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Sherlock isn't very good with self-restraint. Time has proven this many times and this—this is no exception. Because Sherlock wants. He wants and he wants and he knows that this is something he cannot have.
But, oh, how he’s wanted.
It began, probably, when John so coolly shot a man and he noticed his hands, rough and strong and not a quiver in them. It was a swift thought, one easily curtailed. But occasionally it surfaced again. He saw them wrapped around John’s gun, the contrast of his tanned, callused palms caressing the cool, sleek metal. And then, later, it was the way he walked and stood, that clipped, precise stance, the sharp bark of his voice when he was angry, the flash of his eyes during moments of danger.
John is good. John is caring and strong and kind and one day, he kisses Sherlock and it is almost enough, to have his gentle touch and his soft caresses. It’s gratifying to see the way he looks at Sherlock, like he’s a china doll, something delicate and worth treasuring. But it’s not enough. Sherlock wants to be held down into the bedsheets, fucked raw and abused. He wants to be hurt and humiliated, owned and rebuilt at the hands of the one man whom he trusts above all others.
Sherlock knows he can’t tell John. He can’t tell him about the treasure-trove of fantasies, built up from months of frustrated longing. He can’t tell him, because they’re not worth risking John for and he knows that.
OoOOOOOooooOOOoooo
1.
Sherlock shoots the wall one too many times, his boredom palpable in the tiny flat. John’s completely fed up. He tells Sherlock to stop and Sherlock ignores him in favor of aiming at a spot over his head, cracking out a shot that just misses John.
Ah. But now, John's furious. See that sharp glint in his eyes? He's had enough.
He grabs Sherlock by the waist and spins him around so that he lands, breathless, with his hands against John’s chest, one still clutching the still-loaded gun.
“I’m going to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget, you fucking slut,” John says, his voice dangerously low. Sherlock shakes his head frantically, because he still remembers the last one lesson, the one where John tied him to the bed and refused to let him come for hours, until he begged and cried. But John pushes him down onto the ground, right there, sinks to his knees in front of him and hooks one of Sherlock’s legs over his shoulder. Sherlock’s not wearing anything under his silk dressing gown and it slides to his waist. He’s uncomfortably exposed and hard too and John raises an eyebrow at him, wanton and splayed in front of him.
“Such a cock-slut,” he says, almost affectionately. “You want me to fuck you, that right?” He trails the gun down, through Sherlock’s pubic hair and Sherlock tenses at the cool metal. Still loaded, he reminds himself.
“John, you know—“
“Yes, I know,” John snaps impatiently. His grip on Sherlock’s thigh tightens and he drags Sherlock closer, until he's half in John's lap.
“Shut up, or this’ll hurt even more.”
He can’t be planning it. The clip-- Sherlock will be rubbed raw, bleeding, but oh, John is. He fucks Sherlock open with his fingers and spit and Sherlock whimpers and squirms, half on his lap, silk rucked up to his waist and crumpled. John slaps his arse to still him. the flesh jiggling under his palm. And then he slides the gun straight down through Sherlock's cheeks.
“I’m going to fuck you so hard, you won’t be able to walk straight for days,” he says pleasantly. Sherlock shakes his head, but John holds him down. The cool lip of the gun brushing past his hole, teasing, threatening and he is no where near open enough for this.
But then somehow it's sliding into him, scraping him raw and he's taking it, all of it.
"Look," John commands and Sherlock sees the last bit disappear into his body through teary eyes. It's still loaded and he’s trembling as John fucks him with it. It hurts brutally and John loves watching it, the beautifully painful slide of his Browning in and out of Sherlock’s quivering body. It's an effort to hold still, to just take it, but Sherlock does, because John told him to.
He belongs to John. He'll take anything from him.
And then John looks him in the eye.
“3 rounds in the chamber,” he says. “How lucky do you think you are?”
“No, John, you wouldn’t—“ Sherlock says, his eyes wide with terror.
