"Fuck, that was amazing." John couldn't feel most of the muscles below his waist, but it was absolutely bloody worth it. Even in his post-orgasmic slump, he could still appreciate what an artistic masterpiece Sherlock made - bound on the bed, his pinkened arse in the air with its gapingly empty hole (now that John was no longer in it) and with his knees held somewhere in the vicinity of his shoulders. His eyes were closed and his mouth was open, panting, although whether it was with lust or exertion, John was too knackered to tell. "You've done beautifully," he said instead.

Sherlock just whimpered and shuffled his shoulders a bit.

"Let's let you relax for a minute." John took care of his condom and then untied the ropes, carefully decoupling the nipple chain before popping the knots from the ends of the cane and lowering Sherlock's legs down flat to the mattress. Sherlock mumbled something as the gold chain fell back against his sternum, but he seemed too far gone to actually complain. John nudged Sherlock's legs closer together and ran his hands gently over the sensitive skin of his thighs. "Just relax," he repeated. "I've got you."

"Please," Sherlock whispered.

"In a minute. Get the tension out. Back away from the peak for a minute and then I promise you, I'll help you fly."

Sherlock's nipples had to be throbbing by this point, but John didn't touch the clamps. He did grab the second pillow and jam it under Sherlock's hips so that long, lean body could form a slight arch over the mattress. Sherlock moaned.

"Easy," John murmured. He ran his hand over Sherlock's stomach, his hips, his thighs. "You want your legs free, or you want them cuffed down?"

"Want to not move," Sherlock mumbled. "Want to come and then just die in peace."

God, he is so out of it. Even having just drained himself dry, John still felt a stab of lust at the thought. "I'll only promise the first half," he said with a smile. He repurposed the ropes again, quickly wrapping Sherlock's ankles and setting his legs at diagonals so he was tied spread-eagled on the bed with the pillow still holding his hips forward. Sherlock's cock had softened slightly, still desperately hard but no longer looking like he was going to burst the condom. John dipped to press a small kiss to the inside of Sherlock's knee, then started licking and kissing his way up.

"Ungh." Sherlock's sigh-groan was basically sex distilled to a single soundbite. John made his way up to Sherlock's bollocks, lightly mouthing and tonguing each in turn, and the sighs turned downright pornographic. Yeah, definitely out of it. So much for blathering to the point I'd want to shut him up. Sherlock squirmed, obviously not sure whether he wanted to press his hips down into the pillow or buck up against John's mouth. And fuck - John could practically see Sherlock's cock engorging again right before his eyes. They'd both be wanking about this for ages, most likely.

But Sherlock had been waiting long enough - anything more was going to be bordering on cruel. And John had a reputation to maintain. Not a reputation that mattered to anyone except himself, but still - Mike had vouched for him, albeit with second-hand knowledge, so maybe he should do this for Mike's reputation? Or - hell, mostly John just wanted to get his mouth on that luscious cock he'd been pointedly ignoring all evening. He flung himself onto Sherlock's legs - pinning him down even further - and swallowed him down as far as he could.

"Oh!" Sherlock went completely rigid, his hips freezing, all the better for John to center himself over those long thighs and to settle his palms over Sherlock's warm skin and to focus. Sherlock was actually literally babbling, now - John tried to keep an ear open for it, just in case the Tall Posh Git (no, not that, not anymore, not now that John knew both his name and his sexual tastes) actually did have some state secrets, but half the babbling appeared to be in languages John didn't understand and most of what he did comprehend seemed to center around the concepts of more, please, and a variety of expletives.

Whatever else might have been said about John's various skills, he knew he was good at this. He loved giving head, he loved the flavor (less so with the condom, but the hint was still there), he loved the way his partners would groan and pant and beg. And Sherlock's reactions were blowing everything else out of the water. John narrowed his cheeks and dragged his tongue gently over Sherlock's slit through the thin latex, then used his lips to provide a bit of pressure as he teased the underside of the head. Having Sherlock's hands tied was nice - it meant no yanking his hair as he moved his head around - but it also meant he didn't get that extra feedback from fingertips spasming against his skull. Not that it really mattered in this case, since Sherlock was being so responsive in other ways, but maybe if they ever got to do this again John would blow him up against a wall, just the two of them, no toys. Nothing but his tongue to get Sherlock to this post-verbal state. Although really, there was one toy he still had left to play with . . .

