Warning Rated M for adult situations including mild dom/sub, cursing and smut. And truly egregious amounts of fluff.

Act 3

At the end of Act 2….A hand clapped over John's mouth.

"John! Say any words, other than the safe word, and you will be punished." Sherlock's voice rumbled with threat and passion, shaking John to his core.

John was drunk with lust but not stupid. He knew that he had two choices, because fighting back was not even an option-not with his hands cuffed to the bed. So one choice was to say the safe word and leave the room, which sounded...well safe, but John didn't really like safety. The other choice was to hang on tight and enjoy the ride. Yeah, that sounded like a lot more fun.

Since he was staying for the ride, the former army captain decided to change his tactics. John stopped struggling, then he parted his lips and began sucking on Sherlock's palm. The detective moaned and slid his fingers into John's mouth. Yes! Now we're getting somewhere, thought the blond. While Sherlock teasingly ground their hips together, the doctor suckled those tapered musician's fingers. John soon lost himself in his mounting excitement. He barely realized that he was moaning loudly and bucking his hips, trying to generate some much-needed friction.

John cried out in frustration when Sherlock abruptly withdrew his fingers from John's mouth and rolled off the bed. The doctor didn't struggle or speak (new tactics, remember). Still, he glared helplessly at his teasing, cold-hearted, so-called lover who was apparently abandoning him…Wait…Wait, his brilliant lover was pouring lube on his long, perfect musician's fingers. Oh God, yes! His wonderful, sexy, brilliant partner crawled onto the bed; he reached down and circled John in just the right spot.

Oh God. Yes! John arched his hips up, silently begging for more. Oh yeah, he left Sherlock in control, in complete control. And John loved it. He reveled in it. He'd have to find more ways to get in trouble if this was to be his punishment.

Despite his fierce, ice-chip eyes, Sherlock remained careful. He watched John's face for signs of any real pain or, God forbid fear. But after the first shock and some perfunctory struggles, his doctor had seemed eager to submit. As Sherlock had predicted, John was a natural submissive.

Oh yes, now the man writhed wantonly under his detectives ministrations. His golden body lay open and ripe for Sherlock's delectation. Just looking at the ex-soldier's muscular arms, drawn overhead and bound to the bed, helpless…it took Sherlock's breath away. John Watson was bloody gorgeous.

"You are beautiful like this, John. Beautiful," sighed Sherlock as he prepared his blogger for more. "Gorgeous. And you're mine. Mine. Don't you dare try to give yourself to anyone else."

John shook his head, 'no'.

Sherlock felt himself growl deep in his throat as he bent down to mark his lover again. He bit John's sensitive neck, pulling a long whine from his captive. The Dom sucked, as his Sub wriggled and tugged. When he was done, Sherlock surveyed the red bloom on his blogger's neck with pride. Mine. And now the whole world would see that John was his.

John gasped and another whine escaped his mouth. John, his John was desperate and needy. Sherlock couldn't tease much longer. He longed to finish John just to see that look on his doctor's face as he climaxed. He would be the one to satisfy his blogger, only him..

All thoughts of punishment were long gone. Now it was all about control, possession and giving John whatever he wanted. No. It was about giving John more that he ever knew that he wanted. Only Sherlock Holmes could give this to John. Only Sherlock could see past John's carefully erected and socially correct veneer. Only his genius lover could satisfy John's secret desires and so...keep him forever.

The consulting detective would never let anyone take his little soldier away. Besides, no one was good enough for John Watson, certainly not that fake-blond, twice divorced, husband hunting and not very clever society tart. Even Sherlock Holmes wasn't good enough for the ex-military doctor. But Sherlock came close, closer than anyone else. Only Sherlock could give his doctor excitement, danger and bliss upon bliss while driving the memory of that nasty society woman out of John's tiny, easily confused little mind.

Sherlock drew it out. Carefully (perhaps a bit too carefully?) preparing his lover, bringing him close to completion, only to slow and drag John back from the edge. John broke and begged for more than fingers, earning himself another slap, which nearly threw him over the precipice. He shuddered. Every nerve tingled; every nerve sizzled, screaming for release.

It only stung a little, Sherlock was more threatening than threat. For the doctor, there was something infinitely worse than the slap, and that was when Sherlock stopped touching John for punishment. And it lasted for what seemed liked hours, although maybe it was only a couple of minutes...but still, it was torture when John needed those caresses and kisses as much as needed oxygen to breathe. Dear God, make him touch me...make him take me. Please. Please. Please.

