Fic: Under Control part 1 [BBC Sherlock; NC-17]
Title: Under Control
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~22,000
Warnings: Moments of dubcon and possibly PTSD related themes, general warnings for kinky sex involving D/s and hypnosis
Disclaimer: I don't own it.
Summary: “You know John, I could hypnotize you if you really want." What followed was an arrangement that John never thought he would be lucky enough to find, and never insane enough to accept.
A/N: This was written based on this prompt from the sherlockbbc_fic kink meme, and originally posted here. It's a bit unusual for me, since it's the first Sherlock fic I've written, the longest porn I've ever written, and certainly the kinkiest. I think I also broke a personal record in terms of how quickly I wrote it. I still don't like the title, but I suppose what's done is done.
ETA: Almost forgot, one more disclaimer. Nothing in this story involving hypnosis should be taken as accurate in the least. I've researched, but I'm mostly just making it up.
Under Control
Like so many things in John’s new life, it started with a case.
The suspect happened to be a hypnotherapist who had altered her boyfriend’s memories just enough to provide herself with a solid alibi. As usual, Sherlock unraveled their stories with a speed and brilliance that made John’s head spin. One look at the boyfriend’s jacket, and he knew exactly where he had spent Saturday night-not, as it turned out, at home with the hypnotherapist watching telly. Which left her plenty of opportunity to murder the client with whom she’d been having an affair.
It was one of the most difficult cases John had been a part of, and not because it was particularly violent, or dangerous, or challenging. Violence and danger he could handle, clearly. And the challenge was Sherlock’s territory. If anything, the case had been not quite challenging enough.
No, what made it difficult was the constant talk of inductions, trances, suggestibility, vulnerability, hypnotic states. These topics just didn’t come up in day-to-day conversation, and for three days solid it was all anyone would discuss, especially Sherlock. John had never been so constantly aroused in his life. And it became increasingly difficult to avoid a hard-on at the crime scene, or at home, or even at work as soon as his thoughts drifted to the case.
And John knew, just knew, that the hypnosis was not all therapeutic. He listened to Sherlock’s deductions, and all he could think about were the hypnotherapist and boyfriend in bed, playing god knew what sort of kinky mind games, meddling so much with his free will that planting an invented memory was simple. Then he thought of the client, the one who was murdered, and the first moment his therapy session had turned erotic. There was nothing that pointed to the affair starting in the middle of a trance, per se, but John drew his own conclusions, and his imagination provided every detail at night as he wanked in bed.
So yes, John had a bit of a hypnosis kink. It wasn’t something he ever planned to bring to a relationship, just a private matter between himself and his right hand. But then, nothing was truly private when one lived with Sherlock.
***
It was the weekend, two days after the case had ended. And thank god, because John was once again able to get through his day without fighting erections like a teenager.
That meant he was able to focus on more important things, like eating breakfast and eying Sherlock, who was in one of his moods. The wall wasn’t being shot at quite yet but it was only a matter of time. Sherlock had no new cases, and his latest experiments were incubating if the foot in the crisper was any indication. Currently, he was sitting across the table typing furiously at his laptop, but any minute now he would stop, complain of boredom, and try something reckless. John dipped a spoon into his grapefruit and waited.
Although the room had been silent for some time, Sherlock suddenly spoke with his usual air of continuing some unknown conversation. “You know John, I could hypnotize you if you really want.” Sherlock didn’t look up as he said this, just kept banging at his keyboard, while John experienced a brief panic attack.
“What?” he sputtered around grapefruit. Longing, sharp and consuming, pierced him as his mind raced ahead, accepting the offer, seizing this opportunity to have one of his strongest fantasies fulfilled in real life by someone he trusted. It was a visceral reaction John was quick to suppress, although it surprised him with its intensity. No, he thought to himself. Sherlock was only thinking of the case. He was toying with the idea out of boredom. It wasn’t a serious offer. And even if it were, John couldn’t in good conscience make Sherlock an unknowing participant in his sexual fantasy.
This train of thought from desire to caution lasted only a brief moment. “Why would I want you messing around with my head any more than you already do?” he said vaguely, looking down at his breakfast and trying his best to feign disinterest.
“Because,” Sherlock replied, almost in a singsong voice, “It. Turns. You. On.” He punctuated each word with a tap on his computer, then hit Enter with a satisfied jab and looked up at John with one of his cheeky smiles. “I’m not wrong,” he added before John could deny it.
But John wasn’t prepared to deny anything. He was rendered speechless by Sherlock’s disturbing insight, and the casual manner in which he exposed something so deeply personal and hidden. “What on god’s earth are you talking about?” he shouted, hiding behind anger so hopefully Sherlock wouldn’t see the nerve that he hit.
“It’s the only explanation,” said Sherlock, as though John’s sexuality were a matter of logic. He quirked an eyebrow and closed his computer, now giving John his full terrifying attention. “Surely you don’t need me to walk you through it.” And now he was teasing.
John scowled. He didn’t like where this was going, but he needed to know what Sherlock saw. Was it written on his face? In the way he talked? What if others could see it, even though what was obvious to Sherlock was rarely obvious to anyone else. “Yes, I think you’d better,” said John darkly.
Sherlock tented his fingers and pierced him with those too-perceptive eyes. “You’ve been masturbating three times more frequently than usual,” he started.
“What?” John interrupted, now genuinely angry. “What are you, a voyeur? Have you been spying on me?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Hardly. It’s not my fault that your bed squeaks in a particular pattern when you pleasure yourself, and we do share a bathroom, keep in mind. May I continue?”
John winced and pressed a finger to his temple. “Fine.”
“You’ve been masturbating three times more frequently than usual. Why? What’s changed? You’re not seeing anyone new, your job isn’t any different, and the case that we were working on had only one element that made it unique, unlike any of the other cases we’ve dealt with before, and that was the role of hypnosis. Once I had my theory, it was easy to observe that your skin flushed every time that specific topic was mentioned. Plus,” he added with a half smile, “I looked through your browsing history.”
“What?” John once again interjected. Good lord, the mind control porn Sherlock must have uncovered… “What is wrong with you? Do you have any sense of privacy at all?”
Sherlock leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. “If you want privacy, clearing your browsing history is the simplest thing in the world. Don’t tell me you don’t know how.”
So. Power of deduction aside, Sherlock had all the proof he needed, and John had no room left for denial. He should have seen this coming, he supposed. John scrubbed his hands over his face, feeling completely exposed, and asked, “Are you done?”
“Not quite,” said Sherlock. “The only thing left to determine was what interests you more: being hypnotized, or being the hypnotist. It was unclear from the stories you read which you prefer, but since our recent case involved both males in the more submissive role, and you reacted so strongly, I assume that your interest lies in being hypnotized and not vice versa.”
John was nearly trembling at this point. He was a private person by nature, which would seem problematic when living with Sherlock Holmes. Except Sherlock never seemed to care very much about the personal details he could dredge up, and that somehow made it okay. But this-this was too much. This was information that John did not want in Sherlock’s clinical hands. He had more adrenaline pumping through his body from this conversation than he did when firing a gun. He wasn’t ready to talk about it. And certainly not with Sherlock, of all people.
“So I wanted to let you know,” Sherlock continued, oblivious to John’s distress, “that I could hypnotize you if you want. It might be interesting.”
John pushed back his chair and stood, leaving his half-eaten grapefruit on the table. “I’m going to go into my room,” he said slowly, “and forget that this conversation ever happened. I would appreciate if you do the same.”
***
Just because John didn’t want to talk about it didn’t mean he could stop thinking about it. Once the shock had worn off, curiosity took over. What would it be like to actually go under? What method would Sherlock use? Did he really know how to hypnotize someone, or was he bluffing, or perhaps just being cocky? Was it really such a terrible thing to consider?
Of course it was, but John couldn’t help considering it anyway. He hated that Sherlock knew what got him off, while Sherlock, as far as he could tell with his limited observational skill, had no sex drive to speak of. It made him feel weaker, vulnerable, and he detested feeling weak in any way. Detested it, but craved it at the same time. And that was the whole appeal of hypnosis, wasn’t it? Having the choice taken from him. Being made vulnerable without any nagging doubts, without anxiety. Letting go, completely.
Needless to say, the prospect ran through his mind that night as he stroked himself. Thoughts of what Sherlock, always so confident and in control, would do to him. What it would feel like. And then his bed creaked, and he thought of Sherlock in his own room, listening, knowing that John was masturbating and knowing what he was thinking of, and god help him, the thought brought him over the edge.
It wasn’t that he was attracted to Sherlock, exactly. He still considered himself straight. (Who knew what Sherlock considered himself to be.) But this went beyond attraction. It was a deep-rooted need, a base desire that had never been so strong before now, and it dictated the direction of John’s focus. At the moment, his entire focus was on Sherlock.
The following evening, John was putting away that week’s shopping-anything to get himself out of the flat-when he finally gathered the nerve to broach the topic again. Sherlock was seated on the couch watching one of his reality shows, still in his robe, with his knees pulled up to his chest. John turned to him and thought briefly how beautiful he looked, with his pale skin and small features. It was becoming clear that he was already in way too deep.
“Why would you want to?” he asked after a minute had elapsed. Sherlock said nothing, waiting for John to finish his sentence, even though he knew what John was talking about, damn it. “Why would you want to hypnotize me?” he conceded, voice cracking. It sounded so childish and silly to say out loud. But it affected him so strongly.
Sherlock grinned at the television. “I think it could be fun,” he replied. He talked as though it were a game, with no consideration for John’s discomfort or the gravity of the decision. John didn’t know if that made it easier or harder.
“But what would you get out of it?” he pressed. Surely it wouldn’t be sexual for Sherlock, like it would be for him. He wanted to know why Sherlock would agree to that.
“I’m a sociopath, remember? I enjoy manipulating people. Maybe I’m curious to see what I can make you do.”
John closed his eyes and sucked in air, then let it out in a low chuckle. “Not very manipulative if you tell me ahead of time, is it?”
Sherlock finally turned to him, still with that impish smile, and touched a finger to his nose. “High-functioning.”
“But what if-“ John swallowed- “what if I do get off on it?” He hid behind the hypothetical, even though they were beyond that by now.
“I’m not a child. I’m familiar with the functions of the human body.”
John wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean, but if Sherlock was okay with this being one sided, then… “Okay. I’ll do it.”
Sherlock’s face lit up as he clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Brilliant!” Jumping up from the couch, he turned off the television then motioned to where he had been sitting. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said.
“Now?” John squeaked.
“Of course,” said Sherlock. “I’m bored to bloody tears, or hadn’t you noticed?”
John limped over to the couch-nothing like acute anxiety to make his leg act up-and dropped heavily onto the cushions.