John held his body perfectly still, not wanting to give anything away by a big shift in his weight, but he let go of Sherlock and reached up over his head. Had to do this by feel, without touching, without letting Sherlock figure it out. Sherlock's eyes were closed, he wouldn't know until-

John's fingers found the nipple clamps. He sucked Sherlock's cock as far down as he could go and simultaneously popped both clamps off at once. A moment for Sherlock to realize, a moment for the pain to hit-

Sherlock yelled and nearly impaled John's throat as he came. His entire body was shaking with it. John kept his head still, the condom preventing him from having to awkwardly swallow, but he slid the heels of his palms over Sherlock's tender, puffy nipples and pressed. It wouldn't stop the pain entirely, but it would muffle it a bit. When the tension in Sherlock's body finally melted away and he melted back into the mattress, John pulled off and sat up to take stock.

Sherlock looked . . . honestly, "well-fucked" was the first thing to come to mind. His dark curls were plastered to his forehead, his eyes were closed and his mouth loosely open, and his nipples were indeed a lovely crimson with freshly-reacquired blood. He was the very picture of debauchery.

"John," he slurred, and opened his eyes. A strikingly vivid green, and hadn't they been more hazel earlier? "I feel like I have no bones."

"After an orgasm like that, I'm not surprised." John set to untying him, releasing one limb at a time and rubbing the rope marks with his thumbs to increase circulation. He left the purple ropes lying where they were, vivid against the white sheets, a stark reminder of how they'd looked against Sherlock's skin. "Feel free to take a minute - I'll go find a flannel and clean us both up."

"Skip it - come back here." Sherlock managed to get his condom off and tossed it in the bin next to the bed. "Want to hold you."

"Wouldn't have taken you for a cuddler," John said, but he did climb back on the bed and pull the neglected covers up over the both of them. Sherlock immediately rolled onto his side and enveloped him in an octopus-like embrace.

"Never have been before," Sherlock mumbled. "I think I will be every time with you, though."

Every time? John found he didn't dislike the idea - hell, hadn't he just been fantasizing about blowing Sherlock up against a wall? - but it wasn't necessarily going to be up to him. "You want to see me again, then?"

Sherlock pulled away just far enough that John could see his good grief expression. "Assuming you don't have to dash off for some other assignment, yes. Tell Mycroft I'll take his bloody job as long as he lets you stay."

Fuck. Fuckityfuckfuckfuck. John kept his fingers mechanically tracing up and down Sherlock's back, but his mind was racing. "Who's Mycroft?" he finally managed to say.

"Mycroft? Holmes?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "'Big Brother,' in every relevant sense? Come on, John, didn't they give you any background on me at all?"

John considered denying everything, pretending he had just happened to meet Sherlock at the wedding and happened to fancy a shag, but obviously there was more to it than that. "I don't know what you mean," he said carefully.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "Please," he groaned. "You're MI6; I'm not blind. I recognize an undercover assignment when I see one - I've done plenty of them myself, thank you. Do you seriously mean to tell me you slept with me without having a single clue what you were supposed to accomplish?"

Right, so denying everything was out of the question. And there was a Holmes somewhere in the chain of command - John wasn't exactly sure where, but he got the impression that the man was near the top. And this assignment had been at his express request - shit.

"You're one of Sholto's men, I'd wager," Sherlock continued. "You've seen plenty of deaths, killed more than a few men yourself. You didn't run screaming when you saw the feet in the freezer. And my brother has been after me for weeks to take on a particular pet project of his - a request I've been ignoring. Your easygoing facade and your obvious sexual expertise speak to rather extensive experience in that arena - some on your own, I'd assume, but at least some of it in service to your country. You were a little too unbothered, for someone who presumably isn't used to encounters quite like this. Assignment, then. And given the timing, likely my brother's doing."

