Archive of Our Own

John is not a sub, but he is a doctor (doctor first, and soldier second, his dominance expressing itself as he forces patients to hold still and relax).

And at a base where there are no subs, things happen between the doms -- “I'll let you hold my wrists and fuck my face, but only if you let me do the same to you”. John's not inexperienced, in those regards. He's tried subbing (uninteresting), and he's been attracted to other tops before, and he'd tried that out too -- “Okay, neither of us subs, we'll just... do something else” (a little more kinky than he'd prefer).

And it had been fine. A good way to relieve sexual tension, and usually better than taking care of things on his own.

It's never felt like this before, like wanting to say, “I'd rather not, but if you wanted, I'd get on my knees for you.”

Because Sherlock is... brilliant, really. And arrogant and confident and devastatingly sexy. He does what he wants, when he wants, and looks good while doing so. John's not sure what to do about that -- he wants -- he's not sure what he wants.

--

When he meets Sherlock, Sherlock tells John more about himself than he'd ever thought someone else would know -- he'd known about Harry, for Christ's sake. But then, he'd missed the part where she was his sister, and a sub, and that she and Clara had both been subs.

Same-role marriage has been legal for almost three years, but it's still not commonplace.

--

“No sub, then?” John asks, while they wait for a murderer to show.

Sherlock's hair is a bit on the long side, for a top, just long enough to tease at submission -- but he hasn't any bracelets on his wrists or makeup on his face, and John's fairly sure the impeccable cut of his suit is more from vanity than any urge to look beautiful (no, that seems to be unconscious). And he moves like a dom, all long strides and looking people in the eyes and looming over them with his height.

“Not really my area,” Sherlock says, dismissively. He is watching John eat. He hasn't ordered anything himself.

“Oh. Do you, uh... prefer topping other doms, then? Which -- would be fine. There's nothing wrong with that.”

“I know there's nothing wrong with that,” Sherlock says, and raises an eyebrow at him.

“I mean, I've done it before, from both sides, and it's -- it's okay. I don't mind --”

And then John loses control of the conversation in the sort of disastrously humiliating way he thought he'd grown out of when he'd stopped being fifteen and spotty, and Sherlock is turning him down when he hadn't been asking in the first place.

It is all very awkward, made worse by the thought that touches, lightly, in his mind.

I've no idea why you don't. You'd be good at it.

--

Lestrade tells Sherlock to get rid of John (Sherlock scoffs, and orders a man named Anderson to stop polluting the crime scene), but his irritation eases when John stays at Sherlock's side to keep an eye on him, right until the point where Sherlock ditches him to do... whatever it is he does.

Solve everything, John suspects.

“You know, he's actually a sub,” Sally Donovan says, while John is trying to figure out how to flag a cab to get home. She hasn't got a collar on, nor the bracelets, but her thick black hair falls past her shoulders and she hadn't denied it when Sherlock had accused her of spending the night at Anderson's. “He can't keep a dom, because he tries to top them, and he can't keep a sub because he wouldn't know what to do with one if he had one.”

“Right, thanks for letting me know,” John says, but what he thinks is, Pull the other one. It's got bells on. The serial killer comment had been more believable.

--

“Stop!” John snaps, pushes command into his voice. “Kneel,” he says, and their killer -- jilted ex-lover who'd stabbed his ex's new sub to death, drops to his knees with the clumsy suddenness of someone who doesn't realize they're doing it.

There are tricks to dominance, to pulling power over himself like a cloak, to pulling obedience out of someone who hasn't considered obeying him. He knows them all, because he'd been doctor to a handful of overaggressive, sexually-frustrated doms, and somehow managed to keep them still long enough to stitch and medicate them.

It's all in the confidence.

“Hands behind your back.” And then, with a little bit of a growl, “Good boy. It's okay now,” he says, and walks closer. “I've got you.”

Common parlance is that subs are overly emotional, in need of dominance to keep themselves under control -- John's not sure how much of it is true, and how much of what's true is true only because subs have been told their whole lives that that's how they are.

All he knows is that it's easy to take control from someone's feeling trapped and desperate, to offer himself up as safety, to take away their choices until all they have to think about is his voice, drawing the path for them.

And it's much, much easier to do it to someone who wants it, who's guilty and regretful and wants to be punished because they know they've done wrong.

“Give me the knife. Hilt first,” and Gabriel hands him the knife; his hand is shaking, and John doesn't push him away when he buries his face against John's thigh. He strokes his hand through Gabriel's hair, scratching the scalp lightly, and the trembling slows.

Crisis averted.

“Where's Lestrade? Did you call him yet?” And when John turns his head to look for Sherlock, Sherlock is on the ground, looking confused and lost at finding himself on his knees.

When they make eye contact, Sherlock glares at him and stands defiantly, back straight. John can see the bulge of his erection at his groin, and when Sherlock catches him looking, he spits out, “No. I haven't.”

It sounds like a challenge.

“Can you call him?” John asks mildly, careful not to phrase it as an order -- doms can get violent when John pulls the voice thing on them, and Sherlock does not look pleased.

“Give me your phone,” Sherlock orders.

John tugs, lightly, on Gabriel's hair. “Fetch it for me. It's in my pocket,” he says softly, and the man fishes it out for him, face still pressed into his thigh. “Good boy,” John says approvingly when Gabriel presses it into his palm, and Gabriel sighs, tension leeching slowly out of his body.

He offers it to Sherlock, and Sherlock takes it without letting their fingers brush. A moment later, he gives it back. “I changed my mind. You call him.”

John passes the phone to Gabriel. “He's under L for Lestrade,” he says, pulling Gabriel's head back by his hair, with just the right amount of pain (eyes unfocused, mouth slightly open, relaxation stealing up on him). “Call him and tell him where we are.”

--

Afterwards, when they are back in the flat, John says, “It's nothing to be ashamed of, you know.” At Sherlock's questioning look, he explains, “By the time I got invalided, I could order down half my unit.”

The tension in Sherlock's shoulders rackets up a notch. He doesn't say anything, and John is at a loss.

“I wasn't trying to top you,” he tries, and Sherlock glares at him.

“I'm not stupid. I could see that,” he says, and takes a deep breath, pinches the bridge of his nose. He looks like he's starting to get a headache, and John wants to sit him down and give him a paracetamol and hold his head in his lap and stroke his hair and.

And Sherlock would probably knock his head off if he tried.

“Right.” John holds up his hands. “Sorry.” He tilts his head upwards a little, lets his eyes skitter across Sherlock's cheekbones (sharp -- he wants to press his thumbs against them) instead of making direct eye contact, angles his shoulders just slightly. “Is there anything I can get you?” He asks, and makes his voice soft, and just a little bit higher than it normally is.

He can't do it all the way, can't be sincere about it, but he can fake the beginnings of submission just fine, enough to soothe an upset top.

It doesn't work.

Sherlock takes a half-step backwards, expression working if he's not sure whether to be disgusted or intrigued. After a moment, he settles on uneasy. “Please don't do that,” he says firmly. “I -- I really don't want --” He makes a vague motion with his hand that encompasses everything between them. “Don't do that.”

“Sorry,” John says in his usual voice, and drops the act.

--

Her name is Natalie, and her neck is bare. Her wrists are decorated prettily with bracelets (both wrists, so she's not seeing anybody yet), and her hair falls halfway down her back. She is only slightly shorter than him, but when he smiles at her, she ducks her head to look up at him bashfully.

“Come to dinner with me. Tonight,” he says on Friday, and she smiles back.

“What do you want me to wear?”

He ends up bringing her home with him. Sherlock's in, but he doing something in the kitchen that John refuses to think about about. He barely glances up when John greets him.

And then, carefully and methodically, he takes Natalie apart.

It's an art form, finding the right direction to push and the right amount of force to use, taking the precious gift of trust a sub gives him and using it to strip them bare, laying pieces of themselves out in a way they'd never be able to do on their own.

He goes down on her until she's oversensitive and crying, and her eyes are begging for him to stop. He ties her wrists to his headboard and puts clamps on her nipples, then teases her until they're red and she's biting her lip with the effort not to scream. He sticks his fingers in her mouth when he fucks her (“Don't bite me,” he warns, “Or I'll stop.”), then pulls out and slides off the condom so he can come on her breasts (she turns red and looks away, and sucks in her lips to keep from biting down on his fingers).

When he's done, he cleans her up. He unties her and rubs lotion on her wrists. He kisses her nipples and the spot on her shoulder where he'd bitten her, and strokes her hair and tells her she's been a good girl, that he's proud of her, that of course she's welcome to stay the night if she wants to fall asleep with him.

He lets her fall asleep on his chest, and pulls the blankets over them when she kicks them off and starts to shiver from the cold.