“Before we do this,” said John, “I have some ground rules.” He had been thinking of this all day. Just because he was about to relinquish mental control didn’t mean Sherlock could do whatever he liked. That would be frightening. “First of all, I want to remember every single thing that happens. No blackouts, no amnesia. Secondly, this is private, between you and me. So no mentioning this around Scotland Yard, and nothing that interferes with my daily life. And third, nothing permanent. I don’t want to wake up with altered memories like that poor sod.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “What about triggers?”
Good lord, was Sherlock already planning to do this more than once? John swallowed thickly. “Triggers are okay. But again, nothing that would interfere with my daily life.” Triggers were more than okay, in fact, and John was starting to get aroused just thinking about it. “I trust you, you know,” he added. For better or worse, he thought.
Sherlock’s smile turned affectionate. “Yes, I know.” Which wasn’t exactly comforting, but it would have to do.
With a flourish, Sherlock pulled a lighter from the pocket of his robe and lit a candle that had been placed on the table in front of John.
“Has that been there the whole time?” John asked in surprise.
Sherlock responded with a sigh. “Once again, your powers of observation astound me. Now, focus on the flame and feel yourself start to relax.”
John held up a hand, giving him a moment to collect himself. “Do you actually know what you’re doing?” he asked. “I mean, have you done this before?”
“No, never,” Sherlock happily admitted. “But I did some research. And if that idiot woman can make a living from it, how hard can it be?”
John didn’t find that all that encouraging, but he sighed and settled himself in, returning his eyes to the candle that danced in front of him. “Right. So, what do I do?”
“You don’t need to talk,” said Sherlock.
He pulled up a chair and sat down very close to John, facing him. John felt immediately like one of Sherlock’s experiments, especially since Sherlock was wearing the expression of intense concentration that he usually reserved for crime scenes. It was a little unnerving to be on the receiving end of such scrutiny, but John tried to put it out of his mind. He also tried to ignore the combined anticipation-trepidation that had settled in his gut.
“Now,” Sherlock began again. “Focus on the flame and feel yourself start to relax. All you have to do is listen to my voice, and you’ll find that it’s very easy to drift down into a relaxed state, naturally and at your own pace. Just keep your eyes on the flame, right at the center of the flame, and listen carefully to my words.
“I want you to take a deep breath in, John, and hold it…very good, now let it out slowly and feel your muscles start to grow loose. Once more. Take a deep breath…and release it, letting all the tension flow out of your body. Well done, John, you’re doing excellent so far.”
John felt a warm, satisfied glow at the compliment, rare as they were coming from Sherlock, but he still wasn’t sure this would work. At the start, he had trouble focusing his attention, spending too much thought on gauging his body’s reactions, or worrying whether Sherlock would notice his growing erection. Because whether or not it worked, this was already the sexiest thing he’d ever done. Sherlock’s smooth, low voice, droning so sweetly, trying to work its way under the barriers of John’s conscious mind, was gradually making him dizzy with arousal. Or maybe it was just making him dizzy. He blinked a few times, eyes watering from staring too long into the candle’s bright flame.
“That’s right, John,” said Sherlock. “You can feel that tired sensation working at the corners of your eyes, making it harder and harder to keep them open, your eyelids feeling heavier and heavier. Try to keep them open so you can continue to stare into the heart of the flame, but the more you try, the heavier they start to feel. You can blink if you need to, but every time you do your eyelids feel heavier and heavier, wanting to close, becoming more and more difficult to keep them open. That’s right. You can let them close now, and as you do you’ll feel your body sinking deeper into relaxation.”
John felt his eyes slip shut, and his whole body sink into the cushions. Without the candle, he was left with the drowsy feel of his body, the sound of Sherlock’s words, and the steady pulsing in his groin.
“Very good, John. You’re doing so well. In fact, your eyelids are so heavy, I want you to imagine there are weights attached to each one. And no matter how hard you try, you won’t be able to open them again. No matter how hard you try, your eyes will stay tightly shut, those weights pulling them down. You know that in an emergency you could open your eyes if you really needed to, but I want you to use your imagination so that no matter how hard you try to open them, they will remain heavy and tightly shut. Try to open your eyes now, John, and you’ll find that you can’t.”
So John did. He tried to pry his eyes open, knowing, as Sherlock said, that he was perfectly capable of doing so if needed. But even though he knew he could open them he just-didn’t. He worked the muscles of his face, trying to lift his lids, and at the same time keeping them heavily clenched. It was a strange contradiction to experience, and he wondered if it were a sign of trance, or whether he was just playing along. Would he be able to tell the difference?
“You can stop trying now, and let the tension drain from your face, taking you even deeper. Now John, I’m going to touch you in just a moment, but everything I do simply makes you feel more relaxed and open.”
Touch him? John’s mind immediately went to a filthy, uncomfortable place. Then he felt Sherlock’s surprisingly warm fingers on his wrist, so he stopped worrying and simply let him get on with it. Sherlock lifted his wrist in the air so that his hand was dangling loose, and moved it back and forth a bit. John could feel his elbow and fingers swinging freely, but his entire arm felt tingly from disuse, almost as if it weren’t his.
“That’s right. I want you to give me full control of your arm, letting it hang heavy like a wet rag. Very good. When I drop it onto your lap, you’ll feel a wave of relaxation from the top of your head down to your toes, and you’ll go twice as deep as you are now.”
Yes, it was Sherlock’s arm, not his own. He liked the thought of that. And when it landed on his thigh with a dull thump, oh did that feel good. Sherlock repeated the process with his other arm, lifting it, moving it about, then dropping it like a lead weight. John’s head suddenly seemed too heavy for his neck, and he felt it tipping forward towards his chest.
“Very deep, now, and going deeper,” Sherlock murmured, pressing down on John’s left shoulder, and he melted under the touch.
He found that Sherlock’s persistent patter was starting to blur together, like it sometimes did when Sherlock used him as a skull. There was more talk of relaxation and deepening, then Sherlock asked him to envision himself at the top of a flight of stairs. A spiral staircase easily materialized before his mind’s eye. He watched his feet as Sherlock led him down, one step at a time, counting them off from ten to zero, down to the soft bed that waited at the bottom.
By now John was feeling more than a little floaty, aware of what was happening, but enjoying it too much to do anything but go along with it. And he found himself thinking that he could listen to Sherlock talk like this for hours. He hadn’t had any real expectations going in, but it certainly didn’t feel like sinking under someone else’s power, or going mindless and blank. It was just a pleasant sensation, floating and listening. It also felt safe. Or maybe that was Sherlock telling him he was safe?
“How do you feel John?” asked Sherlock, and it took a moment to realize he was expected to answer. “You’ll find it very easy to talk, just as you normally would.”
“Good,” John murmured. It seemed like too much effort to elaborate, but that one word made a nice summary.
“Yes John, very eloquent,” said Sherlock with obvious sarcasm, but he was quick to smooth it over and return to a more encouraging tone. “You feel very relaxed and peaceful, don’t you? And you would love to return to this state over and over again.”
John nodded, just barely, because it was still difficult to lift his head. Fortunately, he knew Sherlock was adept at picking up on small movements.
“I’m going to help you return to this deep, relaxed feeling. Whenever I snap my fingers and say the word sleep, you’ll find it easy to drop right back to this peaceful state. And every time I snap my fingers and say the word sleep, you may find yourself dropping even five times deeper than you currently are. Five times deeper. You would like that, wouldn’t you, John?”
Again, the slightest of nods, although he had his doubts. Shouldn’t he be well and truly hypnotized before Sherlock starting adding such instructions?
“Very good. You’ve done so very well, you should feel proud. Now, when I count to three, your eyes will open and you’ll feel wide awake, refreshed and aware. One…two…three.”
Slowly, John blinked himself into awareness of the room, thinking to himself, was that it? It had been lovely, and peaceful, and oh god his erection hadn’t subsided the entire time, but he was expecting it to go longer. He was expecting Sherlock to take advantage at the very least, test the limits of what he could get away with. It didn’t seem like him to end it so soon.
As his eyes adjusted and his limp muscles started to stretch, the first thing that came into focus was Sherlock’s face, still uncomfortably close to his own. And then John registered his expression: the self-satisfied smirk, the hunger in his eyes, the overall mischief that meant trouble.
He heard the snap in his ear, saw Sherlock’s lips form the word “sleep,” and felt his mind sink like a rock under the command.
***
“Can you hear me, John?”
It was several deepening exercises later, and if John had earlier doubts about whether this would work, he wasn’t thinking of them now. He knew he was very deeply hypnotized. Sherlock had told him so.
“Yes,” he said. It came out as a sigh.
“And how do you feel?”
“Good.”
There was a slight pause before Sherlock asked, “Care to elaborate?”
“Very relaxed,” John offered in a low murmur after a moment’s consideration. He found his thoughts were connecting a bit slower than usual. “Hard,” he added. Part of him wished he could do something about that, but he didn’t think he could move his hands.
“Yes John, I can see that. I think we’ll take care of that problem later. Now what are we going to do with you first, I wonder?”
John didn’t have an answer to that, so he said nothing and waited.
“Hm, yes. Let’s try something fun, shall we? John, when I count to three, I want you to open your eyes. You will feel wide awake, but you will actually remain deep in trance. You’ll find it easy to speak and act normally, and you will not be aware that you are hypnotized at all. In fact, you will believe that we haven’t even started yet. And you will doubt my ability to hypnotize you when we do. But every time I raise my hand in the air, you will find yourself suddenly unable to speak until I lower it again. And every time I say your name, you will start to feel more and more tired, until you find yourself slipping back into this deep trance. Nod if you understand, John.”
John felt his chin lift up and down. It was always easy to get sucked into Sherlock’s deep voice when he launched into his fast paced monologs, but this was a bit different. John felt acutely focused on every word. And even if he didn’t catch a meaning here or there, he knew that some part of him was absorbing it entirely.
Sherlock counted to three, and the next thing John knew, he was sitting on the couch with a lit candle in front of him waiting to begin. He was nervous and anxious, and already aroused far more than was warranted, but he had warned Sherlock of that ahead of time. And his anxiety was tempered by the knowledge that Sherlock, with all of his genius, was no hypnotist and unlikely to pull this off.
“How are you feeling?” asked Sherlock with a quirked eyebrow, which seemed a strange question.
“I’m fine,” John answered, stretching out his arm which seemed to have fallen asleep. “So, we’re doing this by candle, I suppose?”
Sherlock looked down at the table, and leaned over so he could blow it out with a quick puff. “No, I don’t think I’ll be needing that today.”
Oh, wonderful. Sherlock seemed to be in a particularly arrogant mood, which didn’t bode well for the success of this experiment. John felt a bit relieved at that, but it was also an enormous disappointment. He had come so close to fulfilling this particular desire of his, and he supposed that when they were done, he would have to return it to the ‘fantasy and nothing more; do not open, especially around Sherlock’ file.
John crossed his arms in front of him. “How are we doing it, then?”
