg…" Sherlock says.

"Don´t what? This?" John asks and does it again.

"You only care about your game. It's a major mistake."

He continues his teasing strokes and Sherlock lets out a velvety sound.

His erection aches so much. He arches his hips, demanding more contact. John smiles smugly at his useless efforts.

"Oh, so greedy. But not yet, not yet, my willing slut. You're not there yet."

John unlocks his cuffs.

"You've rested enough. Up from the bed!"

John tugs him violently onto the rug, pushes him and orders him on his hands and knees. He's planned a special session for him during the night. He chains his friend´s wrists and ankles with spreaders. They're connected together in the shape of the letter H. He has to stay in the position there, where John wants him to be. Unnecessary movements are prohibited helping him to spare his energy. He will need it. John puts a high collar around his neck, forcing him to keep his head up nicely. Sherlock flinches slightly, his eyes widening as John pushes a hook into his entrance and the understanding sinks in. Finally, John connects the collar and the hook to a rope, preventing him from lying down to rest his body. John checks his restrains like the harness of a horse, to see if they are all properly in their place. Last of all, he fastens his roommate´s cock and balls in tight rings to keep them in controlee. Sherlock tries to ignore his growing worry when John nudges the hook against his prostate, making his ass push backward against the metal, his cock responding eagerly to the stimulus.

He wants more. He doesn´t want it this way.

"Shhhh…" John calms him, keeping his hand on his back. "It's all right. You have the whole day, love. This helps you keep alarmed and ready for me."

Sherlock let out a sound, but all he gets in response is the sound of a key as it locks the door. Now he is alone.

Curious as he is, Sherlock tries to move. The possibilities are limited, almost nonexistent. John has clearly done his research.

He's oddly proud of his lover.

Not an idiot at all.

At first, he has no difficulty in keeping his pose steady. He occupies his mind with other problems. Unsolved cases. Wait… I don´t have any… That´s the reason why I am here… I was bored… John had enough of it. And then he's back in the here and now, chained on all fours in his own bed room, waiting for John to come and make some difference to his existence. Not to mention the hook.

It starts to become harder and harder to keep his head up in the spot where it wouldn´t affect the hook, where could be in relative peace. His head starts to drop, he starts to become tired, but his head´s every move causes a reaction in the other end of the rope, and the hook hits against his prostate again and again.

I'm fucking myself. I hope that Mycroft isn't watching me now. Not just Mycroft, but his minions…

All I have to do is keep my head up. Nothing more. How hard it can be?

But his chained limbs start to get tired too, and it's more and more difficult for him to hold his posture. He wants to lie down or to stretch himself, but he can't. He wants to let his head to relax, but when it lowers even a little, it causes a countermovement in the other end of the rope. He whimpers unwillingly, his cock responding to the stimulus by knocking against his stomach.

I have to learn how to behave… I have to learn… I am learning… John… Think about John… He trusts you...

It's hard to learn when you don´t have limits. It's hard to…

His lanky body is trembling… Hours have passed… His skin is clammy from the effort of keeping him there, because the other option would be… No…

… Sweat blurs his vision… His limbs are shaking… He's frantically biting the gag, despite of his best efforts not to do so… It comforts him in an odd way. His head lolls repetitively now, whilst the hook is torturing the his insides… This aches too much.

I am behaving… John… Give me a chance… Please… I can't take this anymore…

Fuck.

John has silently stepped inside.

John stops to admire the sight. Sherlock´s skin is sweaty all over, his hair clumping. His long limbs are trembling. His beautiful arse is up, wanting more, and his cock… Oh, his violet cock… Leaking on the expensive rug.

He is beautiful. And all his.

He's so in his own world that he doesn´t notice John, not before he feels a familiar touch on his skin.

John?

John starts to rub his shoulder blades, his back, his buttocks, his…

More….

"Shhhhh… Good boy… Easy." He calms him like a shaking animal. He feels like one in this moment.

He knows what John is waiting for. He refreshes himself, raises his buttocks more if that were possible, exposing himself to John as if to say, I am ready for you. Please, take me. Accept me.

There is a moment of silence.

He feels the hook being removed from him very cautiously. John avoids causing any unnecessary damage. He releases him from his collar.

John´s hand slides onto his bereft skin, looking for his entrance, his fingers soon finding it.

He tugs his ass up, offering it to John.

