Chapter Text
The flat is quiet, unsurprisingly, lights dimmed in an effort to help avoid straining an already overwhelmed sub. Sherlock enters as quietly as possible, easing the door shut and flipping the lock automatically as he sheds his coat and scarf. John is sitting in his chair, staring blankly at the telly even though it's off. He doesn't appear to notice Sherlock's presence until Sherlock is standing right in front of him, and even then the only reaction is a slow blink. Exhaling in frustration, Sherlock crouches down so that he and John are on the same level and rests a hand on John's knee. The contact, small and unassuming though it may be, is enough to jolt John out of his subdued state.
He leaps up as though shocked, arms flailing in an attempt to get away, but fortunately Sherlock has been expecting this. He slides one arm around John's waist and bears him to the ground. The resulting fight is quick but no less vicious; John knows every dirty trick in the book and, even lost, he doesn't hesitate to use them. He kicks out with his feet and knees and elbows, using his hands to grope for anything nearby that can be used as a weapon. Sherlock's got a black eye and a throbbing left cheek by the time he flips John over and gets him pinned with a knee to the back, hands gripping John's crossed wrists firmly, bearing down until he feels John shudder and go limp beneath his weight.
"Stop it," he snarls, and John flinches just a little. Yes, there he is - slowly, but Sherlock doesn't ease up quite yet. "That's enough, John."
John stays still, though his breathing becomes noticeably ragged as a slight tremor runs through his muscles. Sherlock scowls, glad that John can't see the expression on his face, because he hates it when Lestrade - and thus Mycroft - are right. "That's enough," he repeats, quieter this time, and keeping John's wrists pinned he places his free hand on John's back. "It's okay."
"Not," John says, his voice muffled by the carpet his face is pressed into. "I - you nearly died, and it was because I couldn't control myself around you - went to that stupid little club and it didn't even work. She tried to dom me and I can't, I just can't, and I thought I could make it stop, and I shouldn't have bothered, I'm meant to help you not want more -"
Sherlock presses down again, firmer, until John shudders hard once and goes quiet. His mind is racing, new pieces of the puzzle that is John Watson slotting neatly into place. Cautiously, he ventures, "Why couldn't she dom you?"
"Can't," John whispers, and the trembling starts up again.
"What did they do to you?" Sherlock murmurs, the deep-seated desire to know flaring up. It's nearly all consuming and he has to grip it tight to force it back, because now is not the time to press for more details that John isn't willing to give of his own free will. "Something in the army, then, it was the turning point in your life. You won't accept being dommed so it must have occurred while you were submitting, when you’d given in to a push..." Thoughtfully, he slides his fingers into John's hair. He can tell by the shivering that John is with him, just barely. He eases off and rises.
"Stand up, John."
It takes almost a full minute, but slowly John gets to his feet under his own power. He's wavering like his legs are weak and won't hold his weight, face pale and haggard but he watches Sherlock with keen, if weary, eyes. Sherlock meets his gaze calmly. "You are correct. You should not have gone to that club. You are mine, and I do not approve of anyone touching you. So I am going to punish you.”
John's eyes widen, mouth parting as though to protest, and Sherlock waits for him to speak without ever breaking their eye contact. He wants to break John down to the bare essence, prove to him that whatever happened in the army will not happen again, until John submits to him and him alone willingly. He wants John to want this. He wants, with a surge of yearning that he can admit had been present and thoroughly ignored for months, to know what it's like to surround John with his push.
"Yes," John says at last. "Please, I -"
"Shh, no more. Take off your clothing and stand in front of the chair. Hands on the arms, legs parted, head down."
Simple, easy commands and John obeys. His hands are remarkably steady as he reaches up and removes his shirt, presumably for the second time today, and lets it drop to the floor. His jeans and underwear follow until he's naked and shivering, moving to follow the remainder of Sherlock's instructions. Sherlock pauses just long enough to turn the heat on before he fetches his crop.
He moves behind John and examines his target, the bare flesh stretched taut over tense muscles, still lightly tanned from days spent toiling in the harsh Afghanistan sun. The idea of it painted with reddened stripes is appealing.
“Understand,” he says quietly, “I am not punishing you because you didn’t accompany me on the case. I do not expect you to be with me all the time. This is because you went to the club and allowed someone else to try and dom you. I accept the consequences of my actions and so should you.”