“Let me ask you something first.” Sherlock pressed his fingers together in a familiar gesture. “Have you ever been hypnotized before?”
“No, I haven’t.” For some reason, Sherlock seemed to find that amusing.
“You’ve had a number of girlfriends over the years. About six, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Seven,” corrected John with a smirk. He derived way too much pleasure in pointing out Sherlock’s few mistakes.
Sherlock hummed, eyes narrowed, in response. “Fine, seven. If you’re really going to count her. And you never mentioned your particular interests to any of them?”
John shifted uncomfortably. It wasn’t a topic he was keen to discuss, but he had already crossed the point of no return even agreeing to this. Divulging a bit of his personal history wouldn’t make things much worse. “I did, twice. But it never went anywhere. And one time it ended the relationship, so…” So he never brought it up again. That second rejection had been particularly painful. For such a sweet, lovely woman, Tracey did an excellent job of making John feel like a freak. Maybe that made him a bit more sympathetic toward Sherlock. Maybe that was why he could share this with him now. “I seem to have a talent for choosing the vanilla ones.”
“That’s because you don’t know how to look,” Sherlock replied. John rolled his eyes, but said nothing. “In any case, you’re sure you’ve never been hypnotized before?”
“Yes,” said John, getting cross. “That’s what I said. Now can we get on wi-“
Sherlock lifted his hand as though in greeting, and John found his voice stolen from him. His eyes went wide as his mouth opened and closed like a fish. The fact that this seemed to please Sherlock greatly only increased John’s alarm. He tried shouting. He tried pushing the words ‘What have you done?’ past his throat, but no sound would emerge. And the whole time, Sherlock’s hand remained stupidly, maddeningly hovering in the air.
“I could get used to this,” Sherlock said almost to himself, now with a wide grin. “Tell me; use your reasoning. What do you think just happened?”
John couldn’t imagine, couldn’t think of a single thing that would cause him to stop speaking so abruptly, but he knew that Sherlock was behind it. That much was clear by his reaction. And why was Sherlock asking, if he couldn’t bloody well answer anyway? He cast around the room, and found a pen and some scrap paper within arm’s reach. You did something, he scratched furiously, then thrust the note toward Sherlock.
“Yes, very good. Excellent. What, exactly, did I do?”
John threw up his arms and mouthed, ‘how the hell should I know?’ But then he wrote down the first word that came to mind.
DRUGS
Sherlock leaned in to read it then shook his head. “Interesting. But no, I didn’t drug you. Even though it may start to feel that way, John.”
John shuddered in a sudden wave of exhaustion. If he wasn’t drugged, then what? He wrote down the next possible cause he could think of for a sudden inability to speak.
STROKE
Sherlock sighed heavily at that one. “You’re not having a stroke. And I certainly wouldn’t be able to cause one, would I? Come on, John, think.”
John’s eyes started to flutter. How was he supposed to think when he was so bloody tired? He just wished Sherlock would lower his hand, because it was really starting to annoy him.
“Would you believe me if I said you were already hypnotized?”
John scoffed-or would have if he could make a sound. What sort of mind game was this, then?
“Why not?” Sherlock continued, still with his hand in the air. “All the evidence points to it. I’m somehow preventing you from doing a simple task, and you’re also feeling gradually sleepier, aren’t you John?”
John shook his head vigorously, because that was ridiculous. Even Sherlock couldn’t master hypnosis so suddenly, and John would know if he had. Although Sherlock was right about John’s fatigue. Did he get enough sleep last night? He rubbed his eyes a bit, feeling like he needed a jolt of caffeine.
“Have you discovered the connection with my hand yet?” asked Sherlock.
John furrowed his brow and stared at Sherlock’s hand. Yes, what was it about that bloody hand? It was doing…something…maybe if he could wake himself up he could figure it out…
“You know, John, I bet I could hypnotize you with just the sound of my voice.”
John blinked slowly, then jerked his head back up when he noticed it was falling. What nonsense, he thought. This wasn’t how hypnosis worked. He wished he could tell Sherlock, but his voice wouldn’t…and his eyes kept…
“Almost there, John. You can’t fight it, can you John? Have you reached the right conclusion, yet, John?”
For a moment he thought, yes, I think I've got it, but then Sherlock said his name once more and it dropped him all the way down into what he immediately recognized as his comfortable, pleasant trance from before.
***
Other experiments and scenarios followed. Sherlock watched John get drunk on water, made his entire body freeze on command, and tested his memory recollection. John wasn’t sure how much time had elapsed, because the nature of time seemed different under hypnosis, but he was in no rush to leave this state.
“Wonderful,” Sherlock was saying. “You’ve been so good and cooperative. You like the way that makes you feel, don’t you?”
“Yes,” John whispered, basking in the praise. He felt warm and comfortable and obedient, ready and open to whatever came next.
“Then I think you deserve a reward. Would you like that? Something to make you feel even better than you do now?”
He nodded lazily, although really, he would probably agree to anything Sherlock said to him at this point.
There was an extended pause that John hardly registered before Sherlock spoke again. Something about his voice sounded less confident than before, though it didn’t diminish its effect on John. “I noticed you’ve had an erection this entire time. Is that getting uncomfortable?”
John said, “Yes,” again and moaned very softly from the back of his throat. Now that his attention was directed to his arousal, it seemed to double. And at some point in the course of the evening, he had stopped being concerned whether Sherlock noticed or not.
“I want you to focus on your cock for just a moment. I want you to think about everything we’ve done today, and how deeply hypnotized you are, and how very much you get off on that. You may want to move your hands, but you’ll find that they are still too heavy to lift.”
He did as he was told, concentrated on his own lost control and how erotic that was, though the word ‘cock’ falling from Sherlock’s lips was a turn on in itself. Discomfort turned to throbbing as his hard-on grew, and he found little relief in the small, involuntary lifts of his hips.
“That’s right, so hard now. I think it would feel much better,” said Sherlock, “if you opened your trousers and removed your erection, wouldn’t it? Why don’t you do that now? You’ll find you are able to move your hands again, just enough to open your trousers and release your cock, before they fall heavily to your sides. You’ll feel so much better once you do.”
John’s fingers twitched to life as he unzipped his fly and nudged his pants just low enough for his cock to bob free. And as Sherlock promised, it felt wonderful. Also strange, because he knew Sherlock had never seen him exposed like this before, but that train of thought didn’t quite reach a level of concern.
“Now listen carefully.” Sherlock’s voice came out softer and faster than it had up until then. “When I count to three, you will open your eyes once more, feeling awake but remaining deeply in trance, and you will remember everything that’s happened under hypnosis so far. As soon as you open your eyes, you will begin to masturbate. In fact, you will find yourself unable to stop even if you try. You will otherwise behave normally, but you will remain seated on the couch, and you will continue to pleasure yourself until you reach orgasm. Once you do reach orgasm, you will once again feel yourself slipping back into trance, ready for more suggestions.” There was a moment’s pause. “Nod if you understand me, John.”
Yes, he understood perfectly.
“Very good. One. Two. Three.”
John’s eyes flickered open, and everything registered at once.
Fuck.
His cock stood straight up in his lap, exposed, making John feel more naked than if he had no clothes on at all. Sherlock was still facing him, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and watching with a transfixed expression.
“You bastard,” said John through his teeth, even as he felt his right hand move toward his needy cock, like a magnet, like a hand that didn’t belong to him. Sherlock’s hand, he thought. When it made contact, he couldn’t help a stifled groan because it was such a relief to finally have some friction.
And that felt so wrong because Sherlock was just sitting there, watching. He didn't look embarrassed in the slightest, either. “This is what you wanted, correct?” he asked.
Yes, absolutely yes, more than anything, John thought. But out loud he said, “You weren’t kidding. You really do get off on this manipulation thing, don’t you?” He tried to see if he could pull his hand away and recover some shred of dignity, but it only squeezed and stroked more urgently.
“I’m not the one who’s getting off right now,” said Sherlock with one of his infuriating (sexy) grins. His eyes raked over him, not looking away for a second. “Interesting.”
“Are you-are you analyzing this?” John cried. The thought of Sherlock gathering data from this, deducing his very thoughts from the way he wanked, sent more blood rushing south. Who knew he was an exhibitionist on top of everything else? Well, Sherlock probably knew. “I can’t believe you-unh-talked me into this,” he seethed. Berating Sherlock seemed to be his only recourse for gaining a modicum of control. “God only knows what I was thinking, letting you of all people-“
His words caught in his throat, and at first he wasn’t sure what had happened. But then he saw Sherlock’s raised hand, not like a greeting but more like a command to halt.
“I don’t think talking is necessary for this.”
John tried to glare, but it turned into more of a grimace, because now he had nothing to distract himself from the desire coursing through his veins. He settled on confrontational eye contact, at the least, and instead found himself getting lost in Sherlock’s gaze. He felt dirty, manipulated, defenseless, and so very, very turned on, his helplessness and arousal inexorably linked, and spiraling tighter and tighter while Sherlock watched.
He begged himself to slow down and delay his inevitable return into trance, but thinking of what was to come brought him that much closer to the edge. His hand twisted in a familiar pattern as his thoughts fixated on what Sherlock was making him do, the betrayal of his own subconscious, the sweet, terrifying freedom of letting everything go and having no say. His mind began to cloud, and whether it was the approach of orgasm or the edges of hypnosis, he couldn’t tell. His mouth fell open in a silent moan.
With one final pull and the memory of going under, John came hard enough to see stars, all over the table with the candle, over the floor. And instead of the wave of exhaustion that usually followed, his mind opened like a vortex and sucked him under.
“That’s right, sinking nice and deep,” came Sherlock’s voice from a distance. “You’ve done very well today. I think we need to do something about this mess, though. When I ask you to open you eyes again, you will find it very enjoyable and pleasant to clean up after yourself. When you’ve finished putting your clothes to rights and cleaning up all of your ejaculate, I want you to return to this seat on the couch, and at your own, comfortable pace, bring yourself out of hypnosis. You will be wide awake, refreshed as though you’ve had a long nap, and feeling wonderful all over.
“You will find it easy to remember everything that happened while you were in trance. Any command or suggestion that I’ve given you will no longer be in effect, with the exception of your cue to return to this deep, powerful state. So whenever I snap my fingers and say the word sleep, it will always bring you into hypnosis, twice as deep as you were before. Do you understand?”
With great effort, because he had never felt so tired before in his life, John nodded.
***
Awareness returned slowly, bit by bit. Feeling and energy began to flow through John’s arms and legs, and the living room reinstated itself beyond his still-closed lids. Then came the awareness of what had happened. But that was too big to process so soon. For now, he tucked those memories off to the side.
When he finally felt ready to pry open his eyes, John found Sherlock sitting in a different chair, reading a newspaper.
“Welcome back,” said Sherlock, scanning the page. “I made you some tea.”
