Title: I Know What You Need
Author:
lotheringtonFandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairing: John/Sherlock
Summary: It's nothing to do with punishment or reward or discipline, and neither John nor Sherlock needs it. (Except, maybe, they do).
Rating: R
Contains: Spoilers for S2 Ep2, BDSM, D/s themes
Word Count: ~970
Notes: A follow-up to
I Know What You Like. You'll probably need to read that one first to make sense of this, but it's quite short. :)
It’s not punishment, not exactly.
And it’s not a reward.
Discipline hasn’t got much to do with it either.
Neither of them need it.
***
‘Sorry we couldn’t do a double room for you boys,’ the bartender says with a wink. John lets his breath out through his teeth and closes his eyes because he’s not -- it’s not -- well, it’s just... it’s not about that, about sharing beds and weekend retreats, it’s not about that.
He tries to articulate this, decides it’s better if he keeps his mouth shut, and hands over the tenner for their drinks.
***
John tries to reason Sherlock through the fact that he’s sweating and shaking and near to tears, but it becomes apparent, quite quickly, that reason just won’t do.
Afraid and on edge, Sherlock brings his shaking fingers to rest at his temples, breathes out through his mouth.
‘Sher--’
‘There is nothing wrong with me!’ Sherlock roars, and all eyes in the low-ceilinged room swivel to the two of them, everyone almost certainly thinking, quite understandably, that there is something wrong with Sherlock. He speeds through the deduction about the widow and the fisherman and the West Highland terrier called Whisky and snarls at John to leave him alone.
John does, but only after it’s been established that Sherlock doesn’t have friends.
***
After the doggers and the aborted flirtation with Henry’s therapist, there’s nothing else for John to do except go back to his and Sherlock’s room, where Sherlock is sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, his grey shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He doesn’t look up when John closes the door, nor when John takes his coat and jumper off and rolls his own sleeves up.
He doesn’t even open his eyes when John places the tips of three fingers on the underside of Sherlock’s chin, tilting his face upwards towards the yellow light in the hotel room.
‘Knees, Sherlock,’ John says quietly.
Sherlock folds immediately and lands on the floor between the twin beds with a slam.
‘Tell me the safeword I gave you.’
Sherlock swallows. ‘S-Stradivarius, John, it’s Stradivarius.’
John nods, strokes Sherlock’s damp hair back off his face. ‘Good boy. That’s right. Let me help you, now.’ He bends to kiss Sherlock’s forehead then straightens up, stepping away as he barks an order. ‘Hands behind your head, elbows out. Arms straight, Sherlock, that’s it. Thighs at forty-five degrees. Further. Further. That’s it, hold that position.’
It’s designed to hurt, to send a dull ache seeping through Sherlock’s muscles. His legs start trembling after twenty-seven seconds. His arms shake after thirty-six.
Sherlock’s eyes flutter open and their eyes meet for the first time since John came in. Sherlock’s chest heaves and his throat works as he swallows again. ‘John,’ he breathes, and he might just be the most beautiful thing John’s ever seen.
But neither of them need it.
***
Sherlock whimpers as John presses a cool glass to the backs of his burning thighs. He is lashed to one of the headboards by his wrists with his scarf, lying on his front.
He hasn’t felt scared since John ordered him to his knees. Now, nearly an hour later, he is naked and very much in his body but owing to his reactions to pain rather than fear. It feels blissful.
‘Drink,’ John murmurs, putting the empty glass down and pushing a bottle of water to Sherlock’s lips, tilting it so that Sherlock can sip a few times. The position is awkward, Sherlock’s biceps framing his face, but they make a decent go of it.
‘More,’ Sherlock demands.
John grips the wooden ruler he found in the desk a little tighter, unsure.
‘More,’ Sherlock says again, stretching to look at John, his lips parted, sweat shining in the hollow of his throat and across the top of his back. ‘You want to, John, more, more.’
‘Quiet,’ John hisses before bringing the ruler down across the back of Sherlock’s thighs once. John doesn’t want to think about the fact that he wants to, that he really bloody wants to. He’s still hurt and a bit angry and it feels good, to know that he’s the only one Sherlock will trust enough to do this, even if Sherlock doesn’t have friends.
There’s silence. John licks his lips. Sherlock pants for breath.
‘Again,’ Sherlock whispers once it’s been two minutes, his spine bending into a graceful bow as he writhes on the mattress, his arse and his thighs striped with pink. ‘More.’ His fingers fumble against the bars of the headboard as he shifts onto his knees, head hanging down towards his chest, legs spread wide.
Neither of them need it.
John blinks.
‘Please,’ Sherlock breathes.
John brings the ruler down again and again and again and again until Sherlock is a groaning, shivering mess and John himself is shaking slightly. He throws the ruler to the floor and kneels on the bed, undoing the knots in Sherlock’s scarf to free Sherlock’s wrists.
‘Come here,’ John says, coughing, shifting onto the bed properly, pulling Sherlock into his lap, against his chest. ‘Come here, come here, I’ve got you.’ He rubs Sherlock’s wrists gently in repetitive little circles, presses his lips to Sherlock’s forehead.
Sherlock continues to shiver, his eyes closed. His fingers brush against John’s chest as he fights to get closer, shoving his face into John’s neck, breathing deeply.
‘Alright?’ John asks, tracing Sherlock’s lips with his thumb, brushing over Sherlock’s filtrum.
Sherlock nods, fisting his hand in John’s shirt.
‘Let me get something for your skin,’ John says, moving to get up.
‘Stay,’ Sherlock whispers.
***
Everything seems that bit better in the morning.