His first blow is not gentle and John gasps when it strikes, his knees buckling. He remains standing, though, and Sherlock barely gives him a chance to get used to the sting before he strikes John a second time, just underneath where the first landed. John bows his head, breathing through the pain, and Sherlock lands a third blow. He colours John's back from just below his shoulder down to his hip on the left side, until the skin is a little swollen and pink with the flushed pale purple of a new bruise.
He enjoys it, the sharp whistle of the crop as it slices through the air. He takes care of his crop, tending to it whenever necessary to keep the material giving and soft, and he likes seeing the way John shakes a little each time. Gradually the tension is seeping out of John’s muscles as he slumps against the chair, breathing choppy. His hands tremble where he’s holding onto the arms, fingers turning white from the pressure, as the right side of his back is coloured in until it’s a gorgeous landscape of Sherlock’s precision.
John won’t use a safeword, Sherlock knows, and he deliberately gentles the blows until the crop is sliding across the flesh of his neck and John is shivering under the touch – but still silent, still obeying. Sherlock puts the crop aside and steps forward, touching the reddened skin carefully with the palms of his hands. He turns John slowly, catching a glimpse of tear-streaked cheeks and blown pupils, the expression hazy and unfocused and they breathe in unison as Sherlock eases them into the first push.
“I’m here,” he murmurs when John goes a little tense, a residual sense of panic that Sherlock soothes away with their first kiss. John melts into him, opening up beautifully, and Sherlock makes his approval known with a light nip to John’s bottom lip.
They can’t go deep, not the first time, but the glazed look in John’s eyes tells him he’s gone far enough. He helps John to sink down to the carpet and doesn’t know where to touch first, what to do with this man who has placed all of his trust in Sherlock, all sprawling limbs and tanned flesh begging for touch. It’s overwhelming and he strokes John slowly, fingers sliding across the hardened flesh of John’s cock while the man whimpers and presses his face to Sherlock’s throat.
“You’re so good, John, so good,” he says, barely aware of the words. This, giving yourself over to someone, is something Sherlock could not do. He’s in awe of John, of the complete faith that John still has in the world, in Sherlock, that he can submit and trust this much. Sherlock is holding something unaccountably fragile but it doesn’t make him want to shy away, he wants more – needs more.
His mind wanders, thinking about the future: learning John’s body thoroughly, what takes him apart and leaves him a broken wreck in Sherlock’s arms. Discovering what his limits are and how he can be made to break past them, what he likes and what he doesn’t and why. He feeds those images into his push and exhales against John’s mouth, urging the man into a sloppy kiss as John keens and arches against him.
The room is hot now and John’s skin is slick with sweat as Sherlock curves his arm around John’s hip, palming his balls with his free hand. John whines, beyond words, his fingers curling now into Sherlock’s thighs in a desperate bid to hold on. Sherlock leans over him, mouthing his way across John’s neck and ears, because John would let him do anything and that knowledge shores up in his chest, and he wants to do good with that so he bites, gently, in a way he knows John likes and whispers, “It’s okay.”
Mouth open in a silent cry, John shivers hard as he comes apart. He spills over Sherlock’s hands, hips rutting urgently, and Sherlock keeps pumping until John squirms away. He breathes out against John’s forehead and closes his eyes, sliding his arms up until he can wrap John in a hug. It takes several minutes before John twists and holds onto him, weak and languid like he’s been scoured clean for the first time in years.
“That was what you wanted, yes?” Sherlock says, voice low, brushing his nose into John’s hair. He feels clear, solid, anchored. And then, when the silence grows uneasy, adding with a flicker of pleasure, “You may speak now.”
“Yes,” John says instantly, “but –”
“I wanted it, too,” because he knows that’s what John is about to ask. “I’m sorry. I’m not… good with people, not even you. Not even myself.” And it’s not a very good explanation for why he pushed John away for so long, until they were both almost out of time, but it’s all he’s got.
“It’s okay,” John says, nuzzling his cheek against Sherlock’s chest. “Thank you. That was… the first time anyone’s been able to dom me in years.”
Sherlock has questions, but he holds them back. Later, he thinks, and trails a hand through John’s hair before pulling his head up to kiss him. John kisses back eagerly, months of pent-up frustration and wanting, and Sherlock lets him in willingly. He feels John’s hand slipping into his trousers and groans, opening his eyes just in time to see the expression of mischief on John’s face. John grins at him and Sherlock nods, leans back, willing to allow his sub the time to explore.