He hasn't been able to fall asleep while sharing a bed since Afghanistan, so he dozes lightly and wonders if Sherlock's still awake, then brainstorms what he'll write his next blog post about. When the morning comes and she starts to stir, he watches her wake slowly, and squeezes her when she opens her eyes.

“Morning,” he says.

“Mnng.” She rubs the sleepiness from her eyes with the back of her hand. “Were you watching me sleep? How long have you been awake?”

“Only a few minutes,” he lies.

She dimples at him, charmed. “That's sweet. Do you want breakfast?”

“That'd be lovely. Make me something.”

--

He naps for an hour, then forces himself out of bed, roused by the scent of fresh coffee and frying bacon. He showers and shaves, then wanders into the kitchen; there is a plate prepared for him already -- toast, eggs, bacon, and a mug of coffee. Natalie kneels at the side of his chair, which has been pulled out for him.

She starts to rise when she sees him, but at his look, settles down again.

“This looks amazing,” he says, and pets Natalie's hair when he sits down. He turns to look at Sherlock, who seems to be engrossed in some sort of book. “Sherlock, there's plenty of food here, do you want some?”

“Day?” Sherlock turns a page.

“Saturday.”

“Hmm. I'm good until dinner,” he replies, after a moment's pause.

“When did you last eat?”

Sherlock glances at him and gets a decidedly guarded look on his face. He looks away and doesn't answer.

“Sherlock. Tell me.”

“Thursday evening.”

“That was over twenty-four hours ago,” John points out, and Sherlock glares at him, as if insulted that John thought it needed to be said aloud. “Sit. Eat.”

Sherlock's eyes dart to the table, then to John, then to Natalie, then back to John. Then, he glances at his book and closes it with a sigh. “You're kneeling in the wrong place,” he says to Natalie, as he loads a plate and sits in the other chair.

Natalie raises her head slightly from John's thigh. “What?”

Sherlock uses his fork to point at John's hand; he hasn't yet taken a bite of his own meal. “John is left-handed. You're seated on his left side. While the traditional position for an established sub is on the left, that's because the majority of the population is right-handed. For John, you should be on the right, which would allow him to eat and fondle your hair at the same time.”

Natalie looks up at John, confused. “Should I move?”

“No, you're fine where you are,” John says, even though Sherlock's right, and he'd been wondering exactly what he was supposed to do about it, and if Natalie had expected him to hand-feed her.

He ends up not hand-feeding her, because he doesn't know her that well. Sherlock steals a bite of egg off his plate when he runs out of his own, and John retaliates by stealing the rest of Sherlock's bacon (Sherlock looks smug, but he's no idea why; he hopes it hasn't been poisoned).

“Where did this bacon come from, anyways?” He asks, just to make sure it isn't part of an experiment he'd rather not know about.

“She went to the shops. I gave her your credit card to use,” Sherlock replies.

John frowns and reaches for his wallet; it's there, and his ids and cash are there, but his credit card's missing. “When did you steal my credit card?”

“Two days ago -- you used cash when paying for dinner for you and your date last night, so you likely didn't notice it was gone.”

“Right. Well, it's mine. Give it back.” John holds his hand out and Sherlock places the card in his palm. At his side, Natalie sits up, and starts patting her pockets.

“I thought I had it,” she says.

“It wasn't yours,” Sherlock points out to Natalie without looking at her (her head's below the table, so she's out of sight except to John). “So I lifted it off you while you were unpacking the groceries.”

They eat the rest of the meal in silence, though Sherlock gets bored after a few minutes. He brings his plate to the desk, and eats in front of his laptop.

When John's done, Natalie does the washing up and leaves, giving John a kiss goodbye. When she's gone, Sherlock snaps the lid of his laptop closed and says, “If you see her again, she'll expect you to collar her within a month, two at the most.”

“You think?”

“Yesterday was her first date with you, and today she bought groceries, cooked breakfast, and knelt on the floor while you ate,” Sherlock says, and raises his eyebrow as if to say “Are you blind?”

“Did she clean the table too? Only, the last time I looked at it, you had beakers of stuff all over it.”

Sherlock smirks, just a little. “She did. She screamed a bit when she found the fingertips.”

John smothers a giggle. “I thought I told you not to leave those out.”

“I didn't. They were in the vegetable crisper, in the fridge.”

And then they're laughing together, giggling really, over Sherlock's crazy experiments.

He ends up losing Natalie's number, but by the time he realizes it, there are two bodies in the morgue and Lestrade sends Sherlock a text asking him to help, so it doesn't really matter.

--

John resigns himself to people thinking he and Sherlock are involved -- they aren't, of course, but it's easier to let them think so, because he and Sherlock live together and Sherlock takes him on his cases and, admittedly, they do spend an awful lot of time with each other.

And he has nothing against people thinking he's a top-who-likes-tops, even though he doesn't, he isn't; whatever he feels for Sherlock isn't about orientation, because he's not like that. Even when Sherlock tells him what to do, he doesn't feel the pull to obey (but he usually finds himself doing it anyways).

Sherlock seems to take it all in stride.

He smiles and says thank you when Angelo brings them a candle for their table, and he doesn't correct people when they refer to he and John as a couple.

“Does it bother you that everyone thinks we're together?” John asks, when he hangs up the phone after another call from Harry -- who, of course, gleefully asks when he's going to tell their parents that she's not the only queer one in the family now.

Sherlock is staring at the ceiling again, and from the way he's flexing his arm, John wouldn't be surprised to see nicotine patches (probably two or three, since he doesn't seem to be too intently focused) on the pale skin if Sherlock rolled up his sleeves.

“Not especially.”

--

After Natalie, John dates Jason, and after three weeks of dating Jason, John takes him home with him. John blindfolds him and ties his hands behind his back and fucks his mouth and leaves him hard and wanting, then sends him back home in a cab. If John doesn't push too hard on his subs, they don't need to be taken care of as much, which means he gets to sleep.

Sherlock glances at him when he comes down for a drink of water. He's doing something at the microscope (John does not know why they have a microscope, but he's learned it's best not to ask). “You sent him home because you have work tomorrow and can't sleep when someone else is in the bed with you.”

“Yes,” John says. He's found that the simple response is usually the best response when Sherlock starts deducing him.

“You could have just made him sleep on the floor,” Sherlock points out.

“Subs don't like it when their doms have nightmares,” he admits. “It's not exactly reassuring.”

“You're back from years in Afghanistan after getting wounded in action. And of course you've killed people. They should be more distressed if you didn't have the occasional nightmare.”

--

After another week -- long enough for them to consider this an actual relationship, Jason gives John the bracelet he wears on his left wrist. It indicates to the world that he's taken, and that anyone who wants him will have to go through John, first.

Sherlock knows instantly, of course.

“Your sub's offering you exclusivity,” he says, and nods at the bracelet on John's left wrist. “But you have it on the wrong wrist. It's supposed to go on your non-dominant hand.”

“If I had it on my right wrist, everyone would think I was the sub. I get enough of that just hanging around you; I don't want to encourage it.” He fiddles with the clasp, then frowns when he can't get it open with one hand. He offers his wrist to Sherlock. “Give me a hand with this, will you?”

With two hands available to manipulate the clasp, Sherlock's easily able to open the bracelet, and the the thin golden chain falls into his palm. But that's not what John notices; what John notices is Sherlock's fingers, holding his wrist in place, warm and gentle and slightly calloused. Sherlock lets go as soon as he notices John's attention, and he holds his other hand out, dangling the bracelet between his fingers. “You'll want this back.”

John opens his hand and Sherlock drops it onto his palm. “Thanks. I'll probably leave it in my nightstand or something, so I don't lose it.”

“You're not going to wear it?”

“I wasn't planning on it.”

Sherlock looks pleased, but John can't imagine why.

--

The inevitable breakup goes like this:

They are on a date, at a decent restaurant. Jason's head is in John's lap, and John is feeding him bites from his plate. Jason is talking about his family, about his younger brother who is 16 and still hasn't decided if he's a dom or a sub, and about his submissive parent, who is proud that Jason is dating a doctor.

John is making appropriately polite noises to sound interested when he receives the text.

The text is from Sherlock, as most of his texts are. Sherlock wants to know where John put the scalpels. While John is typing his response (box under the coffee table, and had Sherlock been using one to spread butter?), Jason shoves himself up angrily, off of John's lap, bumping his phone in the process.

“Do you have to text him while we're on a date?” Jason does not like Sherlock. The feeling, unfortunately, is mutual -- the last time Jason had come over, Sherlock had wrung screeches from his violin that had sounded like a cat being slowly tortured to death.

“It'll only take a few minutes,” John says, and puts a hand on Jason's shoulder, pushing lightly.

Jason shrugs it off. “That's what you said last time too,” he hisses angrily, “And then you safeworded and left.”

