John padded bare-footed into the living room, eyes misty and limbs aching from a night's sleep. He looks about himself, and it taken his half-awake mind a few moments to take in the state of the place. 221B Baker Street does not pride itself on keeping a neat and orderly household, but the disarray in which John was witnessing it was ridiculous, even by Sherlock's deplorable standards.

There was stuff...everywhere. The bookcase held no books, its contents was flung onto the floor. The sofa was upside-down with a thick knife slash cut through its side. The coffee table was smashed, wallpaper had been ripped off the walls, and the windows were smeared with bright yellow paint. Strewn across the floor were hundreds of objects; an huge upended bottle of acid, an oil canister, a pig's head, a goldfish bowl containing a fish but no water, a stuffed raven, a suitcases full of what appeared to be animal bones, and a typewriter with most of the keys missing.

And there, in the centre of the abyss, sat in a chair in a dressing down with his eyes fixed on the skull on the mantelpiece, was Sherlock. John picked his way across to him, and fixed him with a thunderous glare.

"For God's sake – What the hell has been going on here?" Sherlock looked up lazily at his friend, noting his furious expression and agitated body language before returning is gaze to the skull and replying, "Going on where?"

John looks at him blankly for a second, licking his lips and folding his arms across his chest.

"Here, Sherlock. Here. In our living room. Or what used to be our living room, before you turned it upside down and painted YELLOW".

Sherlock looks around for a few seconds, clearly confused as to the fuss John was making, before returning his gaze and cocking his head to one side.

"...I couldn't sleep. Sleep is so dull, I don't know how you manage so much of it", he said plainly, and vacates his chair. He walks two paces before he feels firm fingers curl around his upper arm. He looks back and watches as John sits in the seat, and the hand holding his arm creeps down to his wrist.

Sherlock is very talented at predicting the actions of others. But he could say with certainty that at that moment in time, he'd never have predicted being pulled by his wrist forward and across John Watson's lap, in the middle of their living room.

Laying over John's knees, his arms taut against the floor and his head lolling between his shoulder blades, Sherlock snorted in utter contempt.

"Oh dear John, really? Are you going to spank me?"

This was all the invitation John Watson needed. He wrenched up Sherlock's dressing gown to reveal his bare, firm arse and without a word of warning, brought his hand down on the exposed left cheek. He heard a distinct gasp from the man, and a slight wriggle. Taking this as confirmation that he'd made the right choice, John began spanking Sherlock's arse at a steady and careful pace. He watched in an almost detached manner as a light pink began to bloom across Sherlock's arse, and noted that with each slap, Sherlock wriggled just that little bit more.

On the tenth spank, Sherlock gasped much louder than before, before saying quite shakily.

"John.. I...". But John ignored him, and instead continued the spanking, making sure to land the spanks sporadically across his arse, paying special attention to the tops of Sherlock's creamy thighs. He was absolutely furious, and really wanted Sherlock to pay for his appalling behaviour. His own thighs felt particularly warm, and with each spank that rang out, he could feel his cock twitching with interest. Gritting his teeth, John tried to forget this fact, and began to lecture the man laying across his lap, in order to try and distract himself.

"How dare you *SMACK* tear this place apart *SMACK* because you were BORED *SMACK*!"

He felt Sherlock squirm uncomfortably underneath him, and felt satisfaction shoot through his own body as he realised that Sherlock was clearly, humiliated.

"*SMACK* Cannot believe you think you can just *SMACK* do anything you please *SMACK* because you feel like it *SMACK*"

At this point, John shifted slightly to adjust to Sherlock's wriggling, and immediately froze as his leg came into contact with what was clearly Sherlock's hard cock. There was a split second moment in which both men were absolutely still, both apparently trying to comprehend the meaning of such a situation, before something inside John stirred, something that felt oddly like...triumph.

He resumed the spanking with much more vigour, thereby unleashing a series of whimpers from Sherlock, who John was convinced was now bright-red from the sheer humiliation of not only being punished – but for being aroused by it too. And John was glad, because it pleased him to know that this punishment was really affecting Sherlock.