The doctor daren't speak again. He couldn't beg, demand, threaten, bargain or plead. Sherlock was driving the crazy train. Sherlock was in charge of whether John was kissed or touched or punished. Sherlock decided whether John would finally, finally gain release or whether John would just die of longing and the agony of unfulfilled lust.

Oh God, oh my God! John was at the mercy of a possessive, sex-crazed madman, and he'd never been so aroused in his life as he submitted Sherlock Holmes. Oh Christ! He never even knew that he wanted this…to be bound and helpless as his domineering detective took and gave at his whim.

This. This was John's true vocation. This was the moment his life had been barreling toward, this agony, this passion waiting and wanting and…

Finally,finally... Sherlock Holmes took his blogger. John cried out slowly as he was slowly filled. He all but sobbed as his lover waited, fully seated, ensuring that the blond was ready.

Sherlock himself trembled, muscles taut, as he restrained himself. He was so close already, watching John fall to pieces, and John felt so good surrounding him with heat and ecstasy.

John sobbed as Sherlock withdrew and then slowly, much too slowly, returned. It was too much and yet not enough…not enough for either man.

The bound blond couldn't help but mouth the word please, begging for more. Pleading without sound for release.

Sherlock watched with satisfaction as his errant little soldier unraveled. He savored their prolonged and almost painful build up until tears seeped out of John's magnificent indigo eyes. The Dom reached out one long, tapered finger gently wiping away the tears and caressing his John's cheek.

It was time…it was past time. He drove into his golden lover. He gave John everything. Sherlock gave him more, much, much more than that silly blonde tart could ever give. And he gave it over and over and deeper and deeper. He brought John close, so very close then slowed again…making his Sub writhe with want and need. John cried out in anguish and bliss.

And this was the challenge because Sherlock was so damn close that it was killing him to hold back. How could he restrain himself when John Watson, his beautiful blond soldier, was debouched, so lost and so completely under Sherlock's control.

Sherlock slowly bent to kiss John's swollen, red lips and then…

With a snap of his hips he began driving relentlessly to the finish. The genius himself could hardly think. He could feel his soldier burning beneath him and around him. Underneath him, John shook as his climax approached. His gorgeous blogger opened his mouth in a gasping sob, his head thrust back into the pillows.

Sherlock took his lover in hand, keeping time with his punishing pace and drove them both crashing over the precipice. And they were consumed in the flames, as John screamed and Sherlock chanted John's name in the bonfire until he collapsed on his fallen love.

John was pretty sure that he must have died, which was fine really. It was a helluva way to go. But apparently neither heaven nor hell wanted John Watson, because they sent him back. The doctor knew this, because he found himself alive and curled up in Sherlock's lap. He'd be embarrassed, if he only had enough energy. Instead, he relished the comfort of his Dom's embrace.

Sherlock had boxed him in with his long legs and arms. John's head rested comfortably against his detective's smooth breast. Sherlock's long-fingered hands gently rubbed John's chafed, reddened wrists. His deep voice murmured John's name over and over. The blond blinked up at his impossible, amazing, extraordinary lover.

As soon as the doctor opened his cobalt blue eyes, the brunet spoke, "John, I really need you to answer me. Are you all right? I didn't…hurt you, did I?"

Sherlock smiled hesitantly into John's indigo eyes. John returned a loopy grin. "You are the most irritating man, John Watson," he said with a worried laugh, "You talk when I want you to stay silent, and yet you refuse to answer when I want you to talk."

John swallowed and tried to regain the use of his muscles, or at least his facial muscles. No-go on that. Oh yeah, he had to get his tongue to work too. Finally, John's voice squeaked out, "I…I think you…broke me. I think…Wow. Yeah. That was…brilliant." He rambled and gave his consulting lover another dazzling smile. John waved his hand loosely, like a broken puppet. "I don't mind."

Because John's reply was a bit fuzzy, (Really what did John mean by saying he was broken?) Sherlock repeated, "You're all right, then?"

"Oh, I'm good. I'm brilliant. You're brilliant," said John nuzzling into his lover's lean, muscled chest. "Brilliant. Everything's brilliant." He kissed his way up towards Sherlock's long, statuesque neck.

Sherlock snorted, clinging to his partner. "You're sure that you're all right, John? You passed out. You were out for several minutes…"

"Your own fault, Sherlock," the euphoric blond half sung.