“We'd barely started, and it was a matter of life or death. I told you, sometimes we help the police with their investigations. We caught a killer that day. It was important. ”

“I'm supposed to be important. I'm supposed to be yours. I don't want you to just treat me like some toy you take out when you've got nothing better to do, that gets put back as soon as he wants you. You're supposed to be my dom, not his sub.”

“Oh my god, I'm not subbing for him,” John says, for what sounds like the thousandth time. “I'm not subbing for him because I'm not a sub. It's not like that between us.”

“Are you sure? Because every time he says “jump”, you ask “how high”,” Jason says, and starts to put on his coat.

John grabs Jason's wrist, wrapping his fingers around it. “That doesn't mean anything. It's just work. Come on,” he says, coaxingly, “Don't cause a scene.”

“I'll cause a scene if I bloody well want to!” Jason shouts at him, and now people are turning to look at them. John feels the hot flush of embarrassment against his cheeks. “You have to choose. Right now. You can't have us both, John. I didn't agree to that. Either you're his, or I'm yours. Right now. Say it.”

Something in John twists painfully, then eases. “I'll drop your things off at your place tomorrow, then,” he says, and Jason's face crumples with surprise and hurt, before he storms out.

“It's okay,” the dom at the adjacent table says to him. “I had that happen to me when I was exploring my submissive side too.”

--

The inevitable post-breakup conversation with Sherlock goes like this:

By the time John gets home, he's angry. Angry at Jason for dumping him in the middle of a crowded restaurant, angry at Sherlock for interrupting his dates, angry at the world over the fact that everyone seems to think he's either gay or subbing for Sherlock.

But mostly he's angry at himself, because -- because he doesn't know why. Because he wants Sherlock and Sherlock's not interested in tops, because Sherlock is so tied up in his life by now that anyone John's involved with will have to accept him too, because a part of him thinks if he told you to kneel for him, you wouldn't want to, but you'd do it anyways. Because it's Sherlock.

John slams the door shut when he gets home, and throws his jacket at the coat rack (he hits it, and it wobbles, but the hook doesn't catch and his jacket lands on the floor).

Sherlock looks at him, taking in everything about John in an instant. “The breakup went badly then,” he says, and puts away the violin.

“That's an understatement,” John says, and flops down on the sofa. “Subs are so much work. I don't know why I bother.”

“Sexual gratification. Predictable,” Sherlock says.

John sighs heavily, feeling his anger recede. “We had a fight during dinner. He basically accused me of not taking good care of him and stormed out in front of everyone.”

Sherlock studies him, as if John's another one of his experiments. “There's more to it than that. He gave you a choice, and you picked the wrong one.”

John frowns. “How do you know that?”

“You're angry at yourself, which means you feel the breakup is partially your fault. But whatever you said, you don't regret it, because you're here now rather than chasing after him, even though your sub is fond enough of you that you could make up for it if you tried.”

“He told me to choose between you and him,” John admits, and looks away. His mouth feels suddenly dry. “He didn't like that I help you with your cases.”

“So you chose me,” Sherlock says, softly. There is something in his voice that John can't identify, and on someone else he'd almost call it awe.

“I don't need a sub,” he says. But I need you, I need what we have.

Sherlock beams at him.
--

The disastrous, post-breakup rebound offer goes like this:

John has had a few beers (well, five or six, but that's not bad, spread over a couple hours) at the pub, and he still feels a little bit miserable. And he has had a few offers, but he's turned them down because -- he doesn't remember why anymore; because it hadn't seemed like a good idea, because he didn't want to deal with them in the morning, because it's not safe to top someone if he's tipsy, because he'd rather go home and sulk.

So he goes home, and Sherlock is there, in his dressing gown, curled up in the armchair with a book with a small smile on his face. He's in a good mood, and he looks -- cozy. He looks warm and soft and comfortable, and John just really wants to tuck himself against Sherlock and take it all into himself.

So John walks over and when Sherlock looks up at him in polite inquiry, still smiling, John leans forward and presses their mouths together.

He knows that this is a bad idea, that this is possibly one of the worst ideas he's ever had, because Sherlock is his friend and his flatmate and a dom and John doesn't even really want to top someone who doesn't want to be topped. There is no way it could possibly work out. But he does it anyways, because for a moment, he doesn't think about any of that.

Sherlock's lips are warm, soft, and parted slightly, and John licks his way into Sherlock's mouth, tasting him curiously. Sherlock's hand comes up to John's shoulder, then hovers there, barely touching.

“John, you've been drinking.” Sherlock says, when John realizes Sherlock isn't kissing him back and pulls away. His hand closes on John's shoulder.

John closes his eyes, lets their foreheads touch. “I'm not drunk.”

Sherlock sniffs his breath. “You're a little drunk.”

“Liquid courage,” he says, and takes a deep breath. He fights the urge to bury his face in Sherlock's neck and breathe in his scent. Actually, scratch that -- he does it anyways, tucks his head in the spot right below Sherlock's jaw and inhales deeply. “I just wanted to let you know,” he murmurs against soft skin. “I'd sub for you, if you wanted.”

“I know,” Sherlock replies, and curls his fingers around John's left wrist. John starts to jerk it away automatically, then stops, looks at Sherlock's fingers encircling his wrist, holding him there like a tether, suddenly unsure. Sherlock's other hand pushes on his chest, and he lets go of John's wrist. “But I don't want you to be my sub. Go to bed,” he says firmly.

John goes.

--

Before he falls asleep, he jerks off to the feel of Sherlock's fingers pressed against his pulse-point and the way Sherlock's breathing had caught, just for a moment, as John had kissed him.

--

The awkward let's-pretend-last-night-never-happened part goes like this:

They don't talk about it in the morning, but there is a tension between them that wasn't there before. John had offered, and Sherlock had turned him down, and now he's not quite sure where they stand with each other.

Except that, well -- logically, they are still friends (still colleagues), and frankly, he'd be surprised if Sherlock hadn't known before he did that John was attracted to him. The only thing that's changed between them is that now John knows what Sherlock's mouth tastes like. The only thing that's changed between them is that Sherlock has said no.

“Oh, come off it,” Sherlock complains, when John is still thinking about it in the evening, staring at the blinking cursor on his screen and wondering what to write for his blog. “You don't even want me to top you.”

“Well, no,” John admits.

“So if I'd taken you up on your offer, I'd be unhappy and you'd be unhappy.”

“Probably.”

“You're also relieved that I turned you down. So why are you...?” Sherlock makes a vague gesture with his hand that seemed to represent John's entire emotional state.

Because I want you, and I don't know how to have you, he thinks, but what he says out loud is, “You know, I'm not sure,” and Sherlock laughs, and the tension cracks, fades.

It's just a stupid crush, and it'll disappear eventually, now that he knows for sure that Sherlock's not interested and they're not compatible.

John's never been one for false optimism.

--

Except that everything changes like this:

John has been living with Sherlock for just over four months, and they have managed somehow not only to not kill each other, but also to not get killed while chasing serial killers and smugglers and all sorts of criminals.

It is a quiet sort of weekend -- the kind where neither of them can be bothered to go outside because it's raining, and they are both perfectly content to stay at home and read, or watch the telly, or go online.

For dinner, John orders takeaway because there is nothing edible in the fridge (he'd thrown out a good number of things earlier, as they'd been covered in a suspicious red gel). When it arrives, John realizes he's left his wallet in his other trousers, upstairs. “Sherlock, I left my wallet upstairs. Can you get the takeaway?”

“No, this reaction can't be left unsupervised,” Sherlock responds distractedly, attention focused on a bubbling beaker. “I have cash in mine. Use that.”

“Where is it?”

“Inner coat pocket.”

Sherlock's coat is on the coat rack. John fishes the wallet out and answers the door. The deliveryman is a youngish sub, long hair falling to his shoulders; he has a bracelet on his right wrist, but not the left, and is holding their Chinese. He looks vaguely bored to be there. “Delivery for Watson?”

“That's me, thanks.” John trades a couple bills from Sherlock's wallet for their dinner, and catches sight of Sherlock's driving license before he can snap it shut -- in his photo, Sherlock's hair falls to his chin. Too long for a dom, and before he realizes it he's taking out the card and looking at it.

Sherlock's a sub.

Or, well, his driving license says he's a sub, which isn't always the same thing, and Sherlock doesn't look any different, aside from the hair. He's got the same look in his eyes, and the same tilt to his lips that he always does, the one that says “I'm smarter than you and I know it”.

Sherlock has pushed aside the books on the coffee table to clear space for the takeaway, and is in the process of shifting the beaker of who-knows-what (still bubbling) into the oven with a pair of tongs. “You probably don't want to know,” he says.

“You don't even know what I was going to ask.”

