Having Sherlock Holmes on his knees and tied up from shoulders to wrists in a set of intricate, interlocked knots that took John six weeks to learn has got to be some kind of gift, John thinks.

And when he's sweating, begging to suck John's cock? Even better.

John steps in front of where Sherlock is on his knees in the middle of the bed, arched and straining from the stress on his shoulders, and waits, patiently.

"Please, John," Sherlock pleads. "Just a taste, I promise I'll do anything else – "

"Hush. No, you can be creative. You are the genius here, aren't you? Come on, use that gorgeous mouth to get me off. Without touching my cock." John watches Sherlock's eyes flick back and forth, calculating. Even in this position, John can feel the pull Sherlock has on him, that fierce intelligence all bending to John's will, his desire, making it his own.

Sherlock leans forward carefully, minding the edge of the bed so he doesn't fall, and bends low to gently nose John's belly button, sliding his lips around the muscles there and down to John's hip, where he nips slightly. John places his hand on Sherlock's head, being careful not to tip his already precarious balance by stroking and tugging those long curls. John's trying to keep his mind on the scene, while at the same time feeling Sherlock taking his balls carefully into his mouth, humming slightly and breathing deep, intent. Sherlock is incredibly good at this, and John's pretty sure he isn't going to hold out much longer.

John's checking the state of Sherlock's hands where they're bound behind his back (slightly red, but not leaning toward purple, good) when he feels it. A flicker of tongue up his shaft, and he jumps back.

"Thought I told you no."

"Sorry, John, sorry," Sherlock says breathlessly. "Couldn't help it, you looked so delicious – "

John shakes his head, frustrated. Another lovely scene spoiled by punishment. Sherlock isn't focused, today, but he can help that. Correction has been the most difficult thing to learn but the most important to master, where Sherlock is concerned. He opens the bottom drawer of his bureau.

It's when Sherlock arches into the strokes of the riding crop against his upturned arse that John realizes something has gone very wrong.

...…..

Sherlock twists, feeling the pull and stretch of his thigh muscles where they're spread slightly too wide for comfort by the spreader bar. It's an interesting change – John prefers Sherlock tied up and helpless most of the time, but today his hands are free for what John has planned.

He's a lot more inventive than Sherlock would have given him credit for, spending quite a lot of time reading and researching and figuring out his own little enjoyments, and that's perfectly fine with him. It turns out John likes what Sherlock likes, which is the point, after all.

He twitches slightly when the first light touch of the flogger kisses his backside, a brush of suede that has him tingling all over. No touching himself, today, and John wants to be sure he follows his instructions of his own free will. It's a challenge, but not a difficult one. He's always been master of himself, first.

As the strokes grow harder, more insistent, each punctuated by the caress of John's lips on his ear, encouraging, praising, telling him how good he is, how gorgeous, how lovely, Sherlock can feel himself start to grow almost detached from his own body, a mindless bliss he gets from John and no other. Rational thought starts to recede under John's ministrations, a heightening of physical awareness that has him in an iron grip. His focus is faltering, the heat between his legs more insistent and demanding, and without even thinking about it, he reaches down and palms himself, hissing in relief.

"Dammit, Sherlock, again?" John's voice is frustrated, ragged. "Christ, I gave you something so simple, and you didn't even make an effort." Sherlock is mildly disappointed. It's not like him to let himself get so carried away that he truly makes a mistake, but John's punishment isn't particularly unpleasant. Quite the opposite, in fact.

When John opens the drawer, Sherlock drops his head in supplication and turns his arse up, a pretty picture that usually makes John pleased. And he waits.

"Ten ought to help you remember, I think," and Sherlock startles at his voice. It's curt, detached, and nothing like the breathy warmth he's used to, even when John's got the riding crop ready. "Count. And remember your safeword."

A shiver of fear runs through him, and he tenses.

The first bite of the heavy leather strap hits him square, and pain explodes behind his eyes. It's not much worse than any whip he's endured before, but the cold, calculated stroke he's received heightens the sensation, makes him off balance, cuts the intimacy they usually share right down the middle and leaves it in tatters on the floor.

"Count, Sherlock, or I'll add five."

"One," Sherlock starts, stuttering around the word. He's scrabbling to find purchase, and wondering how.

By the time six comes around, the safeword John insisted on is on the tip of his tongue.

At ten, the word a choked sound, tears are brimming in his eyes.

