Chapter Text
John runs his thumb over the the scrap of lined paper in his jacket pocket. It has gone soft and slightly fluffy with his fussing, folds almost worn through so that it tears slightly when John pulls it out and opens it up. The elegant loops of Harry’s hand writing have smudged a little, the ink having not had quite enough time to dry before she had folded it and pressed it into his hand like a dirty secret. He supposes it is really. There are only six words on the paper, and John knows them by heart now, they play over in his mind, taunting him in the hours when he is too late to sleep and too early to rise. He reads over them again anyway, just to be sure:
221b Baker Street.
Knock three times.
There’s a noisy cafe, and then beside it a plain black door, marked only by the gold numbers above the knocker. 221b. John takes a steadying breath and knocks three times.
There is a moment before anything happens, and when the door finally swings open, it is something of an anti-climax. The woman who opens the door is probably just shy of 50, dressed sensibly in a dark blue tea-dress and a pale pink cardigan. There’s an embarrassed apology on the tip of John’s tongue, but the woman opens the door wide and steps back to let him in with a welcoming smile.
“Hello there, you must be John?”
Nodding, John allows her to lead him through a nondescript hallway and into a quiet office with a large desk and a few comfortable chairs. He sits when she directs him into one, trying to find anything at all to say.
“Mrs Hudson!” The voice that calls down the stairs sounds impatient and commanding, and John is momentarily startled by the rudeness. Mrs Hudson has a loving-sparkle in her eye as she turns away from him, though, and John forces himself to relax again.
“I’ll just be a moment, dear,” she tells him, bustling out of the room, “make yourself comfortable.”
Left alone, John has to fight a sudden urge to laugh at the domesticity of it all. Harry had assured him that this place was discreet, but he feels more like he is about to be interviewed for a serving position in a tea shop than to ask a stranger to whip him until he bleeds.
The small front office is comfortable and not the least bit threatening, a solid desk sitting at the back of the room with a few filing cabinets behind it and a half-open door through which John can just make out a tiny kitchen. It feels mundane, ordinary, and John relaxes a little in spite of himself, some of the coiled tension seeping out of his spine.
“I’m so sorry about that!” Mrs Hudson hurries back in a whirl of colour and motherly charm. “He’s so demanding, that one.” Her grin is full of affection, and John feels the corners of his own mouth turn up to mirror her expression. “Let’s get down to business then.”
She guides him through the forms quickly and efficiently, laying out the rules and having him sign everything in triplicate. It’s a little like being back in the Army, and the rhythm of it combined with her gentle and competent demeanor soothes him still further.
“Right, well, that’s all in order then,” she says eventually, gathering the papers up and wandering over to the filing cabinets. “Sherlock should be with you in just a moment.”
“Thank you,” John says, clasping his hands together just tightly enough to hide the tremor in his left hand.
The man who walks through the door less than a minute later makes John’s mouth go dry. He is tall and slender, his tight-fitting purple shirt showing off his pale skin, the lean muscles of his back. He strides into the room like a predatory creature, all lithe grace and confidence, and John straightens in his seat automatically, spine going ram-rod straight. The man, Sherlock, John assumes, looks him up and down appraisingly.
“Iraq or Afghanistan?” he asks, a slight smile playing over his lips, his startlingly green eyes fixed unblinkingly on John’s own. John swallows reflexively, a tiny spark of worry glowing hot in his stomach. He had been so careful to keep that information out of the forms, and Harry wouldn’t have mentioned his past when she made the booking, surely.
“Afghanistan,” he answers after a moment, and is cross that he can’t quite match the natural command of Sherlock’s tone.
Sherlock’s smile widens just a little, clearly proud of himself for having been proven right. John fights the urge to run.
He doesn’t run. Instead, he follows Sherlock up the stairs, concentrating on the thick blue carpet rather than the mesmerising sway of Sherlock’s hips, the way his arse is perfectly framed by his tight black trousers.
There’s a severe looking woman with dark hair standing on the landing, dressed from head to toe in latex, her long hair pulled up into a high ponytail. She backs through a door to let them pass, and John catches a glimpse of a small, light room set up like a consulting room in a doctor’s surgery. It strikes him that this whole thing is absurd, but then Sherlock is pushing another heavy door open and ushering him through.
The dungeon, because that is surely what it is, is not quite how John imagined it would be. There is no lingering smell of sex or sweat, and it is decorated in a tasteful black and white wallpaper. All the various tools and fittings are pushed away into the corners of the room, the bolts in the ceiling painted to match the brushed gold light-switches and side-lights. The overall effect is far more like a sitting room than a play room.
“Not what you expected?” Sherlock’s voice is clipped, but smooth, and John can’t quite hide the shudder that goes down his spine, the feeling of being about to step into something dangerous.
“It’s... tasteful,” he says eventually, standing square in the middle of the room and turning to face Sherlock. “So, where do you want me?”