“You were going to ask why it was going in the oven. Considering your reactions to my previous experiments, you probably don't want to know,” Sherlock says, and, like a guided missile, unerringly finds the takeaway box that holds the pot stickers. He makes a pleased hum, and smiles when John passes him a pair of chopsticks.

“So, you didn't tell me you were a sub,” John says.

Sherlock goes still, but only for a moment. “No, I suppose I didn't.”

“Is it true?”

Sherlock looks at him blankly. “Why would I lie about that? Society favors dominants, so if I were to lie about my role, I'd best gain by claiming to be a dom. Well, I'd lie about it for a case, obviously, but if I were doing that, I'd use a fake name as well.” Sherlock hasn't answered his question, which he realizes a moment after John does. “Oh, and yes. I am.”

Sherlock returns to eating -- and he does eat, just like a normal person, though it usually takes a day of skipping meals and John sticking a plate right in front of Sherlock's face before he can be bothered to do so. After a moment, he says, “You're still staring at me.”

John jerks his eyes away immediately. He hadn't even noticed, but he had been, trying to catch hints of Sherlock's submissive nature in his wrists, or the curve of his spine (he hadn't seen any). “Sorry.”

John tries to focus on his food -- he really does, except that Sherlock's a sub. Sherlock likes being tied up and hurt and has probably been on his knees before, open and vulnerable. And suddenly John wants to see that, wants to see what's left of Sherlock when everything else is taken away, what he is when he's pushed into subspace. He wants to know if anyone's ever seen him like that, and if so, how they could have possibly let him get away.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, and steals a bite of noodles from the takeout box in John's hand.

“What?”

“You were working yourself up to ask if I'd ever subbed for someone before. Yes. I have. Yes, I enjoyed it.”

“But you're single now,” John says, and can't stop the glance at Sherlock's bare wrists and throat. No tan lines where the bracelets would have been -- but Sherlock's not tanned at all, really.

“Obviously.”

“When was the last time you --”

“Last time I had sex? About six months ago.”

And, because John is apparently a masochist, he says, “So, when I -- when I kissed you, and you turned me down. That was because you're a sub.”

“Among other things.”

“And,” he asks, cautiously, “if I'd asked to top you instead?”

“I'd still say no.”

--

And the thing is, there's nothing wrong with being rejected. John's okay with being turned down. Sherlock treats him exactly the same as he's always had, because John hasn't told him anything new. He doesn't act uncomfortable around John, or avoid him, or try to sit him down to talk about their feelings (he's still Sherlock, after all).

But something is still changed.

Now there is a different tension between them -- something sexual, something that sparks between them when Sherlock looks up from a book or experiment to catch John watching him, and John holds his gaze for a moment, acknowledging it, before looking away.

Or Sherlock will touch him -- casually, a hand on his arm, or their shoulders pressed companionably together, and it will be there between them -- I want you, not an offer, not anything that needs a response, just a calm, simple statement of fact.

It doesn't have to be anything more than that. He doesn't mind it not being anything more than that.

It gives him its own, different type of enjoyment. Because even if it never goes anywhere, there is still the simple, straightforward pleasure of I want him and he wants me too.

--

Come home. I'm dying, Sherlock texts him, so John takes the rest of the day off work and rushes home. While he's in the cab, he calls Lestrade to figure out what's happened, half-frantic with worry.

“I didn't send him any cases,” Lestrade says, sounding not especially concerned -- he'd been concerned, when John had opened with “Sherlock's dying,” but it had disappeared when John had read the contents of the message aloud. “Have you tried Lemsip?”

“Lemsip? What -- You think he's just got a cold? If he's making me leave work because he has a cold, then he's really going to be dying, because I'm going to kill him.” But he tells the cabbie (sub, blond, with a tight, golden band around his throat) to drop him off at the Tesco's nearest the flat.

“Sherlock,” he announces when he gets home, “You had better actually be dying, because if you've called me off work for a lark, I'm going to kill you.”

“In here, Doctor Watson.” It's Mycroft, standing a few feet away from a bundle of blankets on the sofa that must, then, hold Sherlock in there somewhere. He is resting the tip of umbrella on the aforementioned bundle of blankets, but Sherlock has not yet thrown it off.“He prefers the capsule versions,” he says, without turning to look at John.

John drops the Tesco's bag on the coffee table. “Well, that's too bad. He should be grateful I took off work and called Lestrade to find out he was sick rather than, I don't know, bleeding out in the kitchen or something. 'I'm dying' isn't what I'd call descriptive.”

There is a disgruntled rustling from the Sherlock-sized nest on the couch.

“Let me guess: 'Come home. I'm dying'? He gets like this when he's sick.” Mycroft turns to look at him now, and for all that John's seen Mycroft before, this is nothing like that.

Before, Mycroft had been familiarly antagonistic towards Sherlock in the way of siblings, and politely tolerant of John. But there is something dangerous and assessing in the way he looks at John now, reminiscent of the way Clive Ross's dominant mother had looked at John when John had first been introduced as his dom. Reminiscent in the sense that a full-grown grizzly is reminiscent of a teddy bear.

John takes a half-step back before he even realizes it.

Mycroft's smile is full of teeth. “I'll leave Sherlock in your capable hands, doctor. If you need any help, just go to the window and wave. The surveillance team will assist you. They'd love to have something to do.”

John smiles tightly and tries not to look cowed by the threat. “I'll keep that in mind.”

Mycroft taps Sherlock with the umbrella. “I've leave you to Doctor Watson, then,” he tells his younger brother, and strides out of the flat, to a black car whose door swings open for him when he approaches. John watches it until it's out of sight.

John breathes out shakily. “Your brother is terrifying.”

No response.

He peels back the layers of blankets -- one is Sherlock's, and the one underneath that is his. Sherlock cringes away from the light. His forehead's warm and his face flushed, and he's shivering slightly. John's anger dissipates, replaced by concern.

“You've got a fever,” John says. “Does your head hurt? Did you take anything yet?”

Sherlock shakes his head, and closes his eyes again. “Tired,” he says. “Cold. Bored. Can't sleep.”

He tucks the blankets a little more tightly around Sherlock. “Just rest,” he orders, and goes to the kitchen. By the time he returns with the steaming mug of Lemsip, Sherlock has escaped from his blanket nest enough to sit upright, and is looking at something on his phone.

“Drink this.” John offers it to Sherlock, but Sherlock ignores him, so John snatches the phone out of his hand -- it's much easier when Sherlock's reflexes are dulled from being sick.

Sherlock glares at him. “Give it back.” His voice is hoarse, and he winces a little when he speaks. Sore throat; John should add honey to the Lemsip to help soothe it (except that they haven't any honey, because Sherlock had stolen the last of it to do something involving larvae).

John drops the mobile in his trousers pocket and presses the mug into Sherlock's hand. “No. Drink it,” he orders again, this time in the firm tone he uses on his patients who are subs. Sherlock's eyes drop and he takes a sip. “That's good,” John praises, but it is apparently not the right thing to do, because Sherlock slams the mug down with an angry thump.

“You -- You can't --” Sherlock pauses, looking momentarily lost, then forges on, shoulders hunched protectively. “Don't tell me what to do.”

“I'm a doctor, and you've got the flu. You called me off work, so the least you could do is drink the bloody Lemsip,” John points out with an irritated look -- it wouldn't normally work, but he thinks Sherlock's too tired to fight him, because he takes another sip.

“I prefer the capsules,” Sherlock says petulantly. “And I want my phone back.”

John sits down next to Sherlock, and rubs the back of his neck; after a moment where Sherlock tenses and John wonders if he's crossed some invisible line he doesn't know about, Sherlock relaxes into the touch. “No phone. You'll give yourself a headache trying to reach the screen.”

“You don't have to treat me like this,” Sherlock mutters against the lip of the mug. “I'm fine.”

“I'm your flatmate and, I like to think, your friend as well.” John moves his hands to the back of Sherlock's shoulders, rubbing at the knots of tension -- he's not the best at giving a massage, but he knows the basics. Sherlock tries to twist out of the way, but when John tightens his hands warningly, he goes still.

By the time Sherlock finishes the Lemsip and John has finished rubbing the tension from Sherlock's shoulders, Sherlock is swaying slightly. “I think it's time for bed, yeah?” John suggests.

Sherlock shakes his head. “I won't be able to sleep. Too boring. I want to read.”

“You'll strain your eyes.”

“I'll die of boredom.”

“I'll sit with you until you fall asleep.”

“Or die of boredom?”

“Or die of boredom,” John says. “Get in bed. Lie down.”

There is a moment where Sherlock turns to his bedroom and rises, automatically obeying, followed by a long pause where he stops and looks at John levelly as if he's considering refusing for the sake of refusing. But then it passes, and John follows Sherlock into his bedroom. It is surprisingly neater than he'd expected -- books on the nightstand, papers on the desk, but no clutter.