John leans over and crushes his lips against Sherlock’s, delves messily into his mouth.
And he pulls the trigger.
ooOOOOoOoOOooOOOOOoOooo
2
John offers his life for Sherlock at the pool and somehow, Sherlock ends up on his knees, his nose level with John’s groin as he works frantically through the deadly vest. He throws it away-- but this time, he turns back, resting his head against the inside of John's thigh, trembling with the possibility of loss.
John’s hand threads through his hair and he freezes at the unexpected touch.
“Think you owe me,” John says. Sherlock looks up to check if he’s joking but all he can see is the unbroken line of his chest and his neck, his head tilted all the way back. He tentatively raises his hand to John’s hip and John’s hand tightens to the point of pain. Yes, Sherlock knows exactly what he wants, now.
He unzips John, draws out his cock, so thick and heavy and he knows, with a slight clench of fear, that he’ll never manage to take it all in. John forces his head down and shoves his cock in past Sherlock’s lips and Sherlock tries. He tries to lick and tease John, but it’s too much.
He gags around the width of it and John just chuckles.
“Always wanted to shut you up like this,” he says. Sherlock struggles to raise his head, because he can’t breathe now, but John’s too strong for him. He steps between Sherlock’s splayed knees and fucks his mouth properly, the tip of his prick reaching all the way to the back of Sherlock’s throat, scrapping it raw.
Sherlock’s eyes burn and tears run down his cheeks, but John is not done.
“Touch yourself,” he commands. Sherlock raises himself up slightly and shoves down his trousers, but when he touches his pants, John forces him down so far that he chokes on cock.
“You’ll come in your pants,” John says. “Like the little whore you are.”
Sherlock rubs himself obediently through the tight silk pants. He rubs furiously, because he knows he doesn't have much time (Moriarty could be back any second and then he'll see him like this, see what a slut Sherlock is for his pet). John keeps him down as he touches himself, keeps Sherlock’s mouth full and his own dick wet.
“Your lips are just made for sucking cock, aren’t they?” John asks him and Sherlock wants to nod, but he can’t, he’s too overwhelmed to even think. He feels his hot release soaking through his pants, his cheeks flaming at the humiliation. John thrusts into the sweet, wet heat of his mouth and then he’s coming too and Sherlock can’t hold it all in his mouth.
The come spills out and John is not pleased.
“You’ll keep touching yourself, for all that waste,” he says as he tucks himself back in.
“Moriarty could come back at any second--I'm too sensitive, John,” Sherlock pleads. But John is inexorable. Sherlock rests his forehead against John’s thigh and clings to him. His mouth is open against the rough denim and his hand holds on to the back of John’s knee.
And then he rubs and rubs until he’s sobbing again and he can’t feel anything but the curl of John’s fingers in his hair.
He doesn't even hear the door click open.
oOoOOOOOOOooooOOOOoooO
3.
Sherlock shouldn’t have allowed himself to be led to Buckingham Palace with just a sheet on. He’s John’s property and John likes to keep him to himself. But he doesn’t say anything. He just raises an eyebrow when the sheet falls and Sherlock is left nearly bare in front of everyone.
“So you like playing whore, do you?” he asks and Sherlock knows he’s in trouble. John steps behind him and splays a hand across his tense, muscled back. He runs it down, lower to the slope of his buttock and then slips a finger, tantalizing and inadequate, between Sherlock’s exposed cheeks.
“Take off the sheet,” he orders. Sherlock blushes and starts to protest, but John places a possessive hand on his hip and stays silent until he lets go of it.
Everyone is watching. Mycroft and his minions and Sherlock is so very red. John sits on the sofa and grabs Sherlock from behind, forcing him down onto his lap. John knocks his knees open with one hand, the other still tight across his waist.
“You want them to see?” he asks. “Then they’ll see. Show them, Sherlock.” He presses the palm of his hand flat against Sherlock’s cock. “Thrust,” he demands and Sherlock doesn’t dare disobey him.