“That rather depends,” the tone of Sherlock’s voice is playful, sitting just shy of teasing.
“Depends?” John forces himself to stand his ground as Sherlock stalks towards him, keeping his back straight and his shoulders square in spite of the height difference between them.
“On exactly what you want me to do to you.”
John can feel the blush burning up his face, stomach clenched tight. It’s not that he’s ashamed, exactly, but going to a Dom with the desire to be whipped is a little different to standing in front of him and articulating it. He closes his eyes on a long blink, feeling Sherlock step fractionally into his personal space. It’s a game, he tries to tell himself, it’s just a trick to intimidate him. When he opens his eyes again, it doesn’t feel like a game at all.
“I want you to whip me, “ he says, forcing his voice to stay steady, to give the illusion of calm. One glance into Sherlock’s eyes tells him that he has seen right through him.
“As you wish.”
John breathes hard through his nose as Sherlock turns away and busies himself with something in the corner.
“Take your clothes off,” he orders, throwing the command over his shoulder, “you can pile them on the red chair.”
Folding his clothes is familiar enough of an action to allow John to find his centre again, and he pads back to the middle of the room completely naked, feet making soft sticky noises on the plastic floor tiles. Sherlock has pulled the cover off a wooden contraption secured to the short wall at the end of the room. There are cuffs for his hands and feet, padded leather affairs with what looks like sheepskin on the inside.
“Come here,” Sherlock says quietly, and John goes without argument, forcing himself to concentrate on his breathing as he nears the contraption. “For today, I’ll stop if you tell me to,” Sherlock says, settling a hand into the small of John’s back to guide him closer. His hand is warm, long fingers just curling into the curve of his waist just a little. John feels his heartbeat jump in his chest at the contact and closes his eyes, allowing Sherlock to guide his arms into place.
There are handholds, and John grips them firmly, watching Sherlock buckle the leather over his wrists. The restraints are tight, but not uncomfortably so; they barely have any give when John tugs at them. Sherlock crouches on the floor beside him and catches hold of his left ankle, lifting it carefully and moving it over to the cuff there. His grip is strong, the very tips of his fingers resting against John’s ankle bone. John has to fight to suppress the shiver that runs down his spine.
Being fully restrained means that John is slightly off balance, not quite enough to leave him hanging from the cuffs, but just sufficient that he’s aware of it, that his body is constantly trying to correct his centre of gravity.
“Remember,” Sherlock’s voice is a quiet purr now, and John can feel it sliding warm and sweet over the skin behind his ear, “I’ll stop if you ask me to.”
There’s a hint of a challenge there, and John closes his eyes and resolves to hold out against whatever Sherlock gives him.
The silence between Sherlock’s hands leaving him and the first flutter of soft leather against John’s shoulder blade could have swallowed an ocean. John’s pulse is fast and heavy in his ears, his hot breath filling the space between his head and the wall, until his whole world feels stuffy and tense. When Sherlock touches him with the crop, it is like a spark of electricity racing down his spine. This is the moment of truth, and it stretches out before him, as steady and unblinking as Sherlock himself. John braces himself for the first strike.
It doesn’t come. Instead, the soft, slightly cool leather strokes down his back, following the line of his spine to tap lightly against his right arse cheek, barely more than a tickle. He thinks Sherlock is using a riding crop. Harry keeps a similar one in her utility room, a wide leather tongue at the end of it. The crop taps at his left arse-cheek this time, just on the underside of the curve. It is a harsher strike, but it still barely even smarts.
John opens his mouth to protest - to explain that he isn’t a princess, that he came here specifically for pain - when Sherlock strikes. The blows are so sudden and so hard that John’s mind can’t track the number of them. They pull the blood to the surface of his thighs and arse, warming the skin and leaving a sting which spreads outwards from the many points of contact. Just when it builds to a point approaching painful, it stops altogether and John realises that he has he has been holding his breath the entire time.
“Breathe,” Sherlock’s voice is distant, smooth. John obeys it without hesitation, forcing air into his lungs and relishing the fire that spreads through his damaged skin. When he has taken five deep breaths, Sherlock starts up with the crop again. The strokes feel more deliberate this time, as though he is choosing precisely where each one lands, creating some sort of criss-cross pattern on John’s thighs. It stings like nothing John has ever experienced before, and he grits his teeth until his jaw aches to keep from crying out. He is not ready for Sherlock to end it all, not yet.
The burn in his arse seeps through his skin into the base of his spine, and John slowly becomes aware of the deep ache of arousal, tangled with the sharper, brighter lines of the pain. His cock is hard where it presses against the cool wood, each new line of fire sending another spark through him, another wave of sweet acid into his legs and thighs. It is like the best sort of runner’s ache, and John allows himself to sag in the bondage a little, arching out to meet Sherlock’s crop as it falls relentlessly again and again.