Sherlock lies on his stomach on the bed, and he stretches, arms out over his head, rubbing his cheek against his pillow like a cat. John's mouth goes dry from the swift, unexpected rush of desire that hits him, as if a switch has been flipped, changing Sherlock from patient to something else -- something he wants. He notices, suddenly, that Sherlock's wrists are close enough to the headboard to handcuff him to it.

But then Sherlock coughs, his whole body shaking, and starts to curl in on himself, and the doctor part of John's brain takes over. John settles the blankets over him, and brushes his knuckles over the back of Sherlock's head. His hair is damp with sweat. “Better?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“Tired?”

A nod.

“Throat still hurt?”

Another nod.

John sits on the edge of the bed. “Do you want me to stay here with you?”

Sherlock's still for long enough that John wonders if he's begun to fall asleep, but then he shakes his head.

John crosses his fingers behind his back for luck, and says firmly, “Well, I'm staying until you fall asleep.”

Another pause, then a shrug.

John puts his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck again, lightly rubbing the skin. Done in front of someone else, it'd be a possessive touch, a claim of ownership. Done to his sub, it'd be the same. But with Sherlock it's -- it's not, because he knows Sherlock would never let John claim him.

Sherlock's fingers start tapping against the pillow. Then he sighs, and turns over on his back, protecting his eyes from the light with his forearm. John starts counting. When he gets to nine, Sherlock rolls onto his side and curls into a ball. He holds that position for barely two seconds before returning to his stomach with another, more frustrated sigh. The fingers start tapping again.

“Bored?” John asks mildly.

Sherlock makes a noise against the pillow that sounds an awful lot like a growl, and hits him weakly on the side. “Dying. Of boredom.” His voice is muffled.

“Well, at least you're not dying of influenza. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Sherlock rolls onto his side again, and looks at John. “I'm cold,” he says, and his eyes flicker away. “You could share your body heat with me.”

So John slides under the covers next to Sherlock, and Sherlock presses his ice-cold bare feet against John's ankles. He twitches, and then Sherlock is right there, twining around him like a vine, entangling their limbs and tucking his head awkwardly under John's chin. His fingers, where they touch the skin just above the small of John's back, are cold.

“Feeling better?” John rubs small circles over Sherlock's back.

“Stop talking,” Sherlock complains against the base of John's throat, so John falls silent.

Sherlock goes still and peaceful against him. His breathing evens out, and his muscles relax, and soon he is asleep.

--

John sneaks out once Sherlock is asleep, and goes about his day as normal -- he goes online, talks to Harry, and sends a text to Lestrade to let him know Sherlock has the flu and is actually not dying, but may not be available for any cases that involve running around London after dark.

He tries, and fails, at not thinking about the feel of Sherlock in his arms, or the way he had gone limp and trusting in sleep. Or the way his fingers had curled in the back of John's jumper, or how his forehead had been hot against John's throat. Or how Sherlock had obeyed, more or less without question, when John had taken control of his care.

He goes to bed alone and wakes up in the middle of the night, flailing, when someone knees him in the side. Sherlock deflects the clumsy punch aimed at his face. “It's just me,” he murmurs, climbing under the covers. He tucks himself against John's side. “Go back to sleep.”

He does.

Sherlock stops sleeping in John's bed after the third night, when his fever breaks. Three days after that, Sherlock starts skipping meals again and playing the violin at four in the morning, which is as good a sign as any that he feels alright.

John tells himself that it shouldn't feel like a loss (but it does).

Sherlock steeples his fingers under his chin, eyes narrowed thoughtfully at the film on the telly. “The main character's actor is sleeping with her director. You can see it in the way he's positioned her collar -- it reveals the tan line from her real one, which she wears higher up on her throat.”

But John doesn't care about that, doesn't have any idea what Sherlock has just said, because he has caught sight of Sherlock's wrists, from where the sleeves of his dressing gown have slid downwards. There are rings of red around his wrists, the sort of shiny, bright red that comes from struggling when your wrists are bound. He doesn't realize he's grabbed one until he has his thumb firmly over the pulse-point of Sherlock's wrist and feels the unexpectedness of Sherlock's fingers wrapping around his wrist tightly.

John squeezes automatically, and Sherlock lets go.

“You're hurt,” he says stupidly. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“I've no cases on. I can afford to not be in top form for a short while.”

He pushes Sherlock's sleeve up further, but the rest of his forearm is bare, and suddenly John wants, desperately, to know. To know who did this, who took him and hurt him and left their mark all over him. He wants to know who Sherlock had said yes to, when he'd said no to John.

Sherlock turns his head and John gets a glimpse of another mark, mostly covered. Sherlock doesn't shove John away when he tugs down the neck of his t-shirt, revealing the love bite on the junction between his neck and his shoulder. He doesn't jerk away when John runs his thumb over it, but he flinches a little when John presses his thumb against it, making the skin go white from the pressure.

“When?” John asks, feeling a rush of dark possessiveness, of anger.

He'd thought -- he doesn't know what he'd thought, since obviously Sherlock had had sex before (but that was before he'd met John, and he never acted like a sub, never tried to attract a dom, so who had he slept with?). He'd thought -- he'd thought that maybe Sherlock had sworn off it altogether. He'd thought maybe that when Sherlock had turned him down, it'd meant he wasn't interested right now.

He'd thought Sherlock had, in his own way, wanted him. But he'd been wrong -- obviously wrong, so very wrong, because while Sherlock may have crawled into John's bed with him and wrapped an arm around his waist before going to sleep, it'd been someone else who had tied him down and put their mouth on him and claimed him.

Sherlock has tilted his head to give John better access to the mark on his throat, and there is something languid in his posture, as if his spine has suddenly become liquid. “Last night,” he says, eyes half-lidded at the memory. “After I returned the fingers to the morgue.”

Sherlock hadn't been home when John had gone to bed. He knows why, now.

Sherlock arches his back a little when John pushes up the hem of his shirt, and he shudders when John pushes down one side of his trousers and pants, just enough to see the four, finger-shaped bruises on Sherlock's hips. He puts his fingers over them -- spreads them out but can't comfortably touch them all at once. A man, then. He presses on them, and Sherlock twists, knocks his hand away.

“He fucked you,” John says, and presses his palm, hard, over Sherlock's hip, against the bruises as if he can wipe them away, as if he can take them and make them his. The base of his palm skirts the edges of Sherlock's erection, noticeably tenting the loose fabric of his pajama bottoms. “What else did he do to you?” He demands. “Let me see.” When Sherlock hesitates, he growls, “Show me.”

Sherlock slides out of his dressing gown gracefully, kneeling on the armchair. He turns his back on John, then pulls his shirt off -- there are bruises on his upper back and long, thin marks -- from a whip, stripe up and down his back, crisscrossing over each other. John traces one with his finger, and Sherlock makes a soft, breathy noise.

He wants to hear it again. He runs his hands over the bruises on Sherlock's upper back, not gently, and Sherlock shivers and makes the noise again and says, “John.”

“Who did this?” Who did you choose over me?

Sherlock shakes his head. John tangles his hand in Sherlock's hair and jerks his head back, and Sherlock sways backwards, held tilted back, throat exposed, lips parted. “Tell me,” he orders, and presses his mouth to Sherlock's throat, biting down.

“Safeword.”

It's like being thrown into a tub of ice water, and John's jerking away, stepping back, raising his hands to show he's stopped. “Sorry,” he stammers, and starts to reach forward, but Sherlock's already twisting away from him. He pulls his hand back. “Sorry, I --” and his face twists in confusion, because he doesn't know what he did wrong.

Sherlock really is much taller than him, John notices when Sherlock stands up. His face is an unreadable mask, and he looks at John for a moment -- deducing something, but John doesn't know what (everything, probably), before walking to his bedroom.

The door slams shut behind him.

--

John can't stop replaying the last few minutes in his mind, trying to figure out when Sherlock had gone from “yes, please” to “I need you to stop right now,” and how he could have possibly missed the time in between where Sherlock must have been at “no, don't.”

Sherlock hadn't warned him away when John had touched his wrists, hadn't stopped him when John had hurt him, pressing fresh pain over the marks he wore on his body. He'd taken his shirt off when John had told him to. And then John had asked him a question and he'd called out his safe word, the generic one everyone knew (even though they hadn't gone that far, even though John didn't remember Sherlock telling him to stop, even though he'd thought he hadn't pushed too far but clearly he had).

Safewords were supposed to be for when 'no' wasn't enough -- Sherlock shouldn't have said it unless he'd thought John wouldn't have stopped at 'no', and that thought makes his stomach clench unpleasantly.