…...

A week or so later and John's ready to scream aloud with the tension. He hasn't touched Sherlock in all that time, waiting for whatever it is that possesses his mind to make him approach John, kneeling prettily like he does, all bowed head and folded hands and a look in his eyes like John's the only one he sees. When he does, finally, it's with a strange edge, and John knows the dynamic between them has shifted incontrovertibly. Relief pours through him – he'd taken Sherlock to his room after his punishment, smoothed some ointment on his reddened rear, kissed him on the cheek and told him to come back to him when he was ready. John then went back to his own room and had a nervous breakdown on his bed, certain he'd just stepped over a line he was never meant to cross.

Every single day since then had been walking on eggshells, wariness and longing and fear keeping him silent.

John is so ecstatic at the sight of Sherlock in front of him that all he can do is slip to the floor and kiss him gently, tasting sweet lips and feeling soft, soft skin. It's a gift, John knows, this trust; and he intends to cherish it. Only passion, this evening. Only intimacy, and the softest of direction.

As he strips Sherlock's shirt from his shoulders, he sees something that makes his blood run cold.

The red, diagonal mark of a whip.

...….

Sherlock feels John tense as soon as his shirt slides down his shoulders, and with a sinking stomach he knows exactly what John sees. Lestrade's last session had been intense, but he was starting to get rather selfish with information, and Sherlock had a case on. It was rough, demanding, and nothing like the time he shares with John, which makes him ache with want, even as he defies him. He's missed the sureness of John's hands, the deft stroke of his crop. The quiet confidence of his body. Sherlock's craving it now, which is something he never expected. He'd laid awake for hours after John left him the last time, smarting from the bite of the leather strap, flabbergasted that John had the strength to actually punish him, and most of all, wondering how he could still want everything John can give him and why he's suddenly bereft, knowing how disappointed John is in him. And now he may have made the one mistake John won't ever forgive.

"Sherlock, what the hell is this?" John's finger comes up to trace the small red line, barely longer than a pencil.

Lie, Sherlock's brain tells him. Lie, tell him it was anything, a surprise attack in an alley with a pipe, an accident in the lab, anything. "It's exactly what you think it is."

John moves to stand over him. "So, you're angry with me, and you decide to go have a fuck somewhere else, is that it? Pay me back?"

"No," quietly. He'll get to it. And God help him when he does.

"Then what? Too little? Too much?" Too much, Sherlock thinks. Oh God, it's too much. A mutually beneficial arrangement for everyone involved, even for John. Sherlock knows he started this to keep John happy, to show him that Sherlock trusted him, but it's gone much further than that now.

"It's – I couldn't. I do what I've always done. But no, he didn't fuck me."

"Oh, he didn't, that's alright then." John's voice is deadly calm, and it makes Sherlock shiver. "Who was it?"

A beat of silence. "Does it matter?"

"I suppose it does, yeah. I want to know if you're just having me on with this and getting your real kicks elsewhere. So who was it, a pro?"

Sherlock twists his mouth in distaste. He's never gone for professional Doms, play parties and the like. They never knew what he wanted, they only assumed they knew; thought they were good enough to figure him out, but they never were.

"No, not a professional." Deep breath. "Lestrade and I have…an understanding."

If the world had stopped turning on its axis that very minute, Sherlock wouldn't have noticed, too riveted by the look on John's face – shock, mostly, and an expression that makes Sherlock think he might vomit. Sherlock starts talking, hoping if he explains himself it will help John make sense of it.

"No, no, John really, it's not the same, not with you, it's just for information with him, for the work, well in a way, as he really is quite good, but I need him, and it makes him easier to handle, and it was a mutually beneficial arrangement. But not like with you, when I can't feel myself breathing and the world closes in and all there is, is what you do to me." He is breathing heavily, and finds himself at John's feet, his eyes pleading and fixed on his face, all pride gone.

It's clear that John's having none of it. He steps out of Sherlock's grip, backing away slowly.

"I knew you were always dedicated to your work. I just didn't know you were a whore for it." The words land like a blow and Sherlock recoils.

John turns to the door, pulling on his coat and leaving the flat with a slam.

Sherlock sinks the rest of the way to the floor, defeated.

...…..

