It was a typical afternoon in 221B Baker Street. John was aimlessly surfing the internet, checking his email for potentially interesting cases, and Sherlock was lounging on the couch, undoubtedly in deep thought about some impossible problem.

Suddenly, John looked up from where he was hunched over his laptop. "Sherlock?" he asked. "Did you give Irene my personal email address?"

Sherlock tipped his head over the couch's armrest, looking at his lover upside-down. "Me? No, why would I have? Maybe it was Molly? Or else she found it on her own, she's more than capable of having done that." He frowned. "Why, what did she send you?"

John stared at his screen again, looking perplexed. The email consisted of a single sentence: "Try this at home." There was an attachment, too, a video. The thumbnail featured a woman seated at a table, a book lying open in front of her.

Sherlock abandoned his position on the couch to come stand behind him, watching over his shoulder, and John clicked the link.

At first, it seemed like it was just a black and white video of a woman reading out loud, but a few minutes in, her voice caught on a syllable, her hands trembled a bit. A bit later, she moaned out loud, her shoulders shook, her fingers clenched and unclenched, and John understood.

"Someone is pleasuring her under that table, right? Fingering her, or going down on her or something?" His voice had gone a bit husky with arousal, though he had to admit to being slightly shocked at finding an essentially pornographic video in his mailbox.

"Most likely using a vibrator of some kind," Sherlock said. "The title is "hysterical literature", after all, and stimulation with a vibrator was a common therapy for so-called hysterical women in the 19th century, when it wasn't yet accepted that women could have a sex drive." He snorted derisively. "Idiots."

And suddenly, John understood why Irene has sent him this video. Ever since that discussion in the morgue, he had been waiting for her interfering nature to get the best of her. He'd half expected to get handcuffs in the mail or something along those lines, so all things considered this was relatively innocent. He did blush a bit at the implications, though, because he was pretty sure this meant that Irene had done this with Molly. It wasn't that he disliked the idea as such- (if he was completely honest, he found it pretty exciting -, but he considered Molly as a friend and he really didn't want to think about any of his friends in that kind of situation.

But he could imagine Sherlock like that. Groaning and whimpering, struggling to keep reading, refusing to give in even when John was methodically taking him apart - (maybe by rimming him?. Yes, that would probably work; it never failed to turn Sherlock into a writhing, begging mess)

John's throat went dry. He swallowed/and shifted, trying to adjust his trousers, and he had to actively stop himself from feeling himself up.

On the screen, the girl was coming, panting and moaning and giggling in pleasure. The faces she made were, in all honesty, quite endearing, and John found himself smiling at the sight.

As the girl's orgasm receded, John heard a disbelieving huff behind him. He turned around in his chair to find Sherlock staring down at him, one eyebrow raised haughtily.

"Seriously, John? Poetry and vibrators? Not exactly up to your usual standards, is it?"

"Need I remind you," John said, crossing his arms over his chest, "that in this little arrangement of ours, it is me who sets the standards?"

Sherlock's eyebrow rose even higher, nearly merging with his hairline.

John's lips set in a tight line. "On your knees, Sherlock."

Sherlock seemed to make himself just a tiny bit taller, and John lashed out, hand colliding hard with Sherlock's thigh. "Kneel, I said."

Sherlock slowly sunk to his knees, refusing to look away from John.

John bent over to drop a light kiss on Sherlock's lips, fingers gently tracing his jaw, then around to the back of his head, threading through the soft curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck.

"Safewords?" he asked.

"Do you really think that will be necessary for such a light scene?" Sherlock asked.

John pulled Sherlock's hair, hard, forcing his head backwards. "Give me your safewords, Sherlock."

"Belgravia is for pausing and talking, Baskerville means stop the scene." Sherlock said, a bit reluctantly.

"Good. Use them if you need them, okay? Because if I were you, I wouldn't count on this being a light scene."

Sherlock huffed disbelievingly, and John tugged lightly at his hair, an obvious warning to behave."Now go to your room," he said, "and you'd better be naked by the time I get there."

Sherlock made as if to rise to his feet, but John pushed him back to the floor. "Did I say you could walk?"

"Seriously, John?" Sherlock asked, cocking an eyebrow.

John's grip on his hair tightened, hard enough to hurt. "Crawl, Sherlock."

Sherlock dropped to his hands and knees and inched forward across the floorboards, deliberately slow. John slapped his arse sharply to spur him on, his name a stern warning on his lips, and Sherlock moved faster, disappearing into the bedroom at last.