He knocks, tentatively, on the door to Sherlock's bedroom. “Sherlock? Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” Sherlock replies -- his voice is even and closer than John'd expected. He sounds tired. He's right on the other side of the door. John sits down. He leans back against the door and wonders if, on the other side, Sherlock is doing the same thing.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “I didn't mean to hurt you.”

Sherlock makes a humming noise -- the kind he does when he's thinking, and it's a quiet noise that John barely hears.

“I didn't mean to frighten you either,” he continues. “I wasn't going to do anything you didn't want. I'm sorry.”

“I'm not angry at you,” Sherlock says through the door, which didn't have anything to do with what John was saying, but did answer the question he'd been afraid to ask. “Nor did you frighten me. Really, John,” and his voice is so full of his usual irritated condescension that John can't help but laugh weakly.

“Well, that's... That's good.”

“Lestrade.”

“What?”

“You wanted to know the dom I was with last night. Lestrade.”

“You slept with Lestrade? As in, DI Lestrade?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because he asked and I wasn't busy,” Sherlock replies, as if it's that simple.

“I didn't know you did one night stands,” John says, but what he means is, I offered and you said no, and then you slept in my bed and looked at my mouth and you keep teasing me and I don't know what you want from me.

“I don't. Just him.”

“So, he's the one you... How long?”

“Few years now,” and, while John is still marveling at that -- years, Sherlock and Lestrade have been together for years, “It's not what you think. He's not my dom; we just have sex. I like him, but not that much.”

--

After that, Sherlock gives him a wider berth than usual -- he doesn't rummage through John's pockets, he doesn't crowd John on the sofa when he sits down before Sherlock does (doesn't sit there at all when John's already sitting in it), and he stops casually stealing bites from John's plate when they go out for dinner.

But he keeps casting glances at John -- long, focused looks whenever John isn't paying attention. He tries asking “What?” once, when he catches Sherlock at it, but Sherlock just shakes his head and says, “It's nothing.”

Lestrade notices while they are examining the latest in a recent rash of burglaries that may be connected to a series of murders from five years ago. “You and Sherlock have a row?”

John shrugs. “I'm not sure, actually,” he admits. “Sherlock told me about he and you.”

Lestrade shoots him a look of surprise. “Did he, now. What'd he say?”

“Nothing, really. Just that you were the one he was with, the other night.”

“I can tell when you're talking about me,” Sherlock interrupts before John can say anything more, suddenly there, and steals the cup of coffee from John's hand. He takes a long drink, and the sight of Sherlock's throat working as he swallows makes up for the fact that he gives the cup back empty. “Whatever you're saying, it's not important. What's important is that the victim's sub is cheating on him, and we need to find out with whom.”

“She won't speak to any doms without her dom present,” Lestrade says. “It's part of their,” and he makes a fiddly motion at his throat, where the collar had been on the sub, “agreement.”

“I'll be a sub, then. I know the right questions to ask,” Sherlock says. “Have either of you got a spare collar?”

Lestrade says, “Not right now, nor have I any I can get on short notice.”

But -- “I have one at home, somewhere,” John says.

--

And that is how Sherlock ends up knocking on Maria Thornton's door with John's collar tight around his throat, in a pair of even tighter trousers that look like they're cutting off circulation to vital parts of his anatomy, while wearing an unbuttoned shirt that shows off his chest. Her dom is in Scotland Yard, still making his statement -- they have an hour.

When the door opens, Sherlock is slouching down, smaller and more delicate (John thinks it's got to do with his lack of coat, which he'd left at home). He smiles at her, and flicks his eyes to John. She looks at John expectantly.

“Miss Thornton?” John says. “Do you mind if my sub asks you some questions about the burglary?”

Sherlock touches her hand, and leans closer, and says confidingly, “It'll help us find the culprit. My dom's already said he doesn't mind waiting outside if your dom doesn't want him coming in.”

She nods, and lets him in, and John lets his head bang against the wall as he tries to decide whether or not it'd be inappropriate for him to have a wank later while thinking about Sherlock with John's collar on his throat, calling John his dom. And if so, how inappropriate. Too inappropriate to do it anyways?

Sherlock comes out twenty minutes later, looking smug. “Cheating on him with the brother, who has ties to organized crime,” he says. “That was easy once I convinced her to cooperate. Let Lestrade know.”

John sends the text obligingly, and when he looks up, Sherlock's watching him again. “What?”

“Nothing. Let's go home.”

John stares at Sherlock the entire way home, and he's sure Sherlock notices, but Sherlock doesn't seem to mind. Because Sherlock is -- Sherlock's practicing, he's putting on and taking off submission like it's something he can switch on and off. One second, he's John's sub, collared and claimed and his, and the next he's just -- just a dom with a random collar that's on too tight and a shirt he inexplicably hasn't bothered to button yet.

John thinks he's going to get whiplash trying to keep track of it all. Or possibly die of lust.

Sherlock crowds him against the door as soon as they're inside their flat, his palms on either side of John. It gives him a beautiful view of the collar (his collar) around Sherlock's throat, and John finds himself wishing, wildly, that it was real.

“You want me,” Sherlock says.

“I thought you were avoiding me.”

“You were distracting me when I was thinking. It's not the same. You want me,” he says again, and John drags his eyes from Sherlock's throat to his face.

John nods.

“No, say it,” Sherlock insists.

“I want you,” John replies cautiously.

“I'm married to my work.” Sherlock lifts his hands to the back of his neck and unbuckles John's collar. It drops to the floor, and the sound it makes sends a pang of loss through his chest.

“I know you are.”

Sherlock looks down at his shirt, then starts doing up the buttons quickly and efficiently. He glances at John's mouth, but doesn't catch his eyes. “I'm not your property.”

“I know.”

“I don't do what you tell me.”

“I don't actually expect you to.”

“I'll probably cut my hair soon. It's been getting long.”

“There's a decent place a couple streets away that'll do it for cheap.”

“I'm smarter than you.”

“Noticed that when we first met.”

“I won't let you control me.”

“I don't want to control you.”

“I --” Sherlock stops, and he looks away for a moment. “I don't want this to change things between us,” he says, finally, and there is a vulnerability there that John's never seen on Sherlock's face before.

“It won't,” John breathes. “I promise."

At his words, Sherlock exhales slowly. He is close enough to kiss, and John tilts his head up to press their mouths together.

This time, Sherlock kisses him back, and he's good at it. He parts his lips for John to slide his tongue in, and it's warm, wet, and just a little bit sloppy, like Sherlock isn't used to making out with anyone. Sherlock fists his hands in the front of John's jumper, and -- he kisses like this is the means to an end, like it's filler while he waits for John to do something else.

“What do you want?” John asks between kisses, confused.

Sherlock stops, mouths the side of John's jaw. “I -- What do you want? Let's do that. Tell me what you want.”

That's not an answer to his question, except that John barely notices that at all, because Sherlock is sliding gracefully to his knees, and putting his hands on John's belt, and that's about the point where John's thoughts abruptly grind to a halt, because Sherlock presses the heel of his palm against John's cock.

“Yeah. That's good. That's perfect.” He threads his fingers through Sherlock's hair, gets a good handful of it in his fist and tugs. “Do you like it when I do this?”

Sherlock doesn't answer, but he doesn't need to, because when John pulls his hair, his eyes go wide and he makes a noise, a noise that goes straight to his groin that makes him want to find out what other sounds he can coax from Sherlock. He presses Sherlock's face to his erection and Sherlock goes without resistance, rubbing his cheek against it.

John had been afraid that Sherlock wasn't interested -- that he wasn't attracted, except that John's clearly been blind or something, because Sherlock moves eagerly, mouthing John's cock through the layers of fabric, shoulder pressed against John's thigh like he's hungry for contact.

“I want to fuck your mouth,” he says -- because he does, because he's been wondering about what it'd be like for ages, and suddenly Sherlock's hands are unbuckling his belt, pulling down his trousers and underwear, and Sherlock's mouth is on him.

He jerks his hips in surprise, thrusting into Sherlock's mouth, cupping the back of his skull, and Sherlock sinks down on him -- takes him in deeper and deeper until his lips meet the thick curls at the base of John's cock. He'd never known Sherlock could do that -- never imagined Sherlock would bother learning a trick like that.

“No gag reflex,” John notes between pants, trying to keep his words steady -- trying to keep his hips steady, but he's failing miserably at that, because Sherlock's doing something with his tongue that's sending spikes of white-hot pleasure through his body. “I should have known you'd be brilliant at this.”

He fucks Sherlock's mouth -- roughly, because the faster he goes the looser Sherlock gets, pliant and peaceful like there's nothing else he'd rather be doing than choking on John's cock. And it's -- it's sort of glorious, the way Sherlock's looking up at him, meeting his eyes, looking at him like all he wants from the world is for John to want him.