John cast his eyes to the table in front of him, and sure enough, the candle was gone and a mug was in its place.
“You made tea?” The surprises just kept coming.
“I thought you might need it.” Sherlock folded the paper and tossed it to the side, then stood to retrieve his own cup from the mantle. “I didn’t want you getting hysterical when you awoke.”
“I’m not hysterical,” said John evenly.
“No,” said Sherlock, sitting back down and squinting at him. “You’re not, are you? Hmm. I assumed you would be more distressed by what we did.”
What they did. John didn’t feel distressed, he felt-in awe. He could hardly believe it had happened. He remembered every detail just as Sherlock had promised, but it seemed more like an erotic dream than real memories. Maybe the panic attack would come later. For now, he preferred to bask in the aftereffects of the trance, which still had him feeling serene and a bit sluggish. No doubt it was partially Sherlock’s suggestion that he would awake feeling wonderful, but it was also the glow of finally fulfilling such a long held desire. Emotions like humiliation or shame, though they nagged at the corners of his thoughts, could wait their turn.
He took a sip of the tea-not too bad-and stared ahead at the far wall. In his mind he played back the events of the evening, scene by scene. He had never experienced anything so heady before; he didn’t think he had the words to describe it. And it wasn’t just the wank at the end that had him fascinated, but the entire process from the induction to the triggers. It was the sensation of handing over his mental reins. It was powerful.
“John? Are you okay?”
John blinked, and turned back toward Sherlock. He’d almost forgotten he was in the room. “Sorry. Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for the tea, by the way, it’s lovely.”
“I have to admit,” said Sherlock, frowning, “you’re not reacting at all the way I expected you to.”
“Well then, I’ll try to be more predictable next time.” He offered a placid smile.
But Sherlock continued to regard him with concern, and it was starting to pull him out of his reverie. As the glow began to fade, what was left was the fact that Sherlock had just watched him masturbate. He had caused it. More than that, he had seen John vulnerable and exposed, and John wasn’t talking about his penis. He was in the military; he had seen and been seen naked by men before. But he’d never willingly given up so much control. And now Sherlock was making him tea, and showing concern? Ah, yes-there was the humiliation and shame that he’d been avoiding. He didn’t want to feel so fragile and easy to take advantage of, and he didn’t want Sherlock to look down on him. Any more than he already did, at least.
John turned away from him. “You know, I seriously can’t believe you took it as far as you did. I never asked you to do that.”
Sherlock leaned back and wrapped both hands around his mug. “I didn’t break any of your rules. You didn’t say I couldn’t make it sexual.”
“That’s hardly the point.”
“Isn’t it?” Sherlock countered.
John sighed, not wanting to concede that maybe it was. Sherlock was right; John could have easily prohibited anything erotic, if he hadn’t secretly hoped it would go that route. But that still didn’t explain Sherlock’s actions. “Why did you, though?”
Sherlock shrugged. “Curiosity. And as a gift for letting me poke around in your brain for a while. I can’t imagine anyone else who would actually volunteer for that.”
That made John chuckle in a self-deprecating way. “No one in their right mind, that’s for sure. Only strange perverts like me, yeah?”
A smile formed on Sherlock’s lips. “Ah, there’s that sexual hang-up I was waiting for. If you want to know whether I think less of you because you have an uncommon fetish, the answer is no. If anything, I think it makes you slightly less boring than most.”
And that, coming from Sherlock of all people, was easily the most encouraging thing John had ever heard anyone say about his kink. He blinked in surprise. “Thanks.”
“Did you enjoy it, by the way?” Sherlock leaned forward with sudden interest and put down his mug. “Was it what you expected? I am a bit curious what it must feel like, but I highly doubt I could still my brain for long enough to try it. Did it feel at all like being high?”
Before John could answer that he’d never been high so he wouldn’t know, the sound of Sherlock’s mobile filled the air. One look at the caller ID, and Sherlock cried, “Finally!”
“Hello…Yes, I read all about it. Well, obviously that wasn’t the victim’s finger. No, no, you won’t get any fingerprint matches…yes. Right. Excellent, I’ll be right there.”
He had hardly hung up before his coat was on and he was standing by the door. “Coming, John?”
“It’s late,” John replied, already pushing himself to his feet.
Sherlock just grinned. “Dismembering murderers aren’t sleeping. Why should we?”
Sherlock dashed down the stairs, and John followed right behind, wondering if it was possible that things hadn’t changed between them at all.
***
It had been four long days, and Sherlock had not yet solved the case. His single-minded focus was beginning to take its toll; he looked paler than usual, with just visible bags under his eyes. It was horribly insensitive that John should be more concerned about a malnourished and sleep-deprived Sherlock than the murder victim with the missing fingers, but there it was. Sherlock wouldn’t take care of himself properly until he’d found the solution, and John hoped he would find it soon.
They were both standing in the flat, examining the collage of evidence and facts that Sherlock was so fond of spreading across the wall. Crime scene photos, police reports, suspect testimony-John tried to draw connections between them, but everything he offered was met with dismissal and frustration.
“It’s staring right at me,” Sherlock muttered. His hands were pressed together under his chin, and the sleeve that slipped down his forearm revealed one of several nicotine patches he had earlier applied. “What am I missing? What?”
John pointed to one of the photos, but before he could mention something that Sherlock had probably already noticed anyway, he was cut off by an angry, “Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to, and I am trying to think.”
But John was sleep deprived too, and feeling testy. “I was only going to say-“
“John,” said Sherlock in a booming voice. “This is very, very important. I need you to look at me.”
John turned to him dutifully, expecting to be yelled at, and was confused when instead Sherlock stared him in the eye and placed a strong hand on his shoulder.
“Sleep,” he said with the accompanying snap of his fingers.
There was barely a moment to register surprise before the command took effect, and John felt his whole self, body and mind, loosing some unexpected battle. He tried in vain to keep his eyelids from fluttering closed, but Sherlock repeated the trigger, and they dropped like weights. The hand on his shoulder kept him from tipping forward, and a voice that was coaxing him deeper and deeper was also explaining how easy it was to stand on his own while remaining so very relaxed and drowsy. Sherlock was right; it was easy to straighten his back without loosing any of this peaceful bliss. John righted himself, though the hand remained a comforting pressure on his shoulder, and waited with an open mind.
“John. Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” he exhaled.
“Very good. In just a moment, when I remove my hand, I will continue to talk but the words will not be important. You can simply stand here and let the sounds wash over you, and you’ll find that the sound of my voice will bring you deeper and deeper every moment. You will not have to pay attention to the meaning of my words until I place my hand on your shoulder again, and then you will know that I’m talking directly to you. Do you understand?”
John nodded, and a moment later the hand from his shoulder was gone.
He drifted for he didn’t know how long. Sherlock’s voice was a constant background buzzing, soothing as white noise, like listening to another language or the sound of the ocean. Although John remained standing, he soon felt his body gently rocking back and forth, ‘up’ being a difficult direction to discern with eyes closed. He didn’t fight it, didn’t let the unsteadiness bother him. Nothing bothered him. Everything was calm.
Minutes later-or hours perhaps-the warm weight on his shoulder returned.
“On three, you can open your eyes, feeling wide awake and refreshed. One, feeling the energy return to your body, two, remembering everything while becoming more aware of your surroundings, and three. Wide awake.”
John opened his eyes in a daze. What just happened? Did Sherlock actually hypnotize him, out of the blue, without warning, and set him adrift for who knew how long? And was it right that so much blood should go rushing to his cock at the thought?
Sherlock was grinning like a child on his birthday. “It was so blindingly obvious! Of course the fingers were removed. How else could the killer steal those diamonds in Germany?”
“You-you solved it?” asked John with difficulty. He could barely think straight, he was so hard. Sherlock had just…and then he’d… John closed his eyes, briefly, and tried not to moan.
“I need to tell Lestrade.” Sherlock grabbed his coat and rushed to the door, this time without waiting for John to follow. Soon, John found himself completely alone in the flat, sweat forming from the fiery heat of his skin, about to come in his trousers without being touched.
Without hesitation, John raced to the bathroom, dropped his trousers and pants in one motion, and positioned himself over the toilet. With one hand he braced his shaking frame against the wall. With the other, he pulled on his swollen cock, and allowed himself the privilege of making as many desperate noises as he liked. He remembered the seductive confidence in Sherlock’s eyes just before he’d snapped his fingers, thought of those long minutes while Sherlock talked, deduced, solved, while he stood mindlessly by, swaying in Sherlock’s control. It was a reminder of what Sherlock could do now, at any time, any place. Without notice. John was only ever a snap and a word away from being Sherlock’s puppet.
It didn’t take long before John came with a cry. Once spent, he flushed the toilet then slumped back against the opposite wall, not even bothering to lift his pants. He stood like that for some time, his non-sticky hand pressed against his forehead. The smell of sex seemed to fill the bathroom. Sherlock would probably notice; but then, Sherlock would probably expect it.
John needed to clear his head. He needed a shower.
Stepping under the warm jets of water did wonders for untangling his thoughts. And the first thing John thought as he scrubbed at his skin was that he wanted more. He needed it. These two times, the second one so brief, were not enough, and it was becoming clear that fulfilling his fantasy did not satiate it, but instead fueled his craving.
They hadn’t discussed their little “experiment” past their conversation when John had first come out of trance. They’d been too busy with this new case. So they never talked about whether it would happen again, or how Sherlock felt about it, or how John felt about it for that matter. He still didn’t know how he felt about it, even though he thought about it constantly. The murder and his own work were decent distractions, but at every lull in his busy life his thoughts would drift, and they would inevitably return to that evening under hypnosis. In bed, he could think of nothing else. While wanking-well, that went without saying. He was even starting to dream about the things Sherlock could do to him, things he wanted to be done.
And now this. So offhand on Sherlock’s part, but so very intense, and also intoxicating. Addictive. A simple thing that meant so much to him.
John tilted back his head and let the water splash over his face. Maybe it was wrong to play sex games with someone who didn’t find it sexy. Maybe it was wrong to do so with a man when he still considered himself straight. Or a flatmate. Or a friend. Or a sociopath. Maybe there were a million sensible reasons why he should put an end to this immediately and go find himself a nice girlfriend who would probably be perfectly vanilla and safe and just barely enough to curb his lust. It was a solution that had worked just fine up until now.
But now-now things were different, he realized as he turned off the water. None of those reasonable objections mattered. He’d wanted this all of his life, and now he had it, and he felt he deserved it. He knew that Sherlock was using him, putting him under like tucking something distracting into a drawer, but he wanted to be used, dammit. He didn’t care whether that was right or wrong. It just was.
He toweled himself dry, then wrapped it around himself and scooped up his clothing on the way to his room. An early night wouldn’t hurt; he was bloody exhausted. And he could always talk to Sherlock in the morning. In fact, he was determined to.
