Fic: Control Experiment
Title: Control Experiment
Author: Vertigo_Vision
Pairing/Characters: Watson/Holmes
Rating: I guess PG-13
Word Count: 4,891
Summary: Inspired this prompt on the sherlockkink-meme:
Did you notice that riding crop Holmes carries around in the movie? He's certainly not using it for riding so the theory goes that Watson makes him carry it for discipline. We see an occasion on which it needs to be used: During one of his experiment Holmes accidently sets the rooms and almost himself on fire. Watson is not best pleased.
Spoilers: None
Notes/Warnings: Discipline with a riding crop and some very tame making out that doesn't really need warnings. Reposted the whole fic here by popular request by nice people over at the kink-meme. Also this is unbetaed so please be gentle.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Control Experiment
Watson woke slumped over his desk to a loud bang. He blinked owlishly into the gloomy room lit only by a single gas light. What was the time? And more importantly what had been that noise? He winced, getting up from his chair, stretching stiff shoulders. He must have fallen asleep over his writing. Another bang louder yet shook the room, the floorboards fairly vibrating causing Watson’s sleep-befuddled mind to slip rapidly into a state of severe annoyance. A glance at his watch revealed the hour to be just past four in the morning and by the sounds that were emerging from the vicinity of Holmes’ rooms, the incorrigible man seemed to be determined to bring the house down on them at this ungodly hour - not to mention waking the whole neighbourhood in the process.
Sure enough when he made his way toward the landing he was promptly met by the accusing eyes of a night capped Mrs Hudson. Watson raised a consoling hand before she could even start yet another lament on her disreputable lodger.
“My apologies Mrs Hudson, I’ll see to it that he ceases his activities at once. You have my word.”
She sniffed.
“Thank you, doctor. I know Mr Holmes has his ways and usually I do not mind but such a racket at this hour, that’s just taking things to far. Why it sounds as if a battle were…”
Here words were cut short by the sound of glassware breaking and Watson was fairly sure he could hear muffled cursing. Mrs. Hudson was staring aghast in the direction of Holmes’ rooms.
“Good God, is that…smoke coming out from under the door?!”
So it was. Alarmed Watson turned towards the door, trying the handle. Locked.
He hammered on the wood.
“Holmes, whatever are doing in there? Open the door!”
More tinkling glassware was the answer and then came muffled Holmes’s voice.
“Nothing to concern yourself, dear fellow. Just an experiment gone a little awry, really no need for alarm.”
Watson suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Holmes proclaiming that there was no need for alarm was usually a sure sign to be very alarmed indeed. Still he seemed to be at least conscious and somewhat able to deal with his latest disaster which was - considering past occasions- a plus so Watson felt fairly confident that the fire brigade was not needed at this time. He turned back to Mrs. Hudson.
“Please, don’t let us disturb your night’s rest any longer, Mrs Hudson. I feel the situation is not too dire and we won’t be requiring assistance.”
“Well if you say so Doctor, then I bid you god night”
“Good night and my apologies again.”
After the landlady had gone, Watson knocked on the door again.
“Holmes? I require that you let me in at once!”
He heard coughing, then:
“Really Watson, I tell you there is no need. I have everything under control.”
What sounded like falling furniture belied Holmes’ words.
“I insist, Holmes, let me in or I shall break down the door.”
No sound emerged except more coughing. It was just no use arguing with the man. Watson put his boot to the door which gave way without much resistance. The scene that greeted him was one of utter chaos. Mrs Hudson had not been far off the mark; the room looked like a battle had been raging. Furniture was smashed, seemingly all of the beakers and vials used for experiments lay broken and Holmes himself was using an old blanket to beat at the dying flames of a smoking drapery at the window.
With a sigh Watson sank down heavily on a stool that was only a little singed and stared at the remnants of the room and it’s inhabitant who had managed to put the flaming curtain out and was now trying to smooth the tattered fabric as if to make it seem intact again. The silence stretched uncomfortably.