“John?” Sherlock’s voice is too close all of a sudden, a cool hand brushing against the nape of John’s neck. He forces himself to breathe, tries to form words to answer, but is caught instead by the simple peace of Sherlock’s hand strong and steady on the back of his neck.
“Mmm?” he manages eventually, keeping his eyes closed, but turning his head a little just the same. Sherlock doesn’t answer with words, but his hand tightens fractionally on the back of John’s neck, and the silent reassurance is better than anything John has ever known.
He almost cries out when Sherlock steps away again, but remembers their deal at the last moment and catches himself before anything more than a groan can slip out.
This time it hurts from the first strike of the crop. The pain washes over him in waves until John is sure that each one of his synapses is fused, constant sensation rushing through him, his desire mixing with the pain until John is floating in a sea of sensation. He is vaguely aware of the cuffs at his wrists and feet, of the hardness of the wood against his cock, the steady, repetitive strike of the crop against his skin, but awareness slides in and out like the last threads of a dream on waking.
John is vaguely aware of Sherlock’s hands in his hair at some point, his head being forcibly turned, strong hands cradling his skull.
“John?” Sherlock’s voice is more urgent this time. John can feel the urgency in his veins. He tries to force his eyes open, but it is too much, so he headbutts Sherlock’s hand instead, hoping that the other man will get the message.
His arse and thighs are a sheet of fire now, the harsh sting of what must surely have been a thousand strikes layered and placed until everything burns.
“Enough,” he says slowly, and forming the word is like clawing his way through mud. Sherlock’s hands are steady on his head, holding him together, and John presses into them, letting the restraints take the whole weight of his body.
“That’s right,” Sherlock whispers, fingers stroking tentatively through his hair, “Let go now, John.”
As he tries to match his breathing to Sherlock’s, John feels something deep inside his ribs break, as though a part of him is cracking open. His arms are shaking from the tension, and he has no energy left to fight it.
“Let go,” Sherlock commands again, and John breathes out more deeply than he has in months, feeling every line that the crop has burnt into his skin, the sharp burn of it anchoring somewhere deep in his stomach. He feels whole again, strong and brave and helpless all at once.
Sherlock strokes his neck gently, with just the pads of his fingers. John concentrates on breathing, the simple in and out, lungs expanding and contracting, diaphragm, intercostals, collar bones. He imagines the oxygen flooding into his bloodstream, passing through his heart and on out to his fingers, down to his toes. His cock is still hard, throbbing against the wooden frame.
“OK?” Sherlock asks quietly after what feels like half a life-time.
“OK,” John repeats, trying for certainty and coming out a little more shaky. Sherlock crouches down to undo the ankle restraints and then curls a strong arm around John’s waist as he undoes the wrist cuffs, his movements fast and precise. John’s legs are shaking as though he just ran up a mountain, but he manages to centre his weight somehow, and only leans on Sherlock a little as they walk over to the wide leather armchair in the centre of the room.
Bending over the arm of the chair while Sherlock applies a cooling balm to his arse and thighs is far from the most dignified position John has ever been in, but he doesn’t have it in him to protest. He feels utterly exhausted, drained of energy, and yet more alive than he has been in weeks.
“How are you feeling?” Sherlock asks him, hands migrating carefully up John’s back to rub at his shoulders.
“A little overwhelmed,” John admits, resting his head on his arms against the other arm of the chair. It feels good to curl in on himself, to allow himself this small vulnerability in the safety of this room.
“That’s perfectly natural,” Sherlock assures him, manipulating John’s shoulders and hips lightly, probably in order to check for motor functions. John allows himself to be cared for, trying to process the emotions warring in his mind while Sherlock’s hands slide over his shoulders and down his back. “You did well,” he murmurs quietly, and John allows himself to find genuine pride in Sherlock’s tone. “Do you need a minute?”
Ordinarily, John would have accepted the offer gladly, put himself back together in private, but he can’t quite bring himself to pull away; he’s not quite ready for Sherlock’s hands to leave his skin. Sherlock reads his silence perfectly, manoeuvring them until he is seated in the chair and John is on his knees, his head in Sherlock’s lap. For a long while, John lets himself float there, grounded only by Sherlock’s hands in his hair. He realises, eventually, that the room has been soundproofed, the only sounds he can hear being their breathing and the faint but steady thump of his own heart. He feels more peace than he has believed in for years.
When he is in control of himself again, John dresses slowly, glad that his jeans are tight enough not to chafe his sore skin. He feels lighter somehow, warm despite the relative chill of the hallway when Sherlock opens the door.
“Mrs Hudson will show you out,” Sherlock says, though he stops John in the doorway for a second and brushes a piece of lint off his jacket. “I’ll see you soon, John Watson,” he says, before turning sharply back into the room.
John is tempted to protest that he hasn’t made his mind up yet, that one session might have been all he needed, but it dies on his lips. He knows that he needs this. Shrugging more deeply into his coat as though it is armour, John heads back down the stairs.