When he was gone, John walked over to the bookshelf, browsing the titles. They owned mainly encyclopaedias, medical manuals, and the occasional thriller, but John eventually discovered Byron's Collected Works half hidden behind a treaty on arachnids. He wasn't exactly surprised that Sherlock read Byron; the tortured, romantic spirit of it suited him in the same way his music did.

John flicked through the pages and selected a few of his favourite poems. He had read quite a bit of Byron in Afghanistan, because one of his fellow soldiers had carried a poetry book around as religiously as some do with the Bible, and had lent it to others during the long, desperately boring hours they spent waiting in the scorching heat. There had, of course, been the occasional derogatory comment from some macho-men who fancied themselves too tough for something as "stupid and poncy" as poetry, but the other privates had never let that bother them. Better come over as poncy than die of sheer boredom, was the general agreement.

Book in hand, John entered the bedroom, and grimaced at the sight that awaited him. Sherlock was spread out seductively on the bed, shirt unbuttoned and underpants still on.

"Sherlock," John asked exasperatedly, "why aren't you undressed? I explicitly told you to get naked and you knowingly disobeyed me. Why?"

Sherlock didn't answer, instead indolently tracing his fingers down his neck, his sternum, his flat stomach.

John marched up to the bed and sat down on its edge, teeth gritted in annoyance. "Right. Get over my lap this very instant."

When Sherlock didn't react, he snapped: "Don't make me tell you twice, Sherlock!"

Slowly, defiantly, Sherlock rolled onto his front and crawled over to John, positioning himself over his lap. He looked at John over his shoulder, a sardonic expression on his face. John knew exactly what he was thinking. Sherlock got off on spankings, and didn't consider them actual punishments. Well John would show him that they could be rather unpleasant too, and if Sherlock got aroused, well, that would only make the rest of the scene more difficult for him.

John unfastened his belt and took it off, noticing how Sherlock's toes twitched at the noise the buckle made. He pulled the shirt of Sherlock's shoulders, and then tugged his pants down and dropped them to the floor, baring his arse. When he lightly tapped the bent-double strap against Sherlock's skin, he could have sworn he heard him hiss softly.

"I was going to give you twenty for disobeying me," he said, "but the stalling gets you an extra five. You don't have to keep quiet, but I want you to count them. Understood?"

Sherlock stayed silent.

"Answer me, Sherlock."

"Yes, John. That wasn't such a difficult concept to grasp, you know."

"Yes, because you're so clever, right? Now count for me."

John raised his hand and let the belt hit Sherlock's right buttock with a loud smack. Sherlock deliberately waited a full second before saying "One."

The next slap was a bit harder, and Sherlock counted it immediately. With every smack, Sherlock's arse grew a bit redder, a bit sorer, and his cock grew a bit harder against John's thigh. By the fifteenth, he was hard and leaking, and shifting minutely in John's lap. He was, however, still refusing to make a sound other than the counting. Determined to change that, John hit harder, rubbing Sherlock's bottom after every slap. Sure enough, a small cry escaped Sherlock's lips, and he whimpered more than spoke as he counted the last smacks.

John was very glad with the reaction; he honestly didn't like it when Sherlock acted unaffected, or worse, when it seemed that he didn't actually want whatever John was doing to him.

At the beginning of this new side of their relationship John had been quite insecure about Sherlock's aloofness and complete lack of cooperation at the start of scenes, worrying that he was doing something wrong. But once he'd understood that Sherlock liked putting up a fight and really enjoyed it when John was forceful, he'd began to enjoy Sherlock's defiance. Most of all, he relished the moment when all the defiance melted away, and Sherlock gave in, gave himself over fully to John.

Apparently, though, this wasn't that moment yet, as Sherlock glowered half-heartedly at him over his shoulder, though the effect was a bit spoiled by his decidedly flushed face.

"Get back on the bed, on your stomach." John ordered, and Sherlock, surprisingly, complied, stretching out indolently on the soft cotton sheets with a purposeful wriggle of his arse.

John patted his calf, then walked over to the wardrobe where they kept their toys and other accessories. He selected two of them: padded ankle cuffs, and a vibrating anal plug. Dropping them on the bed with the book, he got the lube from the bedside drawer, then went to stand at the head of the bed.

"So." John said, handing Sherlock the book. "I've got a few of Byron's poems for you, and I want you to read them out loud while I play with you. You're not allowed to come until I tell you to. How does that sound?"

"Five poems, John?" Sherlock scoffed. "That's hardly a challenge."

"Don't talk so fast, Sherlock. I won't make this easy for you, I promise. Prop yourself up on your elbows, you can't read with your face smothered by the pillow."."