Holmes. Mycroft Holmes. Brother? John finally put things together. "Your brother is named Mycroft Holmes?"

"Not that I usually care to acknowledge the relationship, but yes."

Mycroft and Sherlock - they must have had sadistic parents. "And you think I'm . . . what, a bribe?" John wriggled away from Sherlock's embrace. "I'm not a prostitute, Sherlock."

"No, but you're exactly what I would have been looking for, if I had known I were looking." Sherlock met his eyes unblinkingly. "I told Mycroft he didn't have anything I could possibly want enough to make me willing to work for him again. Apparently I was wrong. And he saw fit to nudge you my way."

It made sense. That's what was so damning - the vague assignment, the slim folder on Sherlock with few details and no name, the lack of direction until the very last minute. Everything reeked of a higher-up pulling some strings. John knew he should probably be angry - but then again, if he were the type to get mad about every secret his employers kept from him, he'd have been a very poor fit for his job. "I don't know what to say."

Sherlock heaved a put-upon sigh. "Fine - one second." he leaned over the side off the bed and fished in the pocket of his trousers, coming back up with a mobile. A few seconds later he was dialing a contact labeled in his address book as "Fuck off Mycroft" and he had the phone on speaker.

"Sherlock." The voice sounded vaguely familiar.

"I'm lying naked in bed with your man John after what was probably the best shag of my life," Sherlock announced. "He wants you to reassure him that it's okay to keep tying me up and fucking me on a regular basis."

"Holy fuck, Sherlock," John gasped. "Seriously, what the hell?"

"I do apologize for my brother," the smooth voice on the phone said. "He often lacks a verbal filter. Doctor Watson, if you would care to take me off speaker, I would be pleased to reassure you in private. Sherlock, for God's sake, go put some pants on."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but slid off the bed and sauntered over to the wardrobe to acquire some pants and a navy dressing gown. Nothing else was needed, apparently. John took the phone back into the cluttered sitting room and eventually figured out how to turn the speakerphone function off.

"It would seem my brother is pleased with your skill set," Mycroft said mildly.

"Yeah, it seems that way." John took a deep breath. "No offense, sir, but I'd really like some sort of something before I go and announce anything I'm supposed to be keeping secret. There's kind of no point to me insisting I'm not in Her Majesty's service now, I acknowledge, but I barely know you and I really don't know what the hell - sorry, what on earth - is going on."

"Would a call from Commander Sholto suffice?"

"I - yeah." John slumped into the one clear chair in the entire flat. "Although the fact that you know that name helps a lot."

"He can vouch for me, and I'll vouch for my brother." Mycroft hummed politely into the phone. "I really need to go, but I will say - there's a small matter of some foreign intelligence not being what it should. Something my brother would be in an excellent position to help me clear up. I do hope you're willing to work with him, should he accept the job - your employment isn't conditional upon your participation, of course - you're free to walk away now and we'll consider your assignment completed to satisfaction - but I suspect you, too, would find it a diverting little matter. And it's nothing that would put too much strain on your shoulder or your leg. You've been bored, Doctor Watson, and my brother is an excellent antidote to boredom."

Fuck. John nodded, then realized Mycroft wouldn't hear that over the phone. "Yeah, fine. Have Sholto call me and I'll talk to Sherlock."

Ten minutes of phone tag later, John came back into the bedroom to find Sherlock busily putting away the last of the recently-cleaned toys in the chest. In contrast to the mess in the rest of the flat, Sherlock's bedroom was astoundingly tidy. Clearly the sex toys were a prized possession.

"Resolved to your satisfaction, then?"

John nodded. "Sorry."

"You were being prudent." Sherlock hung up his dressing gown again - why bother with it if he was only going to wear it for a few minutes? - and slid under the covers in just his pants. "Coming?"

John looked at Sherlock, looked down at his own naked body (and hadn't that been strange, talking to his boss without a stitch of clothing on), and hesitated. Then flipped off the light and climbed in bed beside him.