Chapter Text
JOHN:
Sherlock walks slowly ahead of me, alone and stiff backed with anxiety. He has stated on numerous occasions over the years that I don’t observe him but I know that stance and walk well. He is afraid I am angry with him for the idiotic dash across London, the wrestling match that ended with a knife fight and both of us barely escaping with our lives. He is correct, I am livid. Once again he has ignored my order to wait for the police and once again we’ve nearly paid a high price for his pride. I am pissed and he damn well knows it.
He pauses at the top of the stoop, one hand on the outer door as if bracing himself to enter 221B. Glancing back at me with a slight frown he waits till I nod at him to give him my permission to enter. ‘Waiting to be given permission to enter our flat’ is not an item in our disciplinary contract but he’s been doing it now so long now that I don’t even question why. He sighs heavily –ever the put upon drama queen- and lets himself into the quiet, dim landing.
Once I close the door behind me, I round into him, my rage driving him backwards to press his back against the wall. My voice is stormy with annoyance and fear from the realization we both have barely managed to side step disaster yet again and it is all his bloody damn fault. Backed into the wall, he doesn’t move as I poke a finger into his chest and snarl, “I cannot fathom why you simply refuse to contact the police, Sherlock. Do you realize what a close call we had tonight?”
He remains sensibly silent for once and closes his eyes as I get up close, well into his personal space. He clenches his jaw to fight back the nasty, sarcastic retort I’m certain is brewing in that crazy brain of his. His mouth has gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion. I am so angry I am almost wanting him to try to blast me. If he does I’d put him into his place immediately. Right here on the landing if necessary, in front of Mrs. Hudson- his concern about privacy be damned. Hell, in the mood I am in, I’ve half the mind to grab him and pull him over my lap on the stairs without further provocation and give him the blistering hiding he so deserves.
“Well, go on, what have you to say to me, Sherlock?” I sneer, waiting for his pending tantrum with a clenched hand. He refuses to look into my eyes, instead he chooses a spot on the floor that needs his undivided attention.
Swallowing, he simply shakes his head. He probably senses how close I am to being quite dangerous. He doesn’t like this really nasty side of me although he seems to revel in being able to bring it out in me often.
I point up the stairs and command, “Then go to your corner. I’ll deal with you when I’m damn good and ready. MARCH.”
Sherlock flees wordlessly up the stairs to our flat with me not far behind. Inside he drops off his expensive Belstaff very carefully at the door, lays the blue scarf over another hook and heads quickly to a far corner of the sitting room. He takes a stiff stance with his nose practically glued to the corner, arms at his side and feet planted wide apart. He looks at home over there. I snort in grim amusement. He should look at home, he’s been in it often enough since we first signed our contract.
I remove my own jacket and hang it next to his. Taking a seat in my chair, I cross my legs and watch Sherlock carefully. If provided any slack he has a tendency to start to find distractions as a way to alleviate boredom. A slight twitch of the hands or head tilt indicates when he is shifting into his Mind Palace even though it is forbidden during a Time Out. When he becomes truly bored he bounces on his toes or picks at the wall paper. I demand he give me a perfect stance and I expect him to focus on his behavior that earned him the corner in the first place. He hates holding still and he hates thinking about his actions. I set the small kitchen timer for thirty minutes and place it on the table beside me so that I might observe it.
“Stop fidgeting,” I command sharply when he inevitably starts to shift a few minutes later.
He sighs and complains softly, testing the water as it were, “But John…”
I immediately rise and stride up to him, watching him subtly flinch around the mouth. I growl a warning, “I wouldn’t try to talk your way out of this; I really wouldn’t.”
Forever pushing at boundaries, Sherlock glances at me and replies snidely, “In the end though, we REALLY did not need the police.”
He yelps from the hard impact of my hand against his jean covered bottom and he manages to look startled. Before he can get into further trouble I shake my head and tell him, “We’ll discuss that issue after your time out. You know my rules. You agreed to them. Keep pushing me during Time Out and you’ll be spanked first before we’ve even discussed the punishment for your actions today.”
He stiffens into a proper form and stares resolutely into the corner again. I am close enough to see him swallow nervously and lick his lips. I think he has underestimated how angry he has made me and it’s dawned on him finally he is in for a long, hard punishment.