A smug smile twitched on John's lips as he watched the light pink of Sherlock's arse deepen slowly, until it was slightly tinged red.

Sherlock was now quite frantic. "Alright, John! Ahhh, you really, no- John, don't – OW!"

John landed a particularly hard smack on Sherlock's arse.

"Do not speak unless spoken to, Sherlock, I've had enough of that smug tone of yours!"

Sherlock whimpered, and John was surprised to find him actually obey the order. It gave him confidence.

"Why did you do it, Sherlock? *SMACK* There was no point behind it, you just wanted to make a scene *SMACK*. Thousands of pounds worth of damage *SMACK* because Sherlock Holmes *SMACK* is bored?"

Sherlock lets out a sob at this, his self-control deteriorates, and he puts one hand back behind him to try and stop the onslaught on his now painfully stinging arse. His skin is now blushing deep pink and is highly sensitive, even to the cold air between each spank. His cock is begging for friction, and on top of it all, he's so utterly confused as to why he's finding this situation so arousing.

And John simply pins his hand to the small of his back, and carries on.

"Are you bored now, Sherlock? *SMACK* I don't think you are. Maybe that's why you did it. *SMACK* You knew I'd react so you destroyed our living room, just to get yourself off? *SMACK* Do you get off on this Sherlock, *SMACK*, being spanked like a naughty little boy over my knee?"

Sherlock's other hand wraps around John's ankle as he sobs, his words incoherent as his usually entirely suppressed emotions bubble to the surface and explode. His hips buck desperately against John's leg, and his whole body is tense with anger, and humiliation and desire.

John can tell Sherlock needs to be pushed over the edge – he needs this from John, and John is nothing if not reliable.

"Because that's what you are, isn't it Sherlock? You're just a naughty little boy who's just desperate for attention. And you know that you deserve to be punished – you deserve to have this pretty arse spanked bright red don't you?"

Sherlock's whole body is shaking – he's so, so close.

John spanks him a final time, forcing his hips straight forward and giving him the final friction he needs and Sherlock is grasped by an incredibly powerful orgasm that leaves him fighting for breath. For a few seconds afterwards – he's perfectly still, utterly detached from all emotions and simply enjoying the moment. But then the fierce sting of his arse comes back to him, and he feel blood rush to his face as he remember that John has just spanked him like a child in the middle of their living room. He knows that for John to have punished him, for the first time ever, that he really must have overstepped the mark, that maybe he was just desperate for attention from John, that somewhere deep down his body knew that he wanted and needed to be punished and Oh God he had come all over...

His shoulder shook as he began to cry – real tears filled with raw emotion and he couldn't say anything more than "I'm sorry, I'm s-sorry..."

John pushed him gently from his lap onto the mess that was now the floor. He took Sherlock's head in his hands and forced the embarrassed man to look at him.

"It's ok, it's over now – we'll get this place sorted and it will all be fine."

Sherlock sobbed harder. "It's not fine, it's not fine! I'm sorry, I didn't mean – and I didn't think you would actually..."

John hushed him and looked sincerely into his eyes.

"To be honest, I had no idea what I was going to do. I don't know where this leaves us, in terms of... But you're err...forgiven, and we'll sort this place out after breakfast".

Sherlock nods his head, frustrated at himself for not being able to speak properly. He folds his dressing gown tightly back over his bare chest and surveys the rooms with a blank expression.

John stands up and clumsily picks his way back towards the landing. "I'm going to get err...cleaned up. Do you want to talk about...this, when I get back?"

Sherlock looked very uncomfortable for a second.

"Ah." He started, rising to his feet and stepping gracefully off of the pile of books. "Yes, John...perhaps you should hold off of getting clean for a little while."

The doctor frowned. "...why would I do that?"

Sherlock wandered into the kitchen and began busying himself with his microscope.

"Because if you thought the living room was bad...I'm not sure you're going to enjoy our newly redecorated bathroom" he said with weak smile.