Finally Holmes gave up on the curtain and cleared his throat.
“I believe a minor setback occurred in my experiment. I was not expecting the components to react quite so …volatile. But not to worry, not to worry, I shall put it all right again.”
Watson looked at him in disbelief.
“A ‘minor’ setback? In that case I pray that I won’t ever see the day when a major incident occurs.”
“You don’t have to take that sarcastic tone Watson. It looks worse then it is.”
“I fail to see how this room could possibly look any worse. Or no wait, I take that back because knowing you, you’d take that as a challenge to inflict more damage. And what of yourself? Why you look as if you had gone ten rounds in a brawl and then been dragged through a chimney!”
Holmes shifted, looking down at his singed shirt-front and torn slacks.
“As I said the chemical reaction more rather more volatile and I stood rather close and well…”
He trailed off. Watson looked up in alarm again.
“You stood too close? Were you hurt?”
Holmes waved him off, dismissively.
“No, no, a trifling matter. Truly Watson you make too much of this incident, I do not require your clucking.”
Watson caught his wrist.
“You were hurt, I can see it clearly. There are burns on your hand that will need seeing to and after I’ve tended them we shall certainly speak some more on this whole matter.”
After Holmes’s hand had been cleaned and bandaged and the worst of the debris in the room cleared away the pair of them were resting on the settee with Watson lightly stroking Holmes’s uninjured hand.
“I though we agreed you’d be more careful.”
Holmes looked down at their tangled hands and Watson though he could detect a slight expression of shame crossing his soot-smeared face. But then again he might have imagined it.
“Experimental studies are not always so exact as to be predictable, surely you agree. There is simply no way around that. I only ask of you to grant me a little leeway when it comes to an unforeseen incident once in a while.
Watson merely raised an eyebrow.
“I thought we had agreed. Really Holmes, you make me out to be tyrant when things are far from that. Were it so that these were isolated events I would certainly allow for some leeway Only lately these incidents as you call them, seem to be steadily growing in number and I cannot rid myself of the impression that there are more experiments with incidents than without.”
Holmes blustered, tugging his hand away.
“Now you exaggerate vastly, why I can not even recall when last one of my experiments went awry!”
“I find that hard to believe given your usual sharp facilities. I for one can recall events quite clearly and I wager so could Mrs Hudson should we ask her. I believe about three weeks ago you set fire to the carpet, a month prior to that you exploded one your beakers and we had to scrape all that liquid off the ceiling and before that, let me think…ah yes, the bullet holes in your bedroom wall which incidentally I believe are still there. Do you wish me to go on?”
By now Holmes was looking rather sullen, his lower lip stuck out ever so slightly. This was an expression that usually prompted Watson to kissing said lip soundly but on this occasion he felt he could not let the matter slide. He sighed heavily, reaching across to reclaim Holmes’s hand.
“What were you doing anyway?”
Holmes coughed, seemingly embarrassed and then he became more animated again as he explained the purpose of his nightly activities.
“I have to confess to a slight slip of hand while adding one component. In retrospect there might have been a tad too much of it in the vial which caused the unforeseen…reaction. But I am confident that the result will be much more pleasing upon renewed repetition for you see, my dear fellow, I have hit upon a way to improve the proprieties of gunpowder in such a way that makes it almost entirely resistant to water which , I’m sure you will agree, has all forms of practical uses. Why in our line of work alone…!”
But Watson was not listening anymore. He had sat bolt-upright, his face gone white with shock.
“Gunpowder?!! You mean to tell me that you experimented with gunpowder and god knows what other volatile chemicals here, in your own rooms without precaution whatsoever?!”
Watson’s voice had grown steadily louder but Holmes looked merely slightly puzzled at this outbreak.
“Why yes, of course I performed the experiment in my workroom as per usual, where else would I have gone? You are acting most strangely you know. Whatever is the matter, Watson?”
“I’ll tell you what the matter is!!!”