“Stay still, think about what happened today. I’m going into the bedroom to get a few things. I expect you to obey me.”
He whispers, “Yes, John.”
Most of the items I need are kept together in one easily-grabbed tote bag but the leather items I keep stored neatly laid out in silk lined drawers. I lift out the stiff, black posture collar. Its smooth surface is buffed to a high glossy gleam. I bring out Sherlock’s well-used wrist and ankle cuffs and the beloved riding crop. I juggle it all together against my chest as I lift the heavy tote and carry it all into the sitting room. Thankfully, Sherlock is still in the proper stance in his corner. I haven’t been gone for more than five minutes, still though, for him it likely felt like a life time.
I yank out a high backed wooden chair and set it in the middle of the sitting room. I gently lay the leather items out onto the table nearby, set the bag down just behind them, open the main zipper for easy access and then return to my chair to wait out the last few minutes of Time Out. Sherlock turns his head slightly in my direction.
“No deducing, Sherlock.”
His eyes go wide and he looks away again. He grumbles at the wall, “I wasn’t deducing.”
I’m not going to get pulled into a debate with him. “You’ve added five minutes to your time for that remark.”
As I reset his timer I watch as first his hand clenches then his shoulder and neck twitches as the annoyance of being called out on something quickly makes its way towards his mouth. He presses his lips tightly together to keep from speaking back. We are obviously making some headway finally.
The timer chimes thirty minutes later. Calmly he turns towards me and waits for me to tell him where to go. His eyes settle on the wooden chair behind me. He deduces in mere seconds what will occur once he sits on it and bites down on his lower lip. His eyes flick back to me and he shifts subtly from foot to foot as he waits, obviously feeling apprehensive.
“Yes, before I send you over there, come here,” I tell him as I point out the spot just in front of me. The classic ‘bad boy feeling sorry for his actions’ look takes its place on his face. Very tragic and sad. It doesn’t move my heart at all. It did of course the first time I saw it but that was many years and many punishments ago.
I know from past experience that being scolded and lectured are his least favorite parts of our sessions and he can easily be driven into sulkiness if I go on too long. There is a real art form to handling Sherlock. Finally I feel I am getting the knack for it. Timing is key.
He steps over to the precise spot I have indicated and stands still as a statue, back rigid in his perfect posture. I give him a moment to compose himself before I begin. I watch for any signs of rebellion that I will need to snuff out right away.
“Do you understand why you are being punished, Sherlock?”
A slight nod, no eye rolling yet. Not quite pushing the boundary but not quite what I was looking for from a repentant young man. “Sherlock, use your words.”
He inhales deeply through his nose, lifts his chin ever so slightly in defiance and answers through gritted teeth, “I disobeyed you.”
"Defied."
“I do not see why the difference needs to be pointed out,” He starts to answer back. My raised eyebrow and head tilt stop that line of thinking right away.
“Did you disobey a fresh command or did you defy me by breaking a rule already firmly in place? A rule, by the way, that you have broken many times in the past.”
He remains silent a moment, perhaps considering my words for once. More than likely though he’s seeking a loophole. I know there isn’t one left and wait for him to come to the proper conclusion on his own.
"I defied you, John."
I continue to wait him out in silence. He knows very well I expect him to continue- to elaborate.
When he seems to refuse to continue I hold up a finger and state simply, “One.”
“John, you don’t have to count, I was thinking.”
“Two.” I hold up the second finger to emphasize my point. I prepare myself to rise if I have too by placing my hands firmly on the armrests.
Almost childishly his hands fly behind him to cover his bum and he steps a tiny fraction away from me as he quickly adds, “Wait! I disobeyed....defied you by running after another dangerous criminal when I should have alerted the police instead. Further, this action placed us both in danger.”
I nod. I indicate his clothes with my hand. “Way too over dressed for punishment, I’d say. Strip.”