Part 2
Part 3
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~22,000
Warnings: Moments of dubcon and possibly PTSD related themes, general warnings for kinky sex involving D/s and hypnosis
Disclaimer: I don't own it.
Summary: “You know John, I could hypnotize you if you really want." What followed was an arrangement that John never thought he would be lucky enough to find, and never insane enough to accept.
A/N: This was written based on this prompt from the sherlockbbc_fic kink meme, and originally posted here. It's a bit unusual for me, since it's the first Sherlock fic I've written, the longest porn I've ever written, and certainly the kinkiest. I think I also broke a personal record in terms of how quickly I wrote it. I still don't like the title, but I suppose what's done is done.
ETA: Almost forgot, one more disclaimer. Nothing in this story involving hypnosis should be taken as accurate in the least. I've researched, but I'm mostly just making it up.
Under Control
Like so many things in John’s new life, it started with a case.
The suspect happened to be a hypnotherapist who had altered her boyfriend’s memories just enough to provide herself with a solid alibi. As usual, Sherlock unraveled their stories with a speed and brilliance that made John’s head spin. One look at the boyfriend’s jacket, and he knew exactly where he had spent Saturday night-not, as it turned out, at home with the hypnotherapist watching telly. Which left her plenty of opportunity to murder the client with whom she’d been having an affair.
It was one of the most difficult cases John had been a part of, and not because it was particularly violent, or dangerous, or challenging. Violence and danger he could handle, clearly. And the challenge was Sherlock’s territory. If anything, the case had been not quite challenging enough.
No, what made it difficult was the constant talk of inductions, trances, suggestibility, vulnerability, hypnotic states. These topics just didn’t come up in day-to-day conversation, and for three days solid it was all anyone would discuss, especially Sherlock. John had never been so constantly aroused in his life. And it became increasingly difficult to avoid a hard-on at the crime scene, or at home, or even at work as soon as his thoughts drifted to the case.
And John knew, just knew, that the hypnosis was not all therapeutic. He listened to Sherlock’s deductions, and all he could think about were the hypnotherapist and boyfriend in bed, playing god knew what sort of kinky mind games, meddling so much with his free will that planting an invented memory was simple. Then he thought of the client, the one who was murdered, and the first moment his therapy session had turned erotic. There was nothing that pointed to the affair starting in the middle of a trance, per se, but John drew his own conclusions, and his imagination provided every detail at night as he wanked in bed.
So yes, John had a bit of a hypnosis kink. It wasn’t something he ever planned to bring to a relationship, just a private matter between himself and his right hand. But then, nothing was truly private when one lived with Sherlock.
***
It was the weekend, two days after the case had ended. And thank god, because John was once again able to get through his day without fighting erections like a teenager.
That meant he was able to focus on more important things, like eating breakfast and eying Sherlock, who was in one of his moods. The wall wasn’t being shot at quite yet but it was only a matter of time. Sherlock had no new cases, and his latest experiments were incubating if the foot in the crisper was any indication. Currently, he was sitting across the table typing furiously at his laptop, but any minute now he would stop, complain of boredom, and try something reckless. John dipped a spoon into his grapefruit and waited.
Although the room had been silent for some time, Sherlock suddenly spoke with his usual air of continuing some unknown conversation. “You know John, I could hypnotize you if you really want.” Sherlock didn’t look up as he said this, just kept banging at his keyboard, while John experienced a brief panic attack.
“What?” he sputtered around grapefruit. Longing, sharp and consuming, pierced him as his mind raced ahead, accepting the offer, seizing this opportunity to have one of his strongest fantasies fulfilled in real life by someone he trusted. It was a visceral reaction John was quick to suppress, although it surprised him with its intensity. No, he thought to himself. Sherlock was only thinking of the case. He was toying with the idea out of boredom. It wasn’t a serious offer. And even if it were, John couldn’t in good conscience make Sherlock an unknowing participant in his sexual fantasy.
This train of thought from desire to caution lasted only a brief moment. “Why would I want you messing around with my head any more than you already do?” he said vaguely, looking down at his breakfast and trying his best to feign disinterest.
“Because,” Sherlock replied, almost in a singsong voice, “It. Turns. You. On.” He punctuated each word with a tap on his computer, then hit Enter with a satisfied jab and looked up at John with one of his cheeky smiles. “I’m not wrong,” he added before John could deny it.
But John wasn’t prepared to deny anything. He was rendered speechless by Sherlock’s disturbing insight, and the casual manner in which he exposed something so deeply personal and hidden. “What on god’s earth are you talking about?” he shouted, hiding behind anger so hopefully Sherlock wouldn’t see the nerve that he hit.
“It’s the only explanation,” said Sherlock, as though John’s sexuality were a matter of logic. He quirked an eyebrow and closed his computer, now giving John his full terrifying attention. “Surely you don’t need me to walk you through it.” And now he was teasing.
John scowled. He didn’t like where this was going, but he needed to know what Sherlock saw. Was it written on his face? In the way he talked? What if others could see it, even though what was obvious to Sherlock was rarely obvious to anyone else. “Yes, I think you’d better,” said John darkly.
Sherlock tented his fingers and pierced him with those too-perceptive eyes. “You’ve been masturbating three times more frequently than usual,” he started.
“What?” John interrupted, now genuinely angry. “What are you, a voyeur? Have you been spying on me?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Hardly. It’s not my fault that your bed squeaks in a particular pattern when you pleasure yourself, and we do share a bathroom, keep in mind. May I continue?”
John winced and pressed a finger to his temple. “Fine.”
“You’ve been masturbating three times more frequently than usual. Why? What’s changed? You’re not seeing anyone new, your job isn’t any different, and the case that we were working on had only one element that made it unique, unlike any of the other cases we’ve dealt with before, and that was the role of hypnosis. Once I had my theory, it was easy to observe that your skin flushed every time that specific topic was mentioned. Plus,” he added with a half smile, “I looked through your browsing history.”
“What?” John once again interjected. Good lord, the mind control porn Sherlock must have uncovered… “What is wrong with you? Do you have any sense of privacy at all?”
Sherlock leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. “If you want privacy, clearing your browsing history is the simplest thing in the world. Don’t tell me you don’t know how.”
So. Power of deduction aside, Sherlock had all the proof he needed, and John had no room left for denial. He should have seen this coming, he supposed. John scrubbed his hands over his face, feeling completely exposed, and asked, “Are you done?”
“Not quite,” said Sherlock. “The only thing left to determine was what interests you more: being hypnotized, or being the hypnotist. It was unclear from the stories you read which you prefer, but since our recent case involved both males in the more submissive role, and you reacted so strongly, I assume that your interest lies in being hypnotized and not vice versa.”
John was nearly trembling at this point. He was a private person by nature, which would seem problematic when living with Sherlock Holmes. Except Sherlock never seemed to care very much about the personal details he could dredge up, and that somehow made it okay. But this-this was too much. This was information that John did not want in Sherlock’s clinical hands. He had more adrenaline pumping through his body from this conversation than he did when firing a gun. He wasn’t ready to talk about it. And certainly not with Sherlock, of all people.
“So I wanted to let you know,” Sherlock continued, oblivious to John’s distress, “that I could hypnotize you if you want. It might be interesting.”
John pushed back his chair and stood, leaving his half-eaten grapefruit on the table. “I’m going to go into my room,” he said slowly, “and forget that this conversation ever happened. I would appreciate if you do the same.”
***
Just because John didn’t want to talk about it didn’t mean he could stop thinking about it. Once the shock had worn off, curiosity took over. What would it be like to actually go under? What method would Sherlock use? Did he really know how to hypnotize someone, or was he bluffing, or perhaps just being cocky? Was it really such a terrible thing to consider?
Of course it was, but John couldn’t help considering it anyway. He hated that Sherlock knew what got him off, while Sherlock, as far as he could tell with his limited observational skill, had no sex drive to speak of. It made him feel weaker, vulnerable, and he detested feeling weak in any way. Detested it, but craved it at the same time. And that was the whole appeal of hypnosis, wasn’t it? Having the choice taken from him. Being made vulnerable without any nagging doubts, without anxiety. Letting go, completely.
Needless to say, the prospect ran through his mind that night as he stroked himself. Thoughts of what Sherlock, always so confident and in control, would do to him. What it would feel like. And then his bed creaked, and he thought of Sherlock in his own room, listening, knowing that John was masturbating and knowing what he was thinking of, and god help him, the thought brought him over the edge.
It wasn’t that he was attracted to Sherlock, exactly. He still considered himself straight. (Who knew what Sherlock considered himself to be.) But this went beyond attraction. It was a deep-rooted need, a base desire that had never been so strong before now, and it dictated the direction of John’s focus. At the moment, his entire focus was on Sherlock.
The following evening, John was putting away that week’s shopping-anything to get himself out of the flat-when he finally gathered the nerve to broach the topic again. Sherlock was seated on the couch watching one of his reality shows, still in his robe, with his knees pulled up to his chest. John turned to him and thought briefly how beautiful he looked, with his pale skin and small features. It was becoming clear that he was already in way too deep.
“Why would you want to?” he asked after a minute had elapsed. Sherlock said nothing, waiting for John to finish his sentence, even though he knew what John was talking about, damn it. “Why would you want to hypnotize me?” he conceded, voice cracking. It sounded so childish and silly to say out loud. But it affected him so strongly.
Sherlock grinned at the television. “I think it could be fun,” he replied. He talked as though it were a game, with no consideration for John’s discomfort or the gravity of the decision. John didn’t know if that made it easier or harder.
“But what would you get out of it?” he pressed. Surely it wouldn’t be sexual for Sherlock, like it would be for him. He wanted to know why Sherlock would agree to that.
“I’m a sociopath, remember? I enjoy manipulating people. Maybe I’m curious to see what I can make you do.”
John closed his eyes and sucked in air, then let it out in a low chuckle. “Not very manipulative if you tell me ahead of time, is it?”
Sherlock finally turned to him, still with that impish smile, and touched a finger to his nose. “High-functioning.”
“But what if-“ John swallowed- “what if I do get off on it?” He hid behind the hypothetical, even though they were beyond that by now.
“I’m not a child. I’m familiar with the functions of the human body.”
John wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean, but if Sherlock was okay with this being one sided, then… “Okay. I’ll do it.”
Sherlock’s face lit up as he clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Brilliant!” Jumping up from the couch, he turned off the television then motioned to where he had been sitting. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said.
“Now?” John squeaked.
“Of course,” said Sherlock. “I’m bored to bloody tears, or hadn’t you noticed?”
John limped over to the couch-nothing like acute anxiety to make his leg act up-and dropped heavily onto the cushions.