Watson cried, rather loudly by now, no doubt disturbing Mrs Hudson once more, but at the moment he did not care at all, so incensed was he.
“The matter is that you might have blown yourself to bits! You might have killed yourself with your utter lack of care and for what? All over some nonsensical experiment!”
Holmes rose from his seat, decidedly miffed.
“My experiments are not nonsensical as you well know. I have discovered a number of things that are of great importance to my work and to that of the police also. And I resent being shouted at in such a way. It would seem to me you’re overtired and in dire need of rest, if such trifles cause you so much distress.”
Watson regarded him stunned, all words failing him. How could a man who was usually so brilliant in deducing motivations and intentions be so utterly clueless as to feelings of a different nature? He sank back into the upholstery and his voice when he finally spoke came out brittle at best.
“Sometimes Sherlock, I think you care not for me at all.”
Watson rarely had an occasion to catch Holmes by surprise but presently he did, the detective’s eyes going wide and his mouth forming a perfect o of astonishment.
“However can you say such a thing to me, my dear John? Admittedly I may not be given to love-poems ore other fripperies but I had always thought that you are quite clear on my affections for you.”
“Yet you care not one whit for my state of mind having to watch you day after day risking your health, your very life...”
Holmes cut into his speech impatiently.
“These matters come with my line of work and can not be helped. I thought you had long reconciled yourself with that.”
“Indeed I have, and if you had let me finish I would have told you that I am not speaking about those occasions when you put yourself in line of danger for your work but when you do so out of sheer…I do not even know why…ennui, curiosity, a mistaken belief that you might be invincible? Tell me Sherlock, why do you persist in such behaviour? Is live in the spare time between your cases so unbearably dull that your mind can only be occupied my dangerous experiments or narcotics? Is there truly nothing else to engage yourself with?”
The words “Not even me?“ were left unspoken and for a while they just looked at each other, two men at opposite ends, each unable or unwilling to understand the other. And although it was usually not in Holmes’s nature to be anything but stubborn, he found that when it came to Watson he was quite unable to hold out for long in face of his companion’s distress.
“I…I was not aware that my actions made you feel this way. I do not wish to cause you pain, John, you must know that and never for a moment was it my intention to imply that I find you anything else than most alluring and engaging.”
He sank down next to Watson again, gripping his hands.
“Truly, I apologize.”
Watson sighed, regarding him wearily then he leaned in to steal a single kiss.
“How do we find ourselves back at these occasions I wonder?”
Holmes was studying the settee’s floral printed upholstery with seemingly rapt attention, his eyes cast down.
“I have no reasonable explanation to offer, I find myself quite at a loss. You know how it goes with me without a case and you are good to have put up with it so long. I can not even promise you that it shall never happen again for I would not add lying to my list of offences against you. I…I can only offer to…make amends.”
A slight blush had begun to rise across Holmes’ usually pale cheeks at these last words and Watson found himself tracing it quite unconsciously. Yes, Holmes had been making amends in the past. When Watson had first introduced the idea of discipline, vexed beyond endurance by some of his lovers’ more outrageous acts and seeking to reign in his dangerous exploits, Holmes had naturally bristled. Watson wanted to think that true understanding and regret for his actions had brought Holmes to acquiesce after all but lately he could not help the notion that it might have been done simply out of a wish to please him.
His fingers found Holmes chin, tipping it up.
“While I appreciate the offer, I confess I’m still quite angry with you and I do not even know any more if I should have suggested chastisement in the first place, for what good does it do? It seems not much of a deterrent at all, for you repeat the same offence or something in a similar vain just a few weeks shy of the last.”
He sighed deeply
“Truly, Sherlock what am I going to do with you?”
Holmes for his part was looking quite wretched by now, gazing at Watson imploringly.
“I can assure you, that I find the occasions on which you see fit to treat me in this manner not a pleasant experience at all. I know not why I am unable to avoid them or the actions that precede them. I just cannot seem able to help myself for all the sense that makes which is really none at all.”