Sherlock obeyed, and John moved back to the foot of the bed. He gently nudged Sherlock's legs apart and fastened the cuffs around his ankles before locking them to the bedpost. Sherlock tended to trash around a lot in the throes of pleasure, and as much as John got off on his enthusiasm, he sometimes liked to make things harder for Sherlock by forcing him to stay still. Not today, though Sherlock liked being tied up, and besides, he would already have to exert a lot of self-control to keep from coming, so John was willing to allow him the freedom of restraints..

"Start to read." John ordered, and Sherlock sighed deeply, but complied nonetheless.

"Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties,
Have, for my weakness, oft reprov'd me;
Yet still the simple gift I prize,
For I am sure, the giver lov'd me."

Revelling in his lover's rich, rumbling baritone, John let his hands trail up delicate ankles and muscled calves, dropping a kiss on the inside of Sherlock's knee.

"He offer'd it with downcast look,
As fearful that I might refuse it;
I told him, when the gift I took,
My only fear should be, to lose it"

Sherlock read, as John caressed up the inside of his thighs, fingers light on the sensitive skin, deliberately brushing his fingertips against Sherlock's balls as he went.

John then cupped Sherlock's magnificent arse with both hands, squeezing and caressing the soft flesh, before spreading his cheeks apart to reveal his tight arsehole. He bent his head for a slow, languorous lick from Sherlock's perineum up to his coccyx, expecting some kind of reaction, but Sherlock stayed stubbornly composed and kept reading, his breath hardly laboured.

"Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile
I waste one thought I owe to thee,
And self-condemn'd, appear to smile,
Unfaithful to thy memory:
Nor deem that memory less dear,
That then I seem not to repine;
I would not fools should overhear
One sigh that should be wholly thine."

Sherlock abruptly interrupted himself in apparent realisation. "Seriously, John? You're not usually that sentimental."

John bit down on Sherlock's arsecheeck. "Did I tell you you were allowed to stop reading?"

Sherlock huffed. "No, John."

"Then get on with it. And you can huff and puff all you want, you can't deny that you do feel that way about me."

As Sherlock resumed his reading, John caressed his balls again, fingers soft and fluttering, and whispered, just loud enough so that he was certain Sherlock could hear it: "And you might be a bloody annoying bastard sometimes, but heavens help me, I do feel the same way about you."

Sherlock's breath hitched, and he dropped his head to the smooth pages of the book for a second, allowing a tiny moan to fall from his lips as John licked lightly at his arsehole.

John smiled against his skin. There it was. So very typical for his Sherlock. He could stand hours of pain, humiliation and teasing, but give him a bit of affection and he was done for.

"Keep reading, Sherlock." John murmured, tenderly stroking his thigh, and Sherlock obeyed without a word of derision or protest.

John's tongue traced insistent circles along the rim of Sherlock's arsehole, and Sherlock mewled in pleasure, his usually deep voice rendered high and needy with arousal. John shuddered in pleasure. He loved how vocal and responsive Sherlock was. It meant he'd finally given in, and John relished in how powerful and trusted it made him feel.

John probed Sherlock with his tongue, making him wet and loose and pliant, pushing into it with short stabbing motions, then licking leisurely at the soft flesh just inside the ring of muscle. Sherlock's thighs trembled, his toes flexed and curled and his voice wavered as John thrust his tongue in and out of Sherlock, effectively fucking him with it.

Sherlock moaned uncontrollably when John slid in a finger alongside his tongue, crooking it to prod at Sherlock's prostate. Sherlock dug his knees into the mattress to keep himself from pushing back into the wonderful sensation, a low whine spilling from his lips.

John took pity on him, realising that if he kept this up, it would be nearly impossible for Sherlock to hold off his orgasm as John had ordered. And John was not yet done with the things he planned to do to Sherlock.

He knelt back up on the bed, and Sherlock made a bereft little noise at the loss of John's tongue and finger, but bravely kept on reading.

"For -ah!- well I know, that such had been
Thy gentle care for him, who now
Unmourn'd shall quit this mortal scene,
Where none regarded him, but thou:
And, oh! I feel in that was given
A blessing -yeeesss- never meant for me;
Thou wert too like a dream of Heaven
For earthly Love to merit thee."

Meanwhile, John picked up the lube and coated the plug with it, drizzling some on Sherlock's arsehole too. He slid two fingers into Sherlock's body, scissoring them to make sure he was open enough, and then he carefully pushed the plug past the loosened ring of muscle. Sherlock hissed as the plug came to rest just against his prostate, brushing tantalisingly against it, but not close enough to exert any real kind of pressure. This changed when John pressed the button at the base of the plug, causing delicious vibrations to travel through Sherlock's entire body.