“Before we do this,” said John, “I have some ground rules.” He had been thinking of this all day. Just because he was about to relinquish mental control didn’t mean Sherlock could do whatever he liked. That would be frightening. “First of all, I want to remember every single thing that happens. No blackouts, no amnesia. Secondly, this is private, between you and me. So no mentioning this around Scotland Yard, and nothing that interferes with my daily life. And third, nothing permanent. I don’t want to wake up with altered memories like that poor sod.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “What about triggers?”
Good lord, was Sherlock already planning to do this more than once? John swallowed thickly. “Triggers are okay. But again, nothing that would interfere with my daily life.” Triggers were more than okay, in fact, and John was starting to get aroused just thinking about it. “I trust you, you know,” he added. For better or worse, he thought.
Sherlock’s smile turned affectionate. “Yes, I know.” Which wasn’t exactly comforting, but it would have to do.
With a flourish, Sherlock pulled a lighter from the pocket of his robe and lit a candle that had been placed on the table in front of John.
“Has that been there the whole time?” John asked in surprise.
Sherlock responded with a sigh. “Once again, your powers of observation astound me. Now, focus on the flame and feel yourself start to relax.”
John held up a hand, giving him a moment to collect himself. “Do you actually know what you’re doing?” he asked. “I mean, have you done this before?”
“No, never,” Sherlock happily admitted. “But I did some research. And if that idiot woman can make a living from it, how hard can it be?”
John didn’t find that all that encouraging, but he sighed and settled himself in, returning his eyes to the candle that danced in front of him. “Right. So, what do I do?”
“You don’t need to talk,” said Sherlock.
He pulled up a chair and sat down very close to John, facing him. John felt immediately like one of Sherlock’s experiments, especially since Sherlock was wearing the expression of intense concentration that he usually reserved for crime scenes. It was a little unnerving to be on the receiving end of such scrutiny, but John tried to put it out of his mind. He also tried to ignore the combined anticipation-trepidation that had settled in his gut.
“Now,” Sherlock began again. “Focus on the flame and feel yourself start to relax. All you have to do is listen to my voice, and you’ll find that it’s very easy to drift down into a relaxed state, naturally and at your own pace. Just keep your eyes on the flame, right at the center of the flame, and listen carefully to my words.
“I want you to take a deep breath in, John, and hold it…very good, now let it out slowly and feel your muscles start to grow loose. Once more. Take a deep breath…and release it, letting all the tension flow out of your body. Well done, John, you’re doing excellent so far.”
John felt a warm, satisfied glow at the compliment, rare as they were coming from Sherlock, but he still wasn’t sure this would work. At the start, he had trouble focusing his attention, spending too much thought on gauging his body’s reactions, or worrying whether Sherlock would notice his growing erection. Because whether or not it worked, this was already the sexiest thing he’d ever done. Sherlock’s smooth, low voice, droning so sweetly, trying to work its way under the barriers of John’s conscious mind, was gradually making him dizzy with arousal. Or maybe it was just making him dizzy. He blinked a few times, eyes watering from staring too long into the candle’s bright flame.
“That’s right, John,” said Sherlock. “You can feel that tired sensation working at the corners of your eyes, making it harder and harder to keep them open, your eyelids feeling heavier and heavier. Try to keep them open so you can continue to stare into the heart of the flame, but the more you try, the heavier they start to feel. You can blink if you need to, but every time you do your eyelids feel heavier and heavier, wanting to close, becoming more and more difficult to keep them open. That’s right. You can let them close now, and as you do you’ll feel your body sinking deeper into relaxation.”
John felt his eyes slip shut, and his whole body sink into the cushions. Without the candle, he was left with the drowsy feel of his body, the sound of Sherlock’s words, and the steady pulsing in his groin.
“Very good, John. You’re doing so well. In fact, your eyelids are so heavy, I want you to imagine there are weights attached to each one. And no matter how hard you try, you won’t be able to open them again. No matter how hard you try, your eyes will stay tightly shut, those weights pulling them down. You know that in an emergency you could open your eyes if you really needed to, but I want you to use your imagination so that no matter how hard you try to open them, they will remain heavy and tightly shut. Try to open your eyes now, John, and you’ll find that you can’t.”
So John did. He tried to pry his eyes open, knowing, as Sherlock said, that he was perfectly capable of doing so if needed. But even though he knew he could open them he just-didn’t. He worked the muscles of his face, trying to lift his lids, and at the same time keeping them heavily clenched. It was a strange contradiction to experience, and he wondered if it were a sign of trance, or whether he was just playing along. Would he be able to tell the difference?
“You can stop trying now, and let the tension drain from your face, taking you even deeper. Now John, I’m going to touch you in just a moment, but everything I do simply makes you feel more relaxed and open.”
Touch him? John’s mind immediately went to a filthy, uncomfortable place. Then he felt Sherlock’s surprisingly warm fingers on his wrist, so he stopped worrying and simply let him get on with it. Sherlock lifted his wrist in the air so that his hand was dangling loose, and moved it back and forth a bit. John could feel his elbow and fingers swinging freely, but his entire arm felt tingly from disuse, almost as if it weren’t his.
“That’s right. I want you to give me full control of your arm, letting it hang heavy like a wet rag. Very good. When I drop it onto your lap, you’ll feel a wave of relaxation from the top of your head down to your toes, and you’ll go twice as deep as you are now.”
Yes, it was Sherlock’s arm, not his own. He liked the thought of that. And when it landed on his thigh with a dull thump, oh did that feel good. Sherlock repeated the process with his other arm, lifting it, moving it about, then dropping it like a lead weight. John’s head suddenly seemed too heavy for his neck, and he felt it tipping forward towards his chest.
“Very deep, now, and going deeper,” Sherlock murmured, pressing down on John’s left shoulder, and he melted under the touch.
He found that Sherlock’s persistent patter was starting to blur together, like it sometimes did when Sherlock used him as a skull. There was more talk of relaxation and deepening, then Sherlock asked him to envision himself at the top of a flight of stairs. A spiral staircase easily materialized before his mind’s eye. He watched his feet as Sherlock led him down, one step at a time, counting them off from ten to zero, down to the soft bed that waited at the bottom.
By now John was feeling more than a little floaty, aware of what was happening, but enjoying it too much to do anything but go along with it. And he found himself thinking that he could listen to Sherlock talk like this for hours. He hadn’t had any real expectations going in, but it certainly didn’t feel like sinking under someone else’s power, or going mindless and blank. It was just a pleasant sensation, floating and listening. It also felt safe. Or maybe that was Sherlock telling him he was safe?
“How do you feel John?” asked Sherlock, and it took a moment to realize he was expected to answer. “You’ll find it very easy to talk, just as you normally would.”
“Good,” John murmured. It seemed like too much effort to elaborate, but that one word made a nice summary.
“Yes John, very eloquent,” said Sherlock with obvious sarcasm, but he was quick to smooth it over and return to a more encouraging tone. “You feel very relaxed and peaceful, don’t you? And you would love to return to this state over and over again.”
John nodded, just barely, because it was still difficult to lift his head. Fortunately, he knew Sherlock was adept at picking up on small movements.
“I’m going to help you return to this deep, relaxed feeling. Whenever I snap my fingers and say the word sleep, you’ll find it easy to drop right back to this peaceful state. And every time I snap my fingers and say the word sleep, you may find yourself dropping even five times deeper than you currently are. Five times deeper. You would like that, wouldn’t you, John?”
Again, the slightest of nods, although he had his doubts. Shouldn’t he be well and truly hypnotized before Sherlock starting adding such instructions?
“Very good. You’ve done so very well, you should feel proud. Now, when I count to three, your eyes will open and you’ll feel wide awake, refreshed and aware. One…two…three.”
Slowly, John blinked himself into awareness of the room, thinking to himself, was that it? It had been lovely, and peaceful, and oh god his erection hadn’t subsided the entire time, but he was expecting it to go longer. He was expecting Sherlock to take advantage at the very least, test the limits of what he could get away with. It didn’t seem like him to end it so soon.
As his eyes adjusted and his limp muscles started to stretch, the first thing that came into focus was Sherlock’s face, still uncomfortably close to his own. And then John registered his expression: the self-satisfied smirk, the hunger in his eyes, the overall mischief that meant trouble.
He heard the snap in his ear, saw Sherlock’s lips form the word “sleep,” and felt his mind sink like a rock under the command.
***
“Can you hear me, John?”
It was several deepening exercises later, and if John had earlier doubts about whether this would work, he wasn’t thinking of them now. He knew he was very deeply hypnotized. Sherlock had told him so.
“Yes,” he said. It came out as a sigh.
“And how do you feel?”
“Good.”
There was a slight pause before Sherlock asked, “Care to elaborate?”
“Very relaxed,” John offered in a low murmur after a moment’s consideration. He found his thoughts were connecting a bit slower than usual. “Hard,” he added. Part of him wished he could do something about that, but he didn’t think he could move his hands.
“Yes John, I can see that. I think we’ll take care of that problem later. Now what are we going to do with you first, I wonder?”
John didn’t have an answer to that, so he said nothing and waited.
“Hm, yes. Let’s try something fun, shall we? John, when I count to three, I want you to open your eyes. You will feel wide awake, but you will actually remain deep in trance. You’ll find it easy to speak and act normally, and you will not be aware that you are hypnotized at all. In fact, you will believe that we haven’t even started yet. And you will doubt my ability to hypnotize you when we do. But every time I raise my hand in the air, you will find yourself suddenly unable to speak until I lower it again. And every time I say your name, you will start to feel more and more tired, until you find yourself slipping back into this deep trance. Nod if you understand, John.”
John felt his chin lift up and down. It was always easy to get sucked into Sherlock’s deep voice when he launched into his fast paced monologs, but this was a bit different. John felt acutely focused on every word. And even if he didn’t catch a meaning here or there, he knew that some part of him was absorbing it entirely.
Sherlock counted to three, and the next thing John knew, he was sitting on the couch with a lit candle in front of him waiting to begin. He was nervous and anxious, and already aroused far more than was warranted, but he had warned Sherlock of that ahead of time. And his anxiety was tempered by the knowledge that Sherlock, with all of his genius, was no hypnotist and unlikely to pull this off.
“How are you feeling?” asked Sherlock with a quirked eyebrow, which seemed a strange question.
“I’m fine,” John answered, stretching out his arm which seemed to have fallen asleep. “So, we’re doing this by candle, I suppose?”
Sherlock looked down at the table, and leaned over so he could blow it out with a quick puff. “No, I don’t think I’ll be needing that today.”
Oh, wonderful. Sherlock seemed to be in a particularly arrogant mood, which didn’t bode well for the success of this experiment. John felt a bit relieved at that, but it was also an enormous disappointment. He had come so close to fulfilling this particular desire of his, and he supposed that when they were done, he would have to return it to the ‘fantasy and nothing more; do not open, especially around Sherlock’ file.
John crossed his arms in front of him. “How are we doing it, then?”