Watson suppressed a smile at these convoluted explanations. How puzzling it must be for logical, sharp minded Sherlock Holmes to find himself in such a predicament as to be unable to make sense of his own actions. He rose, resolution at hand.
“In that case I shall help you, my love. Though you might wish later on it were not so.”
Holmes seemed to be caught between relief and embarrassment. He cleared his throat audibly, the words rather stumbling over themselves when they emerged.
“Do you…do you whish for me to…ah, disrobe…now? I mean that is…”
Watson shook his head.
“No. I would not lay a hand on you in any way while you are still hurt. We will wait until your burns are healed. Besides I am afraid that only my hand will not do on this occasion, I feel another instrument might bring new merits.”
“Another…instrument?!” Holmes asked in bewilderment.
Watson let his gaze trace across the room. His cane maybe? But no, it was far too unwieldy. One of the carpet slippers, half hidden under the settee? No, that seemed too childish a weapon by far. Finally his eyes came to rest on an old riding crop that lay amidst the debris, having apparently escaped destruction so far. Yes, that would do.
He turned back to Holmes.
“Yes, I’ve come to the conclusion that my hand is not doing much good at all, you seem to find its application rather more shameful then anything else and that is obviously not deterrent enough. And while I would under no circumstance want to bring you to any harm, I do think you’ll agree that reckless gunpowder-experiments indoors call for something rather more severe. That crop over there should do splendidly.”
The door to the drawing room banged open emitting Holmes in a flurry, Watson only a few steps behind him. Holmes turned on his companion, eyes glittering, face flushed. He could have quite the temper on him if the occasion presented itself.
“That was absolutely beastly and it is solely your fault!”
Watson shrugged out of his overcoat, placing it neatly next to his hat and cane on the wardrobe.
“Come now, it wasn’t that bad at all. Your explanation was quite reasonable and I’m sure Lestrade found no fault with it. Are you not always saying yourself how he is not the sharpest knife in the drawer?”
Holmes glared at him, slapping the object that was cause of his agitation onto the mantle piece.
He’d been carrying the riding crop with him as per Watson’s instructions for the past three weeks. It had been serving as a reminder of the punishment yet to come and Watson had noticed a marked change in his lover’s behaviour. Suffice to say that there had been no more gunpowder experiments or incidents of any other kind even though they had not been engaged with a case. Nobody had remarked upon Holmes’s new acquisition until today when they had been consulted by Lestrade on a small matter of a prior case. On their way out of the Yard the inspector, taking in Holmes appearance had asked him if he had taken up riding and Watson had had the very rare pleasure of seeing his lover flustered. He was not normally given to enjoyment in the face of other people’s discomfort but to see the usually composed detective so obviously out of sorts, well it did hold a certain attraction. Although Holmes had recovered his faculties quite quickly, answering the inspector that he was carrying the crop for measures of self-defence, should a ruffian or other criminal be set upon him; an explanation that Lestrade had accepted quite handily.
“I am done, do you hear me Watson, done! I will not carry this wretched thing around me for a single second longer and I’m sick to death of the delay. Do you have any idea at all how this feels for me, the waiting and the wondering. Every single day the question, is this the day, will it finally happen today? I tell you I can bear it no longer.”
Watson crossed his arms, regarding his lover steadily.
“Well perhaps, now you know how I feel. Every day I am left wondering is it today that you might go too far, risk too much or care too little. It is not a state that I would wish upon anyone else, lest you but it seemed to be the only way to make you understand.”
Holmes sank into an armchair, his anger draining away as quickly as it had come in light of this insight. He gave a heartfelt sigh.
“I take your point and I will endeavour in the future to pay heed to it, you have my promise. But please John, I implore you, can we no put the matter behind us now? I confess myself to be eager for a resolution, for surely nothing could be worse than this tortuous waiting.”