When he comes, Sherlock swallows it down, licks him clean and tucks him back into his trousers with easy, efficient movements. He even re-buckles John's belt, leaving no evidence of what they'd been doing. You've done this before, John thinks, and then, a little hysterically, Sherlock Holmes just sucked me off against our front door.

“Your turn,” John says, and pulls Sherlock up for a kiss. The kiss is indulgent this time, slow and intimate. He can taste himself on the inside of Sherlock's mouth. He reaches between them and tugs down Sherlock's trousers; he's not wearing pants. He wraps his fingers around Sherlock's erection, and Sherlock groans against his lips. “What do you like? How do you touch yourself?”

“Faster. Tighter, sometimes , if I want to -- if I want it to be quick. Anything. Anything you want,” Sherlock gasps brokenly, and it sounds like a promise. Anything you want.

So John takes his time, teases gasps and moans from Sherlock with his fingers, until Sherlock is thrusting helplessly in John's fingers and leaving wet smears of pre-come against his hand and his stomach from where John's shirt has ridden up. “Please, John. Please,” Sherlock begs into his ear, and it is the sweetest sound in the world.

“Okay, yes, do it,” John commands, and Sherlock comes with a soft cry, spilling his release between them.

--

John was hoping for some post-coital cuddling, except Sherlock's clearly got other ideas, because when they're finished, Sherlock merely leans bodily against John until his breathing slows, before disappearing into his room. He doesn't come out again until John finishes cooking dinner -- nothing fancy, just pasta. He's traded the tight trousers for his normal ones.

“Are you eating today?” John asks. “I think there's still a couple clean plates in the cupboard.”

“Not hungry,” Sherlock replies, and curls up in his armchair with his laptop. “I'd like some tea, though.”

Sherlock smiles at him, bright and surprised, when John brings him the cup of tea, and accepts the kiss that John presses against his mouth.

--

The sex is good.

Sherlock knows a million different tricks to please him, and John gets a thrill, every time, at seeing Sherlock's submission, at seeing him peaceful and quiet and still. He fucks Sherlock's mouth and makes out with him sloppily on the sofa, straddling him and pinning his wrists above his head.

He ties Sherlock down and maps his body with his tongue, and presses his fingernails into each scar as if he can claim them, or wipe them away. There is a small, faded S carved into Sherlock's hip, and when John touches it, Sherlock twitches away but doesn't say anything, like he's not sure what he wants John to do.

He flogs him and fucks him and spanks him and pushes his thoughts further and further away, until “You're going to leave bruises with that” becomes “Please, don't stop, more” becomes incoherent moans.

Sometimes -- not always, but sometimes, after they finish, when they are both satisfied and content, Sherlock will spend the night in his bed, sprawled on top of John, and they will both sleep soundly until morning.

Unfortunately, everything else is sort of a disaster.

Because Sherlock says, “It's just sex,” and then curls up next to him on the sofa, putting his head on John's shoulder sweetly. Because when John wakes up in the mornings, if Sherlock hasn't gone to sleep the night before, Sherlock will sometimes have breakfast waiting for him. Because Sherlock will look at him sometimes, and he'll look away when John catches him at it, like there's something he doesn't want John to know.

Half the time Sherlock does whatever he wants, and the other half of the time, he stops and looks at John expectantly, and if John gives him permission, he gets angry, and if John forbids him from doing whatever he was going to do, he gets angry, and if John doesn't say anything and just looks confused, he gets frustrated and annoyed. Or Sherlock will say no to him, or do something he knows John doesn't like -- inexplicably, for no reason, like it's a test and John doesn't know what the right answer's supposed to be but he really resents being subjected to mind games.

Or a sub will flirt with John, and Sherlock will get sulky and jealous for the rest of the night, which is not fair at all, because supposedly, they aren't even dating, because sometimes if a sub flirts with Sherlock, he flirts back.

“He just doesn't make any sense,” John complains to Harry -- which, you know, he's in pretty dire straights if he's asking Harry for advice. “I don't know what he wants from me.”

“Maybe you should break up with him, then,” Harry replies.

“We're not dating.”

“Yes, you are.”

“He's made it pretty clear that he doesn't want to be my sub,” John says. “We're just friends who have sex.”

“You want it to be more.”

“I've wanted it to be more for ages.”

“So tell him that.”

“He already knows. He'll just turn me down. Again.”

Harry's silent for long enough that John checks his phone to make sure the connection hasn't been lost. “You know why I broke up with Rebecca in secondary school, John?”

“Because you're gay?”

“I'm not, actually. I like both. So, no.” And sticks her tongue out at him (he can't see her, but he knows her well enough to tell). “I broke up with her because she told me I wasn't allowed to have friends who were tops. And I mean, obviously not all tops are as stupid as her,” Harry interjects before John can say anything. “But a lot of them -- a lot of them, they think subs need to be controlled, that we can't get on by ourselves. That we're just things they can use. So it's easier to date subs, if you like both.”

“I don't do that,” John protests, but he knows she's right, because he's not stupid and he knows what doms talk about when there's no subs around, and that it's nearly impossible to press rape charges, when signs of a struggle look the same as signs of having a good time.

“I know, but you're not everyone,” Harry says, and for a moment, she sounds so weary that his heart breaks, just a little. “Anyways, just... Maybe he just wants to make sure you won't treat him like that now that he's your sub.”

“He's not my sub.”

“He might as well be.”

--

“Do you want to be my sub?” John blurts, when Sherlock announces he's going out to get his hair cut and stops at the door, looking at John expectantly.

Sherlock's face goes complicated and unreadable. “I -- do I have to?”

“No, of course not. You don't have to do anything you don't want to. I just -- I just thought I'd ask.”

“Why? Do you want me to?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want me to do?” Sherlock asks, one hand still on the door. He sounds curious.

“Whatever you want. I just want you to admit that there's something between us, and it's not just about the sex. You know I care about you, Sherlock, and I want to know if you feel the same.”

“I'm going to cut my hair,” Sherlock repeats, more firmly this time.

“Stop asking me for permission if you're going to get mad at me for saying no.”

“What will you do if I cut my hair?”

“Nothing? It's really none of my business.”

--

Sherlock comes home with his hair too short to even hint at being a sub, so short that it doesn't curl. “Well?”

John makes a beckoning motion and Sherlock joins him on the sofa. He sits down next to John and bows his head so that John can run thoughtful fingers through his hair. John closes his fingers consideringly, and tugs lightly -- not too short to grab, except at the sides. “I liked the curls, but this is nice too,” he says pleasantly.

Sherlock gives him that smile again -- the quick, surprised one, and John knows he's said the right thing.

--

“You're afraid I'll go too far,” John says, as he lights the last candle, setting it next to the other ones, and picking up the first one. “You've been fucking with me for weeks, because you want to know what I'll do when you push me.”

“I can get my hands free,” Sherlock says to him, and starts to tug at the loops of rope binding his wrists to the headboard; he stops when John touches his hand.

“That's not the point. The point is that you can't get free by accident.” John angles the top of the candle downwards, about a foot above the underside of his wrist. “At least this way you can't run away when I try to ask you a question.”

A thin stream of melted red wax lands on his wrist; it hurts, but doesn't burn. He flexes his wrist thoughtfully, then scratches it off with his fingernails.

“I don't care how short you cut your hair, or whether or not you want to wear my collar.”

“Wrong,” Sherlock replies, and hisses through his teeth as John tips a small amount of melted wax onto his stomach. He raises one of his knees protectively, and John pushes it down, then leaves his hand there, soaking in the sight of Sherlock, like this -- exposed, vulnerable. “You want to claim me. You want everyone to think I belong to you.”

“That's only natural. I hate when Molly flirts with you, you know. I don't mind when it's the other subs, but you flirt back when it's her.”

“I'm not attracted to submissives,” Sherlock says, and makes another noise, when more hot wax lands next to the first one. “You know that. I only do it so she'll give me access to the mortuary.”

“You could try being friends with her, instead of manipulating her,” John says, and continues, “I don't know what you want from me.”

“I want you to fuck me.” It's a diversionary tactic, and a bad one.

“I thought at first that you just didn't care about me,” he says, pouring the wax on Sherlock's belly, forming a straight, diagonal line, switching candles when he runs out of melted wax. “But I don't think that's true.”

“It's not,” Sherlock agrees.

“Why do you keep testing me? You keep doing things you think I won't like. Do you want me to punish you for them? You don't seem like the sort of sub who'd be interested in that.”

“I'm not.”

“So if you don't want me to punish you for it, what are you doing?” Sherlock doesn't answer. The muscles on his torso jump as more wax lands on them, the beginning of the second line. John squeezes Sherlock's knee. “Answer me.”

Another long pause, punctuated only by their breathing. John drags his fingers over the wax, fascinated by the way Sherlock quivers at the touch. Sherlock says softly, apologetically, “The cases come first. Before you, before me. I won't change that for you.”