“Let me ask you something first.” Sherlock pressed his fingers together in a familiar gesture. “Have you ever been hypnotized before?”
“No, I haven’t.” For some reason, Sherlock seemed to find that amusing.
“You’ve had a number of girlfriends over the years. About six, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Seven,” corrected John with a smirk. He derived way too much pleasure in pointing out Sherlock’s few mistakes.
Sherlock hummed, eyes narrowed, in response. “Fine, seven. If you’re really going to count her. And you never mentioned your particular interests to any of them?”
John shifted uncomfortably. It wasn’t a topic he was keen to discuss, but he had already crossed the point of no return even agreeing to this. Divulging a bit of his personal history wouldn’t make things much worse. “I did, twice. But it never went anywhere. And one time it ended the relationship, so…” So he never brought it up again. That second rejection had been particularly painful. For such a sweet, lovely woman, Tracey did an excellent job of making John feel like a freak. Maybe that made him a bit more sympathetic toward Sherlock. Maybe that was why he could share this with him now. “I seem to have a talent for choosing the vanilla ones.”
“That’s because you don’t know how to look,” Sherlock replied. John rolled his eyes, but said nothing. “In any case, you’re sure you’ve never been hypnotized before?”
“Yes,” said John, getting cross. “That’s what I said. Now can we get on wi-“
Sherlock lifted his hand as though in greeting, and John found his voice stolen from him. His eyes went wide as his mouth opened and closed like a fish. The fact that this seemed to please Sherlock greatly only increased John’s alarm. He tried shouting. He tried pushing the words ‘What have you done?’ past his throat, but no sound would emerge. And the whole time, Sherlock’s hand remained stupidly, maddeningly hovering in the air.
“I could get used to this,” Sherlock said almost to himself, now with a wide grin. “Tell me; use your reasoning. What do you think just happened?”
John couldn’t imagine, couldn’t think of a single thing that would cause him to stop speaking so abruptly, but he knew that Sherlock was behind it. That much was clear by his reaction. And why was Sherlock asking, if he couldn’t bloody well answer anyway? He cast around the room, and found a pen and some scrap paper within arm’s reach. You did something, he scratched furiously, then thrust the note toward Sherlock.
“Yes, very good. Excellent. What, exactly, did I do?”
John threw up his arms and mouthed, ‘how the hell should I know?’ But then he wrote down the first word that came to mind.
DRUGS
Sherlock leaned in to read it then shook his head. “Interesting. But no, I didn’t drug you. Even though it may start to feel that way, John.”
John shuddered in a sudden wave of exhaustion. If he wasn’t drugged, then what? He wrote down the next possible cause he could think of for a sudden inability to speak.
STROKE
Sherlock sighed heavily at that one. “You’re not having a stroke. And I certainly wouldn’t be able to cause one, would I? Come on, John, think.”
John’s eyes started to flutter. How was he supposed to think when he was so bloody tired? He just wished Sherlock would lower his hand, because it was really starting to annoy him.
“Would you believe me if I said you were already hypnotized?”
John scoffed-or would have if he could make a sound. What sort of mind game was this, then?
“Why not?” Sherlock continued, still with his hand in the air. “All the evidence points to it. I’m somehow preventing you from doing a simple task, and you’re also feeling gradually sleepier, aren’t you John?”
John shook his head vigorously, because that was ridiculous. Even Sherlock couldn’t master hypnosis so suddenly, and John would know if he had. Although Sherlock was right about John’s fatigue. Did he get enough sleep last night? He rubbed his eyes a bit, feeling like he needed a jolt of caffeine.
“Have you discovered the connection with my hand yet?” asked Sherlock.
John furrowed his brow and stared at Sherlock’s hand. Yes, what was it about that bloody hand? It was doing…something…maybe if he could wake himself up he could figure it out…
“You know, John, I bet I could hypnotize you with just the sound of my voice.”
John blinked slowly, then jerked his head back up when he noticed it was falling. What nonsense, he thought. This wasn’t how hypnosis worked. He wished he could tell Sherlock, but his voice wouldn’t…and his eyes kept…
“Almost there, John. You can’t fight it, can you John? Have you reached the right conclusion, yet, John?”
For a moment he thought, yes, I think I've got it, but then Sherlock said his name once more and it dropped him all the way down into what he immediately recognized as his comfortable, pleasant trance from before.
***
Other experiments and scenarios followed. Sherlock watched John get drunk on water, made his entire body freeze on command, and tested his memory recollection. John wasn’t sure how much time had elapsed, because the nature of time seemed different under hypnosis, but he was in no rush to leave this state.
“Wonderful,” Sherlock was saying. “You’ve been so good and cooperative. You like the way that makes you feel, don’t you?”
“Yes,” John whispered, basking in the praise. He felt warm and comfortable and obedient, ready and open to whatever came next.
“Then I think you deserve a reward. Would you like that? Something to make you feel even better than you do now?”
He nodded lazily, although really, he would probably agree to anything Sherlock said to him at this point.
There was an extended pause that John hardly registered before Sherlock spoke again. Something about his voice sounded less confident than before, though it didn’t diminish its effect on John. “I noticed you’ve had an erection this entire time. Is that getting uncomfortable?”
John said, “Yes,” again and moaned very softly from the back of his throat. Now that his attention was directed to his arousal, it seemed to double. And at some point in the course of the evening, he had stopped being concerned whether Sherlock noticed or not.
“I want you to focus on your cock for just a moment. I want you to think about everything we’ve done today, and how deeply hypnotized you are, and how very much you get off on that. You may want to move your hands, but you’ll find that they are still too heavy to lift.”
He did as he was told, concentrated on his own lost control and how erotic that was, though the word ‘cock’ falling from Sherlock’s lips was a turn on in itself. Discomfort turned to throbbing as his hard-on grew, and he found little relief in the small, involuntary lifts of his hips.
“That’s right, so hard now. I think it would feel much better,” said Sherlock, “if you opened your trousers and removed your erection, wouldn’t it? Why don’t you do that now? You’ll find you are able to move your hands again, just enough to open your trousers and release your cock, before they fall heavily to your sides. You’ll feel so much better once you do.”
John’s fingers twitched to life as he unzipped his fly and nudged his pants just low enough for his cock to bob free. And as Sherlock promised, it felt wonderful. Also strange, because he knew Sherlock had never seen him exposed like this before, but that train of thought didn’t quite reach a level of concern.
“Now listen carefully.” Sherlock’s voice came out softer and faster than it had up until then. “When I count to three, you will open your eyes once more, feeling awake but remaining deeply in trance, and you will remember everything that’s happened under hypnosis so far. As soon as you open your eyes, you will begin to masturbate. In fact, you will find yourself unable to stop even if you try. You will otherwise behave normally, but you will remain seated on the couch, and you will continue to pleasure yourself until you reach orgasm. Once you do reach orgasm, you will once again feel yourself slipping back into trance, ready for more suggestions.” There was a moment’s pause. “Nod if you understand me, John.”
Yes, he understood perfectly.
“Very good. One. Two. Three.”
John’s eyes flickered open, and everything registered at once.
Fuck.
His cock stood straight up in his lap, exposed, making John feel more naked than if he had no clothes on at all. Sherlock was still facing him, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and watching with a transfixed expression.
“You bastard,” said John through his teeth, even as he felt his right hand move toward his needy cock, like a magnet, like a hand that didn’t belong to him. Sherlock’s hand, he thought. When it made contact, he couldn’t help a stifled groan because it was such a relief to finally have some friction.
And that felt so wrong because Sherlock was just sitting there, watching. He didn't look embarrassed in the slightest, either. “This is what you wanted, correct?” he asked.
Yes, absolutely yes, more than anything, John thought. But out loud he said, “You weren’t kidding. You really do get off on this manipulation thing, don’t you?” He tried to see if he could pull his hand away and recover some shred of dignity, but it only squeezed and stroked more urgently.
“I’m not the one who’s getting off right now,” said Sherlock with one of his infuriating (sexy) grins. His eyes raked over him, not looking away for a second. “Interesting.”
“Are you-are you analyzing this?” John cried. The thought of Sherlock gathering data from this, deducing his very thoughts from the way he wanked, sent more blood rushing south. Who knew he was an exhibitionist on top of everything else? Well, Sherlock probably knew. “I can’t believe you-unh-talked me into this,” he seethed. Berating Sherlock seemed to be his only recourse for gaining a modicum of control. “God only knows what I was thinking, letting you of all people-“
His words caught in his throat, and at first he wasn’t sure what had happened. But then he saw Sherlock’s raised hand, not like a greeting but more like a command to halt.
“I don’t think talking is necessary for this.”
John tried to glare, but it turned into more of a grimace, because now he had nothing to distract himself from the desire coursing through his veins. He settled on confrontational eye contact, at the least, and instead found himself getting lost in Sherlock’s gaze. He felt dirty, manipulated, defenseless, and so very, very turned on, his helplessness and arousal inexorably linked, and spiraling tighter and tighter while Sherlock watched.
He begged himself to slow down and delay his inevitable return into trance, but thinking of what was to come brought him that much closer to the edge. His hand twisted in a familiar pattern as his thoughts fixated on what Sherlock was making him do, the betrayal of his own subconscious, the sweet, terrifying freedom of letting everything go and having no say. His mind began to cloud, and whether it was the approach of orgasm or the edges of hypnosis, he couldn’t tell. His mouth fell open in a silent moan.
With one final pull and the memory of going under, John came hard enough to see stars, all over the table with the candle, over the floor. And instead of the wave of exhaustion that usually followed, his mind opened like a vortex and sucked him under.
“That’s right, sinking nice and deep,” came Sherlock’s voice from a distance. “You’ve done very well today. I think we need to do something about this mess, though. When I ask you to open you eyes again, you will find it very enjoyable and pleasant to clean up after yourself. When you’ve finished putting your clothes to rights and cleaning up all of your ejaculate, I want you to return to this seat on the couch, and at your own, comfortable pace, bring yourself out of hypnosis. You will be wide awake, refreshed as though you’ve had a long nap, and feeling wonderful all over.
“You will find it easy to remember everything that happened while you were in trance. Any command or suggestion that I’ve given you will no longer be in effect, with the exception of your cue to return to this deep, powerful state. So whenever I snap my fingers and say the word sleep, it will always bring you into hypnosis, twice as deep as you were before. Do you understand?”
With great effort, because he had never felt so tired before in his life, John nodded.
***
Awareness returned slowly, bit by bit. Feeling and energy began to flow through John’s arms and legs, and the living room reinstated itself beyond his still-closed lids. Then came the awareness of what had happened. But that was too big to process so soon. For now, he tucked those memories off to the side.
When he finally felt ready to pry open his eyes, John found Sherlock sitting in a different chair, reading a newspaper.
“Welcome back,” said Sherlock, scanning the page. “I made you some tea.”