Watson came to stand before him, inspecting his left hand that now only showed faint marks were the burns had been.
“Your hand is fine then, no more pain? Very well then, I suppose the time has come.”
Holmes stood up, jittery all of a sudden, not knowing what to do.
“How…how do we go about this?”
Watson picked up the crop from the mantle, flexing the stiff leather thoughtfully in his hands. Mrs Hudson was conveniently out, Sunday being the day she always took off a few hours to visit her sister, so they would not have to worry about any intrusion on her part. Still best to be certain. He went over to the door and turned the key.
“You can start by undressing and then, hmmm, the settee is not sturdy enough I fear, perhaps…yes I think the coffee table will do, you can lean over that.”
Holmes looked up in surprise.
“Undress? You mean completely? Only in the past you never had me…I mean usually…” he trailed off.
Watson regarded his lover steadily.
“Yes well, this is not a usual matter, so yes, everything off. Now if you please, Sherlock.”
It was important not to give Holmes too much time to think, he had learned that from past experience. If the man had time to think, he would start to argue no matter if he was in the wrong or right and this was not a good thing, especially not with someone who given half the chance could prove to you by whatever convoluted yet seemingly failsafe logistics that black was indeed white. No, it was clear and precise instructions that did the trick when dealing with one Sherlock Holmes in such a situation.
Watson watched as his lover undid buttons and hooks with slightly unsteady hands, setting aside one garment after the other until he stood in front of him, splendidly nude and with a slight flush on his face. They had of course seen each other like this countless times before but for only one to be in such a state while the other remained clothed was an entirely different matter. He inclined his head towards the coffee table.
“Over you go.”
When Holmes seemed reluctant he guided him over the shining wooden surface with a light touch on his elbow. His lover shifted minutely, his long legs flexing. Watson trailed a gentle hand over the firm arse before him, so nicely presented and thought regretfully of much more pleasant occupations they might have indulged in given this position. Oh well, nothing for it now. He felt Holmes still under his hand as he lined up the crop, his skin breaking into goose bumps at that first touch of leather to flesh.
“How many?” Holmes asked in a quiet voice.
Watson considered.
“I think a dozen strokes should suffice, though you need not count them out. Are you quite ready then?”
The dark head at the end of the table bobbed in affirmation and Watson tapped the crop lightly against one leg.
“Words Sherlock, remember? We talked about this.”
Holmes drew a shaky breath, gazing back at him over his shoulder.
“As ready as I shall ever be, I suppose.”
“Very well.”
Watson brought the crop down with calculated force causing immediate action on Holmes’s part as he twisted over the table, cursing:
“Confound it all, that stings like blazes!”
Watson guided him back into proper position, pressing a firm hand onto the small of his back. Already he could see a welt forming where the crop had landed, a stark red line on otherwise yet unmarked skin.
“Do stay put, will you? I don’t want to hit anything else by accident than my inteded target,” he reprimanded.
“Easy for you to say, you’re not the one having to stay in place while being beaten with a bloody crop, “Holmes griped, bringing back a hand to rub at the stinging spot.
Watson dealt him a firm slap, pursing his lips in displeasure. Holmes tended towards defiance at the start of any punishment no matter how heartfelt his regret might have been beforehand. It was best to nip such behaviour in the butt lest the whole affair got completely out of hand.
“Less swearing, if you please. And those twelve strokes are entirely optional, you know. I could always give you more for your belligerent attitude if you would prefer.”
His statement was met with pointed silence. Watson nodded to himself.
“I didn’t think so. Shall we continue then?”
They got on fairly well after that with Holmes staying bent over, only hissing occasionally as the strokes fell. Watson was taking care to line the crop up evenly for he wanted to avoid crossing any welts since that often led to bleeding and soon eight parallel marks were lining the buttocks in front of him. Holmes’s breath was going heavily by now, sweat gathering along the line of his bare back and his dark hair standing fetchingly on end. He made quite the picture indeed. Watson filed this thought away for later consideration - there would be a time to explore it further in such a way that they might both come to enjoy this scenario. But for now there was still the matter of discipline at hand.