"Impossible man. Your brain is more jumbled than ever."

"Your fault," teased John.

"This was meant to be punishment," sniffed the brunet.

"No it wasn't," sang John, who turned to kissing the prickly unshaved skin under a hard jaw.

"Well," conceded Sherlock, "Perhaps not. But I hope that I've proved that you belong to me. Once and for all. No one can ever give you what I can give you," asserted the genius firmly.

"Nope, no one. Just you," agreed the blond, who was drunk on endorphins and lots of other good chemicals, whose names he couldn't be arsed to remember. He reached up with a lazy hand to caress a razor-sharp cheekbone. " 'Sides, I don't want anything from anyone else, ever. Of course I belong to you. Of course I do."

"I didn't like you discussing art with that woman," said Mr. Pouty-face.

"Yeah? Maybe you didn't and then again, maybe you did," John's eyes narrowed. "I think it inspired you…'cept maybe…based on our analysis, you were supposed to ride me,' said John, pursing his lips in thought.

Sherlock made a moue of distaste. "You know I'm uncomfortable with bottoming John."

"Well, I could always ride you," suggested John, eager to help as always.

"Now?" said Sherlock, hopefully.

The former army doctor paled, his skin turning a bit chalky. "No. Oh no, Sherlock. Not now. I couldn't possibly…Not tonight. I would die."

"But John…"

"Look, I'm the doctor. I know these things," said John trembling slightly. "I would definitely die. We have to wait, at least until morning."

The brunet tilted his head and looked at his ashen, trembling lover. Perhaps John was right, thought Sherlock. John Watson was, in fact, a doctor. Sherlock had confirmed John's credentials after their first meeting. So his medical opinion was valid. And John had already fainted once tonight. Perhaps enough was enough.

"Fine!" Sherlock's long arm swung out and switched off the lamp. Then the lanky detective lay down fully, pulling his rather sticky, sweaty blogger onto his chest. He resumed running his soothing hands over his lover's strained wrists and arms.

John relaxed into this embrace. Sherlock kissed John's hands and his sore wrists.

"We can go to the National Gallery tomorrow," said the World's Only Consulting Dom. "You can teach me about art. But only me. You will in future refrain from discussing art with anyone besides me…especially bleached blond tarts. Is that clear John Watson?"

"Oh yeah, whatever you say Sh'lock. No more talkin' art to tarts," said John dissolving in to giggles.

As always, Sherlock could not resist his blogger's infectious giggles. A smile broke across his face, and he chuckled softly.

"It's a date then. We'll go to the museum, discuss some art, and then when we get home, we'll discuss it some more." Sherlock skillfully used his lowest register to seduce his blogger.

"Okay. We'll do that, Sh'lock," muttered John. "But you haf-ta wear the cuffs, my wrists are too sore."

"Certainly, John." Sherlock made a mental note to acquire padded cuffs both for his own comfort and, more importantly for John's. Certainly, Sherlock could not allow his poor blogger's wrists to become this sore again. No, he would have to obtain the proper equipment if he was going to dominate John again…and again, and again...

"Right then. G'night, luv," murmured John, innocent of the plans percolating in the massive mind of the man holding him close. Well, mostly innocent. Well, John had not thought of the padded handcuffs...yet.

"Good night, John."

John's soft, sonorous snores were very relaxing. Yet Sherlock couldn't sleep just yet. He was too excited, planning trips to the local museums and art galleries. Who knew what latent, wild sexual fantasies lurked under John's oh-so-innocent, oh-so-vanilla, jumper-hidden exterior? And who knew that art would bring out those deeply buried secrets?

Sherlock grinned in the dark, because now he knew. Oh Yes! Sherlock Holmes knew! And only he knew. It was like Christmas or a locked room murder or a locked room murder on Christmas...only better.

In the dark, he could just make out the outline of John's face, so beautiful and all his.

"Mine," he rumbled into the blond's tousled hair. "All mine. My John."

TA-DA! I mean…

The End

A/N This is definitely The End, unless I get inspired…I mean...unless John gets inspired by some beautiful work of art, which will then be reduced to a seed for pointless smut. Let's hope that doesn't happen. :P

Thank you for reading and following. Thank you to those who listed this as a favorite and a special thank you to those who sent lovely reviews.

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Disclaimer I do not own the rights to Sherlock or anything Sherlocky, for which most of the world is profoundly grateful. :D