John cast his eyes to the table in front of him, and sure enough, the candle was gone and a mug was in its place.
“You made tea?” The surprises just kept coming.
“I thought you might need it.” Sherlock folded the paper and tossed it to the side, then stood to retrieve his own cup from the mantle. “I didn’t want you getting hysterical when you awoke.”
“I’m not hysterical,” said John evenly.
“No,” said Sherlock, sitting back down and squinting at him. “You’re not, are you? Hmm. I assumed you would be more distressed by what we did.”
What they did. John didn’t feel distressed, he felt-in awe. He could hardly believe it had happened. He remembered every detail just as Sherlock had promised, but it seemed more like an erotic dream than real memories. Maybe the panic attack would come later. For now, he preferred to bask in the aftereffects of the trance, which still had him feeling serene and a bit sluggish. No doubt it was partially Sherlock’s suggestion that he would awake feeling wonderful, but it was also the glow of finally fulfilling such a long held desire. Emotions like humiliation or shame, though they nagged at the corners of his thoughts, could wait their turn.
He took a sip of the tea-not too bad-and stared ahead at the far wall. In his mind he played back the events of the evening, scene by scene. He had never experienced anything so heady before; he didn’t think he had the words to describe it. And it wasn’t just the wank at the end that had him fascinated, but the entire process from the induction to the triggers. It was the sensation of handing over his mental reins. It was powerful.
“John? Are you okay?”
John blinked, and turned back toward Sherlock. He’d almost forgotten he was in the room. “Sorry. Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for the tea, by the way, it’s lovely.”
“I have to admit,” said Sherlock, frowning, “you’re not reacting at all the way I expected you to.”
“Well then, I’ll try to be more predictable next time.” He offered a placid smile.
But Sherlock continued to regard him with concern, and it was starting to pull him out of his reverie. As the glow began to fade, what was left was the fact that Sherlock had just watched him masturbate. He had caused it. More than that, he had seen John vulnerable and exposed, and John wasn’t talking about his penis. He was in the military; he had seen and been seen naked by men before. But he’d never willingly given up so much control. And now Sherlock was making him tea, and showing concern? Ah, yes-there was the humiliation and shame that he’d been avoiding. He didn’t want to feel so fragile and easy to take advantage of, and he didn’t want Sherlock to look down on him. Any more than he already did, at least.
John turned away from him. “You know, I seriously can’t believe you took it as far as you did. I never asked you to do that.”
Sherlock leaned back and wrapped both hands around his mug. “I didn’t break any of your rules. You didn’t say I couldn’t make it sexual.”
“That’s hardly the point.”
“Isn’t it?” Sherlock countered.
John sighed, not wanting to concede that maybe it was. Sherlock was right; John could have easily prohibited anything erotic, if he hadn’t secretly hoped it would go that route. But that still didn’t explain Sherlock’s actions. “Why did you, though?”
Sherlock shrugged. “Curiosity. And as a gift for letting me poke around in your brain for a while. I can’t imagine anyone else who would actually volunteer for that.”
That made John chuckle in a self-deprecating way. “No one in their right mind, that’s for sure. Only strange perverts like me, yeah?”
A smile formed on Sherlock’s lips. “Ah, there’s that sexual hang-up I was waiting for. If you want to know whether I think less of you because you have an uncommon fetish, the answer is no. If anything, I think it makes you slightly less boring than most.”
And that, coming from Sherlock of all people, was easily the most encouraging thing John had ever heard anyone say about his kink. He blinked in surprise. “Thanks.”
“Did you enjoy it, by the way?” Sherlock leaned forward with sudden interest and put down his mug. “Was it what you expected? I am a bit curious what it must feel like, but I highly doubt I could still my brain for long enough to try it. Did it feel at all like being high?”
Before John could answer that he’d never been high so he wouldn’t know, the sound of Sherlock’s mobile filled the air. One look at the caller ID, and Sherlock cried, “Finally!”
“Hello…Yes, I read all about it. Well, obviously that wasn’t the victim’s finger. No, no, you won’t get any fingerprint matches…yes. Right. Excellent, I’ll be right there.”
He had hardly hung up before his coat was on and he was standing by the door. “Coming, John?”
“It’s late,” John replied, already pushing himself to his feet.
Sherlock just grinned. “Dismembering murderers aren’t sleeping. Why should we?”
Sherlock dashed down the stairs, and John followed right behind, wondering if it was possible that things hadn’t changed between them at all.
***
It had been four long days, and Sherlock had not yet solved the case. His single-minded focus was beginning to take its toll; he looked paler than usual, with just visible bags under his eyes. It was horribly insensitive that John should be more concerned about a malnourished and sleep-deprived Sherlock than the murder victim with the missing fingers, but there it was. Sherlock wouldn’t take care of himself properly until he’d found the solution, and John hoped he would find it soon.
They were both standing in the flat, examining the collage of evidence and facts that Sherlock was so fond of spreading across the wall. Crime scene photos, police reports, suspect testimony-John tried to draw connections between them, but everything he offered was met with dismissal and frustration.
“It’s staring right at me,” Sherlock muttered. His hands were pressed together under his chin, and the sleeve that slipped down his forearm revealed one of several nicotine patches he had earlier applied. “What am I missing? What?”
John pointed to one of the photos, but before he could mention something that Sherlock had probably already noticed anyway, he was cut off by an angry, “Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to, and I am trying to think.”
But John was sleep deprived too, and feeling testy. “I was only going to say-“
“John,” said Sherlock in a booming voice. “This is very, very important. I need you to look at me.”
John turned to him dutifully, expecting to be yelled at, and was confused when instead Sherlock stared him in the eye and placed a strong hand on his shoulder.
“Sleep,” he said with the accompanying snap of his fingers.
There was barely a moment to register surprise before the command took effect, and John felt his whole self, body and mind, loosing some unexpected battle. He tried in vain to keep his eyelids from fluttering closed, but Sherlock repeated the trigger, and they dropped like weights. The hand on his shoulder kept him from tipping forward, and a voice that was coaxing him deeper and deeper was also explaining how easy it was to stand on his own while remaining so very relaxed and drowsy. Sherlock was right; it was easy to straighten his back without loosing any of this peaceful bliss. John righted himself, though the hand remained a comforting pressure on his shoulder, and waited with an open mind.
“John. Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” he exhaled.
“Very good. In just a moment, when I remove my hand, I will continue to talk but the words will not be important. You can simply stand here and let the sounds wash over you, and you’ll find that the sound of my voice will bring you deeper and deeper every moment. You will not have to pay attention to the meaning of my words until I place my hand on your shoulder again, and then you will know that I’m talking directly to you. Do you understand?”
John nodded, and a moment later the hand from his shoulder was gone.
He drifted for he didn’t know how long. Sherlock’s voice was a constant background buzzing, soothing as white noise, like listening to another language or the sound of the ocean. Although John remained standing, he soon felt his body gently rocking back and forth, ‘up’ being a difficult direction to discern with eyes closed. He didn’t fight it, didn’t let the unsteadiness bother him. Nothing bothered him. Everything was calm.
Minutes later-or hours perhaps-the warm weight on his shoulder returned.
“On three, you can open your eyes, feeling wide awake and refreshed. One, feeling the energy return to your body, two, remembering everything while becoming more aware of your surroundings, and three. Wide awake.”
John opened his eyes in a daze. What just happened? Did Sherlock actually hypnotize him, out of the blue, without warning, and set him adrift for who knew how long? And was it right that so much blood should go rushing to his cock at the thought?
Sherlock was grinning like a child on his birthday. “It was so blindingly obvious! Of course the fingers were removed. How else could the killer steal those diamonds in Germany?”
“You-you solved it?” asked John with difficulty. He could barely think straight, he was so hard. Sherlock had just…and then he’d… John closed his eyes, briefly, and tried not to moan.
“I need to tell Lestrade.” Sherlock grabbed his coat and rushed to the door, this time without waiting for John to follow. Soon, John found himself completely alone in the flat, sweat forming from the fiery heat of his skin, about to come in his trousers without being touched.
Without hesitation, John raced to the bathroom, dropped his trousers and pants in one motion, and positioned himself over the toilet. With one hand he braced his shaking frame against the wall. With the other, he pulled on his swollen cock, and allowed himself the privilege of making as many desperate noises as he liked. He remembered the seductive confidence in Sherlock’s eyes just before he’d snapped his fingers, thought of those long minutes while Sherlock talked, deduced, solved, while he stood mindlessly by, swaying in Sherlock’s control. It was a reminder of what Sherlock could do now, at any time, any place. Without notice. John was only ever a snap and a word away from being Sherlock’s puppet.
It didn’t take long before John came with a cry. Once spent, he flushed the toilet then slumped back against the opposite wall, not even bothering to lift his pants. He stood like that for some time, his non-sticky hand pressed against his forehead. The smell of sex seemed to fill the bathroom. Sherlock would probably notice; but then, Sherlock would probably expect it.
John needed to clear his head. He needed a shower.
Stepping under the warm jets of water did wonders for untangling his thoughts. And the first thing John thought as he scrubbed at his skin was that he wanted more. He needed it. These two times, the second one so brief, were not enough, and it was becoming clear that fulfilling his fantasy did not satiate it, but instead fueled his craving.
They hadn’t discussed their little “experiment” past their conversation when John had first come out of trance. They’d been too busy with this new case. So they never talked about whether it would happen again, or how Sherlock felt about it, or how John felt about it for that matter. He still didn’t know how he felt about it, even though he thought about it constantly. The murder and his own work were decent distractions, but at every lull in his busy life his thoughts would drift, and they would inevitably return to that evening under hypnosis. In bed, he could think of nothing else. While wanking-well, that went without saying. He was even starting to dream about the things Sherlock could do to him, things he wanted to be done.
And now this. So offhand on Sherlock’s part, but so very intense, and also intoxicating. Addictive. A simple thing that meant so much to him.
John tilted back his head and let the water splash over his face. Maybe it was wrong to play sex games with someone who didn’t find it sexy. Maybe it was wrong to do so with a man when he still considered himself straight. Or a flatmate. Or a friend. Or a sociopath. Maybe there were a million sensible reasons why he should put an end to this immediately and go find himself a nice girlfriend who would probably be perfectly vanilla and safe and just barely enough to curb his lust. It was a solution that had worked just fine up until now.
But now-now things were different, he realized as he turned off the water. None of those reasonable objections mattered. He’d wanted this all of his life, and now he had it, and he felt he deserved it. He knew that Sherlock was using him, putting him under like tucking something distracting into a drawer, but he wanted to be used, dammit. He didn’t care whether that was right or wrong. It just was.
He toweled himself dry, then wrapped it around himself and scooped up his clothing on the way to his room. An early night wouldn’t hurt; he was bloody exhausted. And he could always talk to Sherlock in the morning. In fact, he was determined to.
Part 2
Part 3