Watson considered. He had started the strokes out fairly high up a few inches shy of Holmes’s tailbone, aiming steadily lower over the course of the whipping which now had brought them to that critical juncture, the place were buttock curved into thigh. And sure enough Holmes reared up with a strangled yelp when the crop landed on that sensitive spot.
“Ow! Good God, John, have some mercy!”
His voice sounded suspiciously nasal as if from suppressed tears causing Watson no small twinge of pity. Best to bring things to an end. The sooner they were done, the sooner he could put the crop away and lay gentle hands on his lover again. For all the times that Holmes’ escapades aggravated him and even for the merit that the thought of a playful punishment between the sheets might hold, the reality of having to chastise Holmes in a serious, painful manner such as this held no attraction for him at all. Watson only wished it were not necessary.
He stroked one hand soothingly across Holmes’s spine.
“You’re doing well, Sherlock. Not many more now.”
Having run out of space, Watson brought the next lash down across Holmes’ upper thighs with only moderate strength but Holmes sill gave what was now distinctly recognizable as a sob.
“P…please, John…”
Watson shushed him gently.
“Shhh, only two more and we’ll be done. I’ll make it quick.”
He applied the crop in quick succession twice more and then put it down with a quiet sigh of relief. Reaching into his trouser pocket he offered up a clean handkerchief to a distraught Holmes. In the past Holmes had usually preferred some space to pull himself back together into some semblance of order so Watson was rather surprised when this time he came into arms right away, bypassing the handkerchief neatly in obvious preference of wiping his tears on Watson’s waistcoat. Still at such moments this mattered not and he embraced his lover, pressing a kiss to the top of the tousled dark head.
“No more reckless experiments, agreed? For your sake as much as mine. I do not think that I could bear having to repeat this any time soon.”
Holmes peeked up at him rather balefully beneath dark, clumped lashes.
“You can be assured, that I am not looking forward to a repeat performance any time soon, my dear fellow. It is safe to say that I find myself entirely cured of any impulse to experiment with gunpowder whatsoever. Indeed, I would count myself happy, never having to see gunpowder again in my entire life.”
He gave a sniff and winced, reaching back carefully to inspect the damage.
Watson raised one eyebrow.
“That bad, is it?”
“Far worse even. That riding crop is an instrument of utter abomination which I intend to see destroyed at once. And you, John are very cruel indeed for having used such a thing on me. You will have to spend a very long time making things up to me indeed.”
Watson’s other eyebrow rose. Only Sherlock Holmes would manage to sound as haughty a prince despite being buck-naked with tear-tracks still staining his face and a set of welts fresh across his backside. He curled on arm around him again, brushing his lips.
“A very long time, eh? Then we had best get started soon, least I fall short of your expectations. I suggest we retire to the bedroom where I have some salve for those welts and then well, I shall see about making things up to you to the best of my abilities.”
Holmes inclined his head toward one side as if giving the suggestion serious thought.
“I suppose, that might be satisfactory.”
Then the haughty look vanished from his face and he regarded Watson with a completely serious mien.
“And I am sorry, John truly. I know you like doing this possibly even less than me, though that is sometimes hard to imagine.”
Watson smiled, meeting Holmes’s lips once more.
“I know and it’s done, my love, forgotten. Let us turn to agreeable pastimes once more. Why don’t you lead the way?”
He gestured towards the bedroom door and watched Holmes’s naked form disappear through it in front of him. Making to follow, he added on a contemplative note:
“I confess I had given some thought to keeping the crop, though. You must admit its presence seemed to have a marked effect on your conduct. And it is certainly handy to have around, don’t you agree?”
Holmes appeared back in the doorframe and the pillow that caught Watson square in the face a second later was completely worth the look of sheer and utter bloody outrage on his face.
The End.