John's huffing, furiously pacing the park. He's been round twice already, but he's still not sure what to make of it. He thought Sherlock had wanted him, but was trying to be clear about his own needs and boundaries, and like an idiot, John had fallen into a trap Sherlock had obviously set before. Well, at least once; who knows how many more there were. The thought makes John physically ill. He'd never even contemplated a relationship like the one he had with Sherlock before, and that Sherlock would push John to the point of hurting him for fucked-up reasons of his own makes his heart clench in revulsion at himself. Everything he'd been doing these last few months was an out and out farce; a twisted game of Sherlock's to get what he wants.

He drops his credit card on the desk of a cheap hotel and takes his key up to his room. He strips off his shoes and drops on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

"It's not the same, not with you…all there is, is what you do to me."

What isn't the same? John wonders. Because he can't imagine having that hauntingly beautiful creature in your hands and not giving him the absolute focus of your attention, your time, everything. The rush he gets from making Sherlock reach near oblivion is like nothing he's ever known, and it haunts him, now. John had thought that in dominating Sherlock, he was giving him something he craves, something he needs. He may have been, in Sherlock's own mind. But he sees now that there was always a distinct lack of true supplication on Sherlock's part, a tendency to falter in things John knew he could do.

Perhaps his way of controlling, even in seeming submission.

But I know him, I see when his eyelashes flutter when he's close to the edge, you can practically feel his brain power down. He'll feel Sherlock's compliance slither over him like fire, cascading his own arousal, feeling the bond of need between them tighten and flare.

Like the last time. The last time, when Sherlock reached down to touch himself after John told him not to. It felt different than other times he's disobeyed, more unconscious, in a way more real.

"The world closes in…"

John smacks the garish coverlet with both hands in frustration, his desire for the Sherlock he thought he knew warring with the one he just saw revealed to him in vivid red on white in the sitting room. He wonders if even Sherlock knows what he's been doing, and why he turned to John when there was nothing else John could give him that he hadn't already, but someone to trust.

And love.

...…

An hour after John left and Sherlock is still on the floor, staring at the pattern on the sleeve of his shirt. White on white, tiny woven chevrons over and over and over, and Sherlock can't stop looking.

Well, this is how it feels, Jim, he thinks a little hysterically, to have your heart ripped out.

He knew when he came to John today that it was possible that Lestrade's mark was still there, and wonders about the propensity for serial killers to want to get caught, to be able to talk about how clever they are.

But he doesn't feel clever. He feels heavy, strung out, and hyper, all at once. He wants John more than he can articulate clearly, even in his own mind, and he's not entirely certain how he could even begin to explain it. He was honest when he told John that it was different with him, that there was much more to their relationship than anything he had with Lestrade, or Sally, or Molly, or Dimmock.

It's not just feeling John's hands tug tight knots around his wrists, or the slide of his cock inside Sherlock's body that makes him want John to come back. It's the sureness of that touch and confidence in himself, a strength of character that makes Sherlock…trust him. Absolutely and completely, without reserve. Even when John was wielding a leather strap with sharp precision on his arse, Sherlock knew he would stop the instant his safeword was uttered. He hadn't though, because he knew he'd deserved it.

Sherlock drags himself off of the floor, stands and takes deep breath. There's so much more he will have to do, but he starts by going straight to his phone and sending four texts.

...…

John steps inside the door in Baker Street and pauses. He needs to be calm, get Sherlock to acknowledge what he might not even realize himself, and then they can go from there. Perhaps. John's still feeling the sting of betrayal, but there was that something in Sherlock's confession, a pleading, desperate edge, that won't leave John's mind.

Something more of need than he's ever heard before.

He takes the steps two at a time, ready to confront Sherlock, make him spell out exactly what he wants, when he opens the door to the sitting room and stops dead.

Sherlock, clad only in a pair of black boxer briefs, kneeling in front of the fireplace, Blackberry in one hand, a thin silver chain looped around the other. The room is utterly silent, morning light flooding in and making Sherlock's pale skin glow. His head is bowed, the very picture of submission, and he doesn't look up at the sound of the door opening. John approaches him cautiously, wondering just how long he's been there.

"Two hours and ten minutes." John has never gotten over Sherlock's ability to read his mind like that, and he shakes his head fondly.

"What are you doing?"

He looks up at John then, his face open and his grey eyes hopeful. "I told them all." He holds his Blackberry up so John can see the text: It's over.