Slowly Sherlock reveals his pale skin to me. First he removes his purple shirt. I’m certain the well-stressed buttons are thankful for the brief break. He lays it gracefully over the back of the sofa. Next his jeans are removed and laid out over the shirt. My eyebrows arch upon seeing the lovely red underpants he’s chosen to wear. He shrugs innocently. He’s pretending, I think, not to know how hot and bothered I feel seeing them. He pulls off each shoe and tucks the socks into them as he sets them neatly under the end table. Finally he slides his underpants off and drops them, folded, next to his clothes. He acts almost shy standing in front of me, one hand instinctively covering his soft member from my sight.
“Hands down. Stop covering yourself,” I tell him as I stand up. His hand drops at once to his side. I tilt my head towards the waiting chair, “Sit down.”
He bounces a bit on his toes as he obviously fights the instinct to flee in the opposite direction of the dreaded chair. He opens his mouth to say something but I hold up my hand and shake my head, “I don’t want to hear any of your pathetic excuses. Now. Sit. Down.”
“I wasn’t going to make…” He starts to remark. I may be small but army training has made me lightning fast. I have him by the ear and am yanking him to the chair well before he registers he’s been nabbed and can yelp in pain.
I plop him hard into the chair and I release his ear. He rubs at it with one hand, a frown making its way over his face. I lean over him, making direct eye contact. He squirms under the sudden weight of my full attention.
“Are you having trouble listening today? Do I need to help you with that?” I threaten. He squirms. “Answer me!”
His grey blue eyes widen and he shakes his head firmly. “No, John. I’m listening.”
I slap his inner thigh and with a yelp he spreads his legs widely for me. I turn and make a slow show of digging around in the open tote and reveal a ball gag with locking straps. As I lift it towards him and he sees it’s the largest one I own he clenches his jaw tightly. He starts to shake his head but my warning frown freezes his action.
“You knew this was coming, OPEN.”
He provides me a very slight opening but it gives me enough room to shove it into his mouth and wrangle it deeper to force his mouth open widely. He moans a protest as I fasten the straps tightly. I release his head. He looks at me with a mixture of worry and annoyance. Nine years together and I know exactly what he’s thinking.
I remind him, “We agreed you trust me enough not to have a safety word during punishment. If however you think it’s an emergency blink rapidly. I will ALWAYS stop and unfasten you, however, young man, as you have a tendency to misuse your signals, you’d better only alert me to a true emergency. I’m quite angry as it is.”
He nods and fidgets with the ball in his mouth with his tongue and teeth. I say, watching him with some amusement, “That should keep you from getting into even more trouble with a loud temper tantrum.”
He makes a funny sound around the gag that I know very well means, “I don’t have temper tantrums.” I ignore him and rub away the drool from the corner of his mouth. He sighs when I dry my hand on his chest.
I lift up the beautiful posture collar and he allows me to slip it on rather peacefully. A few months back I had taken him to a harness maker his brother Mycroft uses for leather gear for Sebastian and had the collar made to my exact specification. Its height and gently rolled edge would keep his head erect and still. Once it is in place I watch as Sherlock relaxes. He never refuses or fights the placement of any of the leather gear. He’s told me often that he loves its comforting embrace.
I show him a locking leather cuff and he raises one thin wrist. Once it is fastened, he obediently lifts the other wrist for the same treatment. He drops both hands to his sides out of my way as I continue to prepare his body for punishment.
I snatch a section of rope from the bottom of the tote and grab one wrist again. I force his arm behind his head towards the center of his back, between his shoulder blades. Quickly I bind that wrist to the top rung of the chair. As he has been tied in such a fashion before, he offers his other wrist when he senses I am done with the first. I finally step back and watch as he tests the ropes. Satisfied he cannot not pull loose I pass another section of rope around his chest and chair twice- once over his nipples and the second time just below them. With both hands I pinch and tug firmly on his helpless pink nubs. He groans around the gag and as he does so, spittle dripped down his chin and onto his chest. The sounds he utters drives a delicious electric current straight to my cock.
“You’re making a mess,” I tease. I run a hand over a straining shoulder and downwards onto his chest. I click my tongue at him and he glances at me worriedly, obviously trying to deduce what failure of his has just caught my attention and no doubt wondering if there will be added punishment. I let him stew a moment in anxiety before I remark, my hand still laying over his pounding heart, “You’re losing weight again. We’re going to have to put you back on those protein shakes, I’m afraid. If I find out you are skipping meals again while I work then you know there will be Hell to pay.”