“I know that already,” John says absently. He finishes the second line, forming a V on the left side of Sherlock's belly, and starts on the third. “I'm not going to throw you away or leave you just because there's something you don't want to do.”

“You can't control me when I'm working.”

“I'm pretty sure we've had this conversation before,” John says pointedly. Fourth line -- the last one, starting at the base of the third and moving outwards, finishing the blood red W drawn across Sherlock's torso.

“I won't be enough for you,” Sherlock whispers. He turns his face away.

John sets the candle aside and leans forward to kiss Sherlock's jaw. “I don't care. You're enough now.”

--

Afterwards, when they are finished, when John has scraped the wax off Sherlock's body with a butter knife, teasing the oversensitized skin with his tongue and with ice cubes, when John has kissed and bit and fucked his claim onto Sherlock's skin, and wiped away the semen from between Sherlock's legs and on his belly, and checked his wrists and put away the rope and the candles and binned the butcher's paper they'd put over the sheets --

Afterwards, when John has asked, “Are you sleeping tonight?”, and Sherlock has rubbed carefully at the stained W on his belly (he stops when it starts to smear), and replied, “Yes, I think so,” and they have curled up in John's bed --

Afterwards, when Sherlock has placed his head on John's scarred shoulder and his palm over John's chest, and his breathing has slowed and evened --

John whispers, when he's sure Sherlock can't hear him, “I love you, you know. I don't care about the rest of it.”

--

“I don't suppose I can tempt you to eat dinner tonight?” John asks, without much hope. “I made roast beef.”

“I ate at noon,” Sherlock replies, not looking up from the book he's currently perusing. Noon is less than 24 hours ago, so John just sighs and lets it go.

Halfway through John's dinner, Sherlock gets up and walks over. John offers him a smile. “Changed your mind?”

“Not quite,” Sherlock says, and kneels, gracefully, on the floor to the right of John's chair. John's heart skips a beat, then skips another when Sherlock rests his head on John's thigh and reopens the book, attention shifting to it.

“What are you doing?” John asks, mesmerized.

“Reading.” The obviously is implied.

“Why?”

“Because I like to read, and the book interests me.” Sherlock turns a page. He hasn't bothered to look up yet.

“No -- I meant, why are you reading here?”

“I wanted to see if it was more comfortable here.”

“Is it?”

“It's passable.” Sherlock glances up at him. “Do you want me to move?”

John's hand drops to the back of Sherlock's neck. “No!” he says, more emphatically than he'd meant to, and Sherlock smiles at him, quick and brief. John's cheeks burn with embarrassment. He lets go. “I mean,” he stammers. “If you want to, you can. But I like you here.”

Sherlock goes back to the book, but he's grinning widely.

“I'd be more comfortable if you were stroking my hair,” he comments pointedly, after they have been sitting in silence for a few minutes, and John lets his hand drop to Sherlock's head.

--

“It bothers you that people think I'm a dom,” Sherlock says while they are on their way to the latest crime scene. They are on opposite sides of the cab's backseat -- Sherlock is looking out the window. When John doesn't reply, Sherlock shifts his attention to him, eyes narrowing. “No -- not quite that.”

John makes a face at him. “Stop deducing me. Just ask like a normal person.”

“No need,” Sherlock replies smugly. “It's not that people think I'm a dom. It's that they don't know we're together. You'd rather they think I was a dom and we were together than that I'm an unattached sub.”

John shrugs and looks away. True, obviously -- he wants people to know that Sherlock belongs to him and only him. That of all the people he could have, he chose John. Except that Sherlock is prickly about that -- about belonging, about being claimed, about people knowing he chooses, sometimes, to give himself to someone else.

John knows it has to do with the scars Sherlock wears -- the sloppy ones on his back, and more importantly, the small, deliberate S on his hip that Sherlock refuses to talk about. You're not supposed to mark a sub like that -- you don't mark a sub like that, unless you're in love, unless you're talking about forever, and making a claim more serious and permanent than a collar.

A sub won't let you, unless they think you'll be the last one they'll ever belong to.

“It's not a secret,” Sherlock continues. “It's no secret that I'm a sub, and you can tell people you're my dom if it'll make you happy.”

“Will it make you happy?” John asks, because while normally he has a better sense for these things -- normally he can tell the difference between “I like this” and “I'm only doing it because you want to”, Sherlock is a mess to read, no matter how hard he tries.

“I haven't decided yet,” Sherlock says. “I need more evidence.”

So John takes Sherlock's gloved hand while they're at the crime scene, which lasts all of fifteen seconds before Sherlock gets bored of not having his hand free and pulls it away to peel back the victim's lips and examine his teeth.

John must have made some sort of sound at that, because after Sherlock rises from poking at the victim's molars, he sighs explosively and says, “Oh, alright, then,” before grabbing John's chin and tilting his head up for a rough, bruising kiss.

The murmur of conversation around them falls away into stunned silence, but John is caught up in the blissful feel of having Sherlock's mouth against his, for just a moment, before he realizes that --

“Ugh! You were touching a corpse with that hand!” John exclaims, and rubs fiercely at his chin.

Sherlock looks at him blankly. “So? It's hardly decayed at all.”

“You put your fingers in its mouth! And then touched me with them!”

“Well, he wasn't sick, so it's not like you're going to catch anything. Besides, you've touched corpses before.”

“Not with my face.”

But John doesn't mind, not really, and from the small, pleased smile Sherlock wears for the rest of the night, Sherlock knows it too.

--

“Don't touch me,” Sherlock says absently, staring at the photographs of the evidence, pinned to the wall. “You'll distract me.”

“I think you can afford to be distracted for a few hours,” John comments, and presses the energy bar into Sherlock's hand. “Eat this. And then you're taking a nap.”

“I'm working,” Sherlock protests, but he unwraps the bar and takes a bite anyways. The rest of the bar disappears quickly, mechanically.

“You're going to collapse if you don't get some food and rest in you. I'm a doctor, remember?”

“You're interrupting my case,” Sherlock says petulantly, but lets John herd him away from the photographs. He stops abruptly at the stairs to John's bedroom. “Um. I don't actually want to have sex right now.”

John rolls his eyes and shoves Sherlock into the room. “Just to sleep, Sherlock. You'll think better once you're more rested.”

“You'll wake me if the police find anything?”

“Of course.” Sherlock is still resisting, so John adds, “I promise.”

--

Sherlock has been asleep for not quite three hours when his phone buzzes in John's pocket. Lestrade, with more evidence.

“How long have I been asleep?” is the first thing Sherlock asks blearily when John goes to his room and shakes Sherlock awake.

“Almost three hours. We've got to go. The police found the missing hand in a skip; they need you to take a look at it.”

“You woke me up,” Sherlock says wonderingly, as he gets out of the bed, and, when John presses the warm mug into his hands, “And you made me coffee. But it's lukewarm.”

“I made myself coffee and you're lucky I decided to share,” John corrects, “because I haven't had enough sleep either, and I'm still going through the old case files Lestrade left with us.”

“You were working while I slept.”

“One of us had to stay up in case Lestrade called.”

Sherlock downs the coffee swiftly, and frowns at the energy bar John hands him. “Must I? Coffee makes me lose my appetite.”

“I'll give you the coffee second next time. Can you eat it without feeling sick?”

“I'll eat it in the cab. Where are we going?”

“Kensington Road. Ready?”

Sherlock kisses him. It tastes like coffee, and sleep, and something uniquely Sherlock. “Of course,” he says, and it sounds like more.

--

After the case ends, after another three days of running after criminals and hunting down evidence, when they have collapsed together in John's bed to catch up on sleep, John wakes up alone.

This isn't unusual. Sherlock tends to wander off when not under direct supervision, and rarely spends the entire night in John's bed. He can hear the smooth, warm sounds of Sherlock's violin, coming from downstairs.

But what is unusual, is this:

There is a bracelet on his nightstand. It wasn't there last night, and John picks it up, heart pounding.

The bracelet is thin, black leather, not at all showy or attention-grabbing, and looks not unlike the strap of a watch. He runs his thumb along the inside, feeling for an inscription, but there isn't one. He has to adjust it before it fits around his wrist (Sherlock's wrists are thinner than his), but the clasp is easy to open and close with one hand.

He puts it on, and goes downstairs.

Sherlock pauses in his playing when he sees John; there is a band of black around his right wrist, and even without looking at the hand that holds the neck of the violin, John knows that his other wrist is bare.

“Good afternoon,” Sherlock says, and looks at John's wrist. “The right one?”

“I am left-handed,” John replies.

“Are you going to wear it when you go out?”

“If you want me to. If you'll wear yours.”

“People will think you're subbing for me.”

“They already think that. I'm used to it by now.”

“Then yes,” Sherlock says, and his smile is radiant.