John wonders who he means by "all," but decides not to press. His fingers twitch to place his hand on that beautiful head, but he needs to know, first. "Sherlock, I appreciate the gesture, but I'm not sure I know what it means. I need you to tell me what you want from me."

"Everything," Sherlock says quietly. "I need you, John. My work sustains me, it's been my life, but it's one neverending struggle after another. You've given me somewhere to rest, where it's quiet and I don't have to think all of the time. I can trust you to know what's best for me, then."

"But it has to be more than that, Sherlock," John says. "You know I care for you. I couldn't have done the things I did if I didn't. But did you ever want me at all, or was it just an act?" John's heart is in his throat, waiting on a knife's-edge.

Sherlock drops his head again, staring at the floor. "I'm sorry, John, for how this started. I thought I needed it to keep you with me. I didn't know that I would want you quite this way. God, how much I want you," he says fiercely, his eyes suddenly fixed on John's face and it's a struggle for John to breathe. "It's more than whips and knots and I don't deserve you, not yet, but let me show you. I can. I want you to be happy, to be pleased with me."

John does reach out his hand then to rest on Sherlock's head. It's amazing, he thinks, that the one thing Sherlock wants is the one thing I want to give him, to have a beautiful and fragile thing in my hands to care for. "I've found that it's almost second nature, to want to take care of you," John says. "You need it. But I want that all of the time, not just when you feel like it, and not just in the bedroom. I don't mean bossing you around," he says quickly at Sherlock's somewhat panicked expression, "I mean, if you just want someone to talk at, or if you need someone to tell you when it's too much, I want to be that person, too. But only me. No going to someone else when you're upset with me."

Sherlock smiles shyly, holds out his hand with the sliver chain lying in it. It's a small thing, worked in tiny links of infinity symbols joined end to end.

"I've never been fond of collars, they're ridiculous under most circumstances," Sherlock starts, "but I thought…well. I thought if you wanted, we could, and it would help remind me." The last is said in a rush of words John barely understands, but the symbolism of it is breathtakingly obvious.

Sherlock is offering himself to John, and only to him. A pledge, clear as crystal.

John takes the chain from his hands and holds it a moment, considering. "If I do this, I expect honesty, all of the time. In everything."

"Yes, John. I swear I will."

"And no manipulating me to get your own way. You want something, fine. But talk to me about it like an adult. This will never work otherwise."

"I promise not to misbehave on purpose," Sherlock says solemnly, and then spoils it with a devilish smirk. "Most of the time."

John swallows, trousers suddenly a bit too tight. "See, like that. Knock it off, you, or I'll get the crop."

Sherlock beams. "Promise?"

John smiles, and clasps the chain around Sherlock's regal throat. "Of course I do. God, how could I ever refuse?"

...…

Sherlock tosses all of his cash at the driver and makes a leap for the door as soon as they're reasonably close to a stop. He estimates John's only about five minutes ahead of him, but that's too much, in Sherlock's mind.

He pounds up the stairs and throws open the door to find John sitting quietly in his armchair by the fireplace, lights dimmed.

"Hello, Sherlock. Come inside and close the door."

That voice, that dark, commanding voice, jolts Sherlock straight in the gut, makes him go weak. He breathes heavily, turning and hanging his coat up with unsteady hands and coming to stop right in front of John's chair.

He's sitting casually, legs crossed, elbow on the armrest and his finger lightly rubbing his lip. He gives Sherlock an expectant once over, then raises his hand, a wordless gesture telling him to get on with it, already.

Undressing in front of people isn't new to him, but Sherlock's not really ever done it with so much expectation before. He's still feeling his way around it all, trying always to remember that what John likes, he likes, and so far it's been almost perfection, John earning the trust Sherlock placed in his hands in spades.

He slides his jacket from his shoulders, keeping his eyes squarely on John's, and starts on the buttons of his shirt. One by one he flicks them open, fabric parting slowly to reveal his chest, graced by the glimmer of a silver necklace, before he pulls the shirt from his trousers and drops it on the floor. John's eyes are glittering, riveted, and he 's watching Sherlock's slow striptease with a raging hard-on that Sherlock really wants to touch.

Sherlock turns to the side, opening his belt and unfastening his trousers, pushing them over his hips a little, giving John a good side view of his cock, already hard from the high-voltage tension in the room, before he turns around entirely, toes off his shoes and socks, and slides trousers and pants down with both hands slipping along his arse and thighs. The strangled groan from behind him makes him feel smug; even now, he still can affect John's control, but that's not what he wants tonight. He wants what he was promised, that mindless place between light and dark, before the explosion.