Sherlock moaned, a drawn-out, desperate sound, and had to take a deep shuddering breath to compose himself. His voice trembled and shuddered as he begged shamelessly. "Please, John, oh please, please let me come?"

"Not yet, love. Come on, you're doing great, keep going."

Sherlock's hips rolled against the mattress in a futile attempt to release some tension as he continued reading.

"I -ooooh- watched thee when the foe was at our side,
Ready to strike -ah!- at him-or thee and me,
Were safety hopeless- oh god!-rather than divide
Aught with one loved, save love and -John, please!- liberty."

His voice had gone deep again, rendered nearly subsonic with pleasure. Moans and cries and pleas were mingling with Byron's words, and John was getting increasingly aroused at those sounds.

"Your voice is a fucking sin, Sherlock, it should seriously be illegal to sound so bloody incredible," he said, and Sherlock hummed happily at the praise.

"Whom did I seek around the tottering hall?
For thee. Whose safety first provide for? Thine"

John turned up the setting on the vibrator and Sherlock trashed in his restrains, gripping the book so tight John feared he'd tear it in two. John gently caressed his lover's sides, his back, his arse, as if to soothe an invisible hurt. His own cock was hard and leaking, blood pulsing in his ears.

Sherlock's voice broke. "I- I can't, John, I can't, I can't, please." He was full-out sobbing now, breath shallow and heaving, tiny whimpers spilling from his lips.

"One last poem, love," John promised, "and then I'll make you come."

Sherlock sobbed with something that could be relief, but might be frustration at well, before resuming his reading. His hips were shifting against the mattress, desperate for friction, his words jumbled and rushed, the sound of his voice like a continuous moan. He cried out again as John bent his head to lick insistently where Sherlock was stretched around the plug, hips bucking violently and toes curling in pleasure.

"What -ah!- are to me those honours or renown
Past or to come, a -nngghh- new born people's cry?
Albeit for such I could -oooh- despise a crown
Of aught save laurel, or for such could die.
I am -ah, John!- a fool of passion, and a frown
Of thine to me is an adder's eye
To the poor bird whose -oh god- pinion fluttering down
Wafts unto death the breast it bore so high;
Such is this -fuck!- maddening fascination grown,
So strong thy magic or so weak am I."

At the last word, John turned the vibrator to its highest setting and quickly lifted Sherlock's hips with one hand, using the other to reach underneath him and softly squeeze his cock, fingers circling around the head as he growled, "Come for me, Sherlock, now."

That was all Sherlock needed. He came with a scream of John's name, fingers digging into the bedsheets, legs tugging helplessly at the cuffs, head thrown back in ecstasy and back arched to the point of snapping. The sight was simply breathtaking and John felt faint with arousal. He grabbed his cock and jerked himself off one, two, three times before coming with a muffled cry, spilling all over Sherlock's arse and back.

Coming down from the high, John quickly turned off the plug, mindful of the fact that his orgasm would have made the stimulation rather unpleasant for Sherlock. He rested his head between Sherlock's shoulderblades for a minute, nuzzling at the warm skin and panting heavily. When he felt like he could move without his legs giving out, he pushed himself off Sherlock's body and carefully pulled the plug out of his arse. He then quickly released Sherlock from the cuffs and caressed the prominent bit of bone on the outside of his ankle, murmuring: "Give me a second, love, I'll be back."

He hurried to the bathroom to retrieve a wet flannel, which he used to clean Sherlock up, his hands gentle and sure. When he was done, he flipped Sherlock onto his back, away from the wet spot on the sheets, and smoothed damp curls out of his flushed, blissed-out face.

"You were amazing, Sherlock. You're ridiculously gorgeous and your voice is a thing of beauty and once you'd finally given in you were so, so good for me. I love making you come apart." His thumb stroked the sharp edge of a cheekbone, the swell of a lower lip. "You are brilliant, and I love you."

Sherlock beamed at John's words, his smile glowing and proud, if a bit exhausted. He arched his neck prettily, asking wordlessly for a kiss that John was all too glad to give him. Their lips moved together softly, lovingly, the kiss sated and languorous.

John lay down fully on the bed and pulled Sherlock close, one arm encircling his waist, the other stroking his tangled hair. Sherlock clung to him in turn, nose buried in the crook of his neck, breath tickling his collarbone. Cuddled together like this, it didn't take long before they were both blissfully asleep.