I don’t wait to see if he’s going to try to answer. I expertly have his ankles in cuffs and bound to the chair legs within a few minutes. It is a trickier process to pass a rope under each thigh as he is sitting on them but I manage to get them secured wide apart without cursing. I always forget to do his thighs first, have him lift them up to get the rope around them BEFORE the damn ankles are tied. I make yet another mental note to get this right the next time. With Sherlock, there is always a next time for punishment.
Now for the truly difficult part, adding a new element to his punishment. One I am certain he will not like. I bring out eight small, empty wooden spools, a new package of gauze bandage, cloth tape and EMT scissors. I lay them out carefully on the table, it wouldn’t do to drop and lose one of the spools. I hold four of them where Sherlock can see them. His eyebrows lift in a question.
“You keep disobeying me despite knowing the consequences so I’ve decided to up the ante a bit with these. It does require your assistance in applying though. They go between each finger where you will keep them obediently in place as I bind your hands. I tested this on myself, and it does hurt, I must warn you. In fact it hurts a lot but it won’t harm you long term.”
His eyes take on a sad, sorry puppy look and I nearly cave. I harden my heart by remembering how I’d just been stabbed at again by a desperate criminal because Sherlock is stubborn. I can be stubborn too. I place a wooden spool between each finger and press them together. As I begin to bind them tightly with the gauze bandage, forcing each sensitive finger to press against the unyielding wood and tape the end he moans softly. I know the discomfort he feels now will soon turn into a deep burning ache around each knuckle. I finish the procedure on both hands and look into his face. Penitence is just starting to show in his deeply furrowed frown.
“Just as with nipple clamps, the pain is worse as you take that off,” I explain. Tears threaten at the corner of his eyes but he blinks them away. “That pain should keep you out of your Mind Palace during punishment.” He closes his eyes and opens them again, our signal of agreement or understanding.
“Now one final step in preparation,” I say as I reach forward to tug at his flagging cock. He grunts in surprise as I generally don’t pleasure him during punishment. His sounds seem to indicate a general protest which I decide to completely ignore. I slide his cock around on my palm and even bat it lightly till it is standing erect. I pull out a length of very pretty pink ribbon and hold it up it for Sherlock’s discernment. I say to him in a sweet tone he is sure to recognize as false sentiment right away, “Isn’t it pretty? It’s for you, Sherlock. I’m going to tie it around your naughty little dick. It’s going to look lovely in the picture. Very sweet and girly.”
At the mention of a picture he tries to shake his head. It doesn’t come off so well with the thick leather around his neck holding his head stiffly. He blinks rapidly at me in a near panic.
I reach to untie the knots in the rope in case I need to but I know my boy well. I ask him very seriously, “Is this about the picture, Sherlock?”
He hesitates then blinks once. Fear has widened his eyes and in this light they look dotted with flecks of gold.
“I know right now if you were not gagged you’d be shouting Vatican Cameos at me, however, not wanting a picture taken is NOT a valid reason to stop punishment. It is NOT an emergency and you bloody well know that.”
He whimpers softly as I wipe away more drool. I lean in and whisper directly in his ear, “You’ll get 6 from the cane later for falsely using your safety signal.” He sighs unhappily but blinks once for understanding.
I crouch between his legs, rubbing him back to full attention and secure the ribbon around the base of his cock and balls. I have enough to bind his balls and separate them then I top it all off with a flourish of pink bow. Very cute. He’ll die of embarrassment each time he sees the picture of it. He knows I have no intention of putting this on my computer but I’ll print a single copy on my own printer and keep it in a photo album for him. Sometimes in Time Out I’ve made him review his book of past punishments. As he reviews the images a lovely deep red starts on his ears, then crosses his nose, neck and chest. I find it endearing when he blushes and it hardens me every time.
I raise my new IPhone- Sherlock having taken and broken my last one- and snap a few pictures from different angles to illustrate my knot work and the bow endowed cock, dripping its pre-cum hungrily.
Sherlock sighs again as he listens to each photo being taken and quickly turns a lovely lobster red to my sheer amusement.
“Perfect. All set for your punishment.”