The heat of John's body announces his presence to Sherlock's senses before his voice does, a breathy "So damn gorgeous" and two fingers sliding down his spine to rest in the dip of his back right above his rear.

"Come on then, I believe you have something you're supposed to do," John says, as he comes around to Sherlock's front, takes his hand and leads him to the couch, pushing him gently between the shoulderblades to kneel on the seat. Sherlock remembers a steely voice in an alleyway and spreads his knees, dipping low to put his forehead on the backrest and wait, anticipation making his body almost vibrate.

Warm hands drift over his back, smoothing from shoulders to hips.

"God, you're perfect like this, just look at you. And I know exactly how to make you moan, don't I?" John presses a kiss to the base of Sherlock's spine and tastes the skin there. Sherlock sucks in a breath, John's teasing fingers skating down the outside of his thighs, and he knows he needs to settle, breathe and focus, or he'll never make it, and John was very clear about his intentions.

A sharp slap to his arse shocks him, makes him arch. No toys , tonight. Just John and his promise to show Sherlock exactly what he's good at. Another three in quick succession and he's groaning, a sheen of sweat breaking out across his forehead.

"Shhhh, my lovely," John whispers, sliding slick fingers into the cleft of Sherlock's arse. "Let's see what else can make you shiver." Sherlock's almost vibrating, and when two fingers push and stretch and slide inside his body, the burn courses all the way through him, flaring behind his eyes, and he keens, fingers digging into the backrest. His cock is already aching, needing friction and he's almost undone. He's struggling to keep his focus, remembering don't come don't come don't come like a mantra.

John is still sliding his fingers inside, twisting and curling them to brush Sherlock's prostate, and just when he's teetering on the edge, almost unable to take much more (good god, John hadn't even touched his cock, not once, just words and fingers caressing inside him and soft lips kissing his back), he hears the clink of a belt buckle and those teasing fingers are withdrawn. He gasps in almost relief, his impending orgasm receding just slightly, until he hears the tear of a condom packet and feels John push up inside him until his hips are nestled against Sherlock's arse. His shirt is still on, and the idea that he couldn't wait long enough to take it off is incredibly arousing.

"Are you alright?" John whispers, starting a slow, deep slide that has Sherlock almost knocking his head against the backrest in frustration. John's teasing him now, drawing it out, showing him just how much Sherlock needs what he can give him and damned if he's not right.

"Yes," he grits out, and the longer he feels John's unerring thrust, the more he can feel his awareness collapse in on itself until it's nothing but heat, and slide and more, more, more and just when he feels like he can't take any more without coming, he feels John's hand on his cock and a growled, "Come for me, Sherlock," and he does, almost howling in relief. John is still thrusting into him, picking up the pace until he's almost frantic, until he, too shudders and calls out Sherlock's name, collapsing against his back.

The silence afterward is conspicuous.

Sherlock is incapable of speech, completely, and John is unusually silent.

He pulls away from Sherlock's body slowly, cleaning up with a discarded t-shirt and disposing of the condom in the little bin by the table. Sherlock finally slithers down to slouch on the couch, and when John turns back around, he surprises Sherlock by dropping on his knees in front of him.

John lifts Sherlock's sliver chain, straightening it out to lay precisely flat against sharp collarbones. He then kisses that small hollow in Sherlock's throat, over the necklace, a reverent brush of lips that makes Sherlock's heart ache.

"Perfection, you are utter perfection," John says, continuing to kiss and nuzzle at Sherlock's neck.

"That's not what you were saying an hour ago," Sherlock responds, preening under John's attention. It's glorious, that contentedness he feels when John is with him like this, praising him as beautifully as when he makes a particularly clever deduction.

"That's because an hour ago you were a complete prick."

Sherlock feels the content feeling slipping away, growing indignant. "You can't tell me it wasn't obvious, John, a two-year old –" He stops speaking when John's lips cover his, laughing through the kiss he's trying to use to shut him up.

"Perhaps I should start working on that mouth of yours. I've got a gag, you know, and I'm not afraid to use it.''

Sherlock pouts for a moment, but he can't hold back the smile. He laughs fondly. Always so open to trying new things, he thinks. And when he gets a look at the impish smile on John's face, all he can think is: Good God, what have I wrought?