He rubs up against John’s palm, the friction not enough to get him off, but enough to reduce him to a whimpering, sobbing mess. He slinks down lower and his head falls back against John’s shoulder as he shudders. John grabs him by the hair and turns his head so that they can kiss, sloppily, spit running down his face.
Sherlock feels humiliated, used, vulnerable, and John knows it.
“That’s what you get, if you want to be a whore,” John tells him. “Now they all know what a sweet little cock you have. Shall I show them your hole too? Maybe I’ll let them take a turn.”
Sherlock shakes his head “No” and John’s hand leaves his cock. “You have five minutes,” John says. “If you get yourself off, then I won’t show them. But no touching—I want you to hump my leg like the damn slut you are.”
And Sherlock’s rubbing his balls up against the denim, sliding his shaft across the rough material in a desperate bid to find friction. He’s not going to make it, for all that he’s trying so hard- there's just not enough stimulation. John rests his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, watching him smear pre-cum across the nice material.
“Almost time,” he says and Sherlock moans and ruts frantically. He can hear the cruel laughter of his audience and then John’s voice:
“5-4-3-2---“
oOOOOooOOOOOOOooooOOooo
4.
John finally grows fed-up with Irene and he decides to remind Sherlock to whom he belongs.
Sherlock’s on the couch, just thinking, when John seizes him by the arm and forces him to his feet. Sherlock struggles, but John’s too strong and he rips at Sherlock’s trousers, pulling until they end up at Sherlock’s feet, hobbling him. And then he forces his prize to stand, half bent, with his hands against the wall, his back arched and his buttocks on display. Sherlock feels his gaze fall between Sherlock’s legs, on the dark bulge of his balls hanging just below the pale, round curves of his arse. John can’t resist and he won’t be kind, not when he’s raging with jealousy. He cups Sherlock in his hand, gives him a good, hard squeeze, so hard it’s painful and Sherlock whimpers.
“I’m the only one who can make you beg twice,” John says quietly in his ear, one palm flat on Sherlock’s arse, the other still gripping his balls. “Just for me, you understand love?”
And Sherlock nods, but John is already spreading him open and sliding his wet cock inside Sherlock’s crack, just over his tight, virginal little hole. It's always just that tight, just that reluctant to let him in where Sherlock wants him.
“I won’t be able to take it,” Sherlock gasps, panicked. “I can’t John—“
“Twice,” John says. “I want you to beg twice.” And Sherlock begs and begs twice but John takes him anyways, slamming into him roughly. Sherlock muffles his screams, but they leak out through his lips, and then John’s fucking him so hard his knees are shaking. When they give out, John holds him up, keeps taking him even though he’s over-stimulated and raw. Sherlock feels him shudder, feels his hot release deep inside him and then his breath next to his ear.
“You’re mine,” he growls. “You’re fucking mine, you hear me? And you only beg for me.”
And Sherlock nods weakly, before sinking to the floor, come dribbling down the backs of his thighs. John bends down behind him and rubs his arse.
“Show me, “ he says. “Show me your come-filled hole. Show me that you’re mine.”
And Sherlock can feel himself flushing as he presses his cheek against the carpet and presents his arse for John to see. John dips his fingers in and rubs it around and Sherlock waits for his approval, his command that he can move.
A mobile appears next to Sherlock's mouth and Sherlock recognizes it vaguely.
"I'm going to fuck you again," John says calmly. "And you're going to call.."
Sherlock's fingers shake as he types in the number, hits send. John smiles loving down at him.
"I want Irene to hear you scream my name."
oOOOoooOOOooOOOOo
5.
Sherlock is so aroused when John introduces himself at Baskerville that he has to turn his head away.
“That’s an order,” John says and Sherlock can feel his nipples tightening, his trousers growing uncomfortable. He bites his lip and doesn’t look at John, but John knows. John always knows. He doesn’t say anything, not then. But later, when Sherlock comes out of the shower in the little room they share, he says, simply. “Stop.”
