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How many dreams of this very scene had he quelled, once?
The sight of Sherlock bound before him now is even more enticing than those fleeting fantasies William had hardly dared entertain—his clothes ruffled from rough handling, his wrists and ankles tied to the chair with sturdy rope, and of course, a thrilled sort of defiance glinting in his dark eyes. William adjusts his grip on the crop in his hand and casts a cool, calculating gaze downward at his partner, slipping into the calm and sure persona of the Lord of Crime he’d been captive to for so long—but, this time, the title doesn’t own him.
Indeed, for many years, the Lord of Crime had been like a blade—one hanging by a horse’s hair over William’s head, and one sharp in his hand equally. Deadly, dangerous, and ultimately necessary, no matter how unpleasant. But where the blade fell, by some miracle, it failed to strike his heart, and the implement he holds in his hand now is dull—the memory of the Lord of Crime is merely a toy, a tool that hasn’t quite lost all of its use.
“Well now, Mister Holmes,” William enunciates the distance in the name clearly, though he can’t (or moreso, doesn’t) quite hide how saying it makes his lips curl in amusement. He flicks his wrist and pushes the tip of the riding crop against Sherlock’s chin, forcing the other man to look up at him. “Haven’t you gotten yourself into a right pickle, this time?”
Sherlock snorts, and his teeth flash when he smirks. “From where I’m sittin’, it looks like you’ve wanted to get me like this for quite a while.” It’s a challenge, mocking and knowing—even if he didn’t know from outside the scene, he’d be able to tell that from William’s expression, and William guesses he’d be about the same level of ornery even if this really were a captive scenario. Sherlock does just tend to roll with whatever punches are thrown at him, like that.
He flicks the crop back, expression kept level, and places his foot squarely between Sherlock’s spread thighs—heel digging into the seat of the chair, the flat of his boot threateningly close to the stiffness growing beneath Sherlock’s trousers. “Astute observation, Mr. Holmes.” He needles in return; the game is afoot once more, but this time, they’re both privy to all the rules. “Although I wonder if you comprehend the gravity of your circumstance, considering…” He presses his sole between Sherlock's legs indicatively as he trails off, and William’s lips curl into a smirk. “You’re getting hard from it.”
He catches the faintest hitch of Sherlock’s breath—easily missable, just a faint suction of air through the teeth, but it speaks volumes. More conspicuously, Sherlock’s fingers tense and he grips at the arms of the chair, as if to lunge at William were his wrists not bound in place; indeed, he leans forward against the ropes, challenging William’s authority and his will even from such an obvious disadvantage.
“Good observation,” Sherlock half-snarks, a little too smug and much too pleased. “And what’re you planning to do about it, eh?”
“You should be able to figure that much out on your own, detective.” William flicks the crop upward, then down again, a smart smack echoing where leather meets the exposed skin below Sherlock’s collarbone. “Not that it matters whether or not you do; you’re not in any position to refute me.”
The rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest as he breathes audibly betrays the adrenaline pumping in his veins—his grin doesn’t falter, though color rises steadily to his cheeks. Rather than giving him room to respond again, William shoves two fingers into Sherlock’s mouth, presses down on his tongue as he huffs a small, instinctive sound of protest. (The best way to deal with Sherlock’s sass is just to stop it before it happens, after all.)