Take me. Take away all of the badness, make me pure. Make me good for you, John, whatever you need from me.

John is a patient man, but the sight of his ready, greedy and submissive lover is too much for him. He undresses himself, lets his trousers fall down to the rug, and then his pants. He leans his hard penis against Sherlock´s bare skin, takes a lubrication bottle to prepare him for his invasion. Sherlock lets out some muffled sound from behind his red gag, as he waits for John´s next move. His own manhoodr aches in its prolonged erection, but he has to wait for John showing to show him forgiveness.

John´s fingers slip inside him almost without him noticing, and they massage the end of his nerve centrum, making him squirm between discomfort and need. John laughs softly.

No, John. Please, John.

His back is sweaty from effort of keeping his laborious posture for the long hours of the lonely day, waiting for John to come to him, waiting for a chance to find his own relief.

Yes, John.

Next thing he knows, John´s cock slides in him, and he would shout from joy and relief if he could. The gratefulness washes over him whilst the familiar cock fills him. He arches his back for John, pushes his cheeks against John stomach. John´s steady rhythm makes them move in unison, John´s grip keeping him up, his shoulders against the rug. It goes on and on, the hardness inside him caresses his tormented prostate. His moans are low, his cock leaks, asking for the release that has been denied it for a night and a day, but he isn´t allowed it yet. Then the rhythm turns into something more demanding, more intense. John can't hold it longer, he's been waiting for this moment all his long working day. He even left earlier from the work, the thought about Sherlock alone in his restraints making him to hurry.

At the end, he lets out a low, long, dark sigh, emptying himself into Sherlock.

He leans into Sherlock, who stays still, not daring to shift, waiting for what will happen next. He's decided to be patient; he could do it to finally get his reward.

John unties him.

Sherlock knows too well that it doesn´t mean he is free to do or say what he pleases.

Besides, all he wants just now is to please John.

"Rise," A command comes, and he obeys instantly. Sherlock's legs are shaking from everything he has gone through and John has to steady him, letting him lean against him, helping him up, guiding him back onto the unmade bed.

He lies there listlessly, consenting to absolutely anything, not daring to wish, his own arousal still forgotten against his stomach.

John dresses, before he looks down at his colleague.

"Well done, detective. You really are talented at this. I have to say, you're wasting your skills… You should be a porn star instead of sniffing around dead bodies. You know, living things are always more… reciprocal. You should really try it, at least once."

Sherlock let out a broken sound.

"Oh, did I forget, poor thing?" John asks, genuinely surprised.

"John, please." He's still unsure of whether he is allowed to speak.

John´s long-yearned touch on his crotch sends a jolt through his body. John holds his manhood and, feather lightly, slides his finger on its glans, rubbing the tip. John´s touch makes him cringe. His body wriggles, trying desperately to get relief. He hardly manages to stay still. Please, John…

"Shame on you, Sherlock. You should really see yourself. Is this how a rational, calculating genius like you behaves? What if your brother expels you from the Diogenes Club, because you misbehave? What if I take a couple of pictures and put them on the internet for everyone to see, whoever bothers to look? It would be such a great success. The private life of Sherlock Holmes. How many new fans would you get…?"

He talks softly, almost gentle.

Sherlock turns his head away, hiding his confusion.

John climbs to his side, making Sherlock look at his face. Sherlock nestles against John, unable to stop himself, grabbing the fabric of John´s clothing. This time, John lets him do it. "Come!" he whispers into his lover´s ear, who thrusts against John´s comforting yet rough cotton and wool. He doesn´t need long until he's there. Sherlock´s semen spurts all over John´s jeans and jumper, staining them badly. John doesn´t mind the mess, but holds on Sherlock´s naked body, waiting for him to calm down.

Sherlock is satisfied and weary.

"I'm sure that Lestrade is waiting for you, love. He hasn´t got anywhere with Anderson, anyhow. Phone him tomorrow morning."

"I never call. Oh, John…"

"Yes?"

"Your jumper…"

"Not to worry. Sleep now, love. You have to do your best in front of Scotland Yard tomorrow."

"I always do… Always….I'm not disappointing you…"

"I know, sweetheart, I know."

When Sherlock slides into restful sleep, John covers his body with a blanket and tiptoes out from the bedroom. His favorite program is on telly, and he wouldn´t like to miss it.

He wonders to himself if Moriarty had monitored their little session.

Maybe he'd get ideas …