Sherlock stops. He stands at parade rest in the center of the room, clad only in a towel and John comes over to examine him. Sherlock cannot look at him. He must look straight ahead.
That’s an order and he can’t disobey, or John will be furious.
John takes off his towel and throws it in the corner. And he proceeds to examine Sherlock thoroughly. He plucks at Sherlock’s nipples until they harden. He runs a flat palm down Sherlock’s abdomen and explores the dip of his waist, the tautness at his hip. He parts Sherlock’s arse cheeks and runs fingers down the center, even slipping one in and crooking it.
Sherlock can’t move. But he’s growing harder and harder, pre-cum leaking down his shaft, his legs quivering from the strain. John rubs a finger across his slit, scooping up the clear fluid. He brings it to Sherlock’s mouth.
“Open,” he commands and Sherlock allows his lips to part. He knows the next part, but he must wait for it. He must wait for John to slide his fingers into Sherlock’s mouth and he can’t moan, he can’t make a sound, even as John fucks his cupid’s bow mouth. 3 fingers, blunt and rough and slightly salty, filling him, his lips in a perfect heart-shape around them.
“Good,” John says approvingly. He presses his fingers down on Sherlock’s tongue and Sherlock struggles to keep his eyes open, his posture fixed.
John slides them out, lets them track spit down Sherlock’s chin and throat.
“Stay,” he orders. “And don’t you dare move until I get back.”
Sherlock hears the door clang shut behind him and he knows he’s all alone, though he doesn’t know for how long. He aches, his balls full and heavy, his muscles trembling with the effort. Drool spills down his chin and he longs to wipe it away.
He stays.
oOOOoooOOOOOoooooOOoo
+1
“Really?” John looks at him, eyes kind, but slightly befuddled. “You want—Huh."
“Problem?” Sherlock demands defensively. “It was merely a suggestion, we don’t have to—“
“No, no—sorry, I was a bit of a prat,” John says, scratching the back of his head. “Processing. Here, let’s just try it, alright? It sounds--It sounds kind of hot, actually."
Sherlock nods and he barely has time to process before John shoves him, hard. Sherlock falls back onto the bed, landing on his elbows and John knees open his legs and steps between them, until Sherlock’s painfully hard cock is mere centimeters away from his belly.
John splays a hand flat on his abdomen. “Safeword,” he says.
“We don’t need—“
He gets a slap for that one. A hard slap, across one thigh, leaving behind a bright red mark. “Safeword,” John says again and this time, Sherlock knows better than to disobey him.
“Supernova,” he says grudgingly and John nods, the corner of his mouth twitching. Then he flashes forwards and pins Sherlock’s wrist to the bed, using his weight to crush Sherlock into the bedding.
Sherlock tests the hold, but John really is strong and he can barely shift it. Maybe, if he kicked and twisted just so-- he won't.
“John, what are you doing?” he asks, and the rushed breathlessness isn't even faked.
“Shut up,” John says harshly.
“But, I don’t understand-“
“Shut up,” he says again. “Or I’ll make you.”
Sherlock squirms, his eyes rolling up into the back of his head. “Let go of me,” he gasps. “You can’t just---“
Something cool and flat and metal presses into his mouth, cutting off his speech, and he takes it in, moaning lasciviously around the thin disks. John stares at him for a second, his mouth dropping open.
“Christ, you’re fucking gorgeous,” he says, breaking character entirely. Sherlock glares at him.
“Don’t—stop,’ he mumbles around the dog tags, saliva already running down his chin. John leans over and traces his lips, letting the tip of one finger slip in, and Sherlock stops protesting. He buries his head in Sherlock’s neck, his breathe hot and moist against Sherlock’s throat.
“I’m going to fuck you so hard, you won’t be able to walk straight for days,” he growls and Sherlock shudders.