Archive of Our Own

“Read to me?” Sherlock asks him, shuffling into the sitting room of John’s house where the man is reading the paper and reclining in his favourite chair.  He settles on the floor by John’s feet, resting his dark, curly head on John’s knee.  They are both on holiday from school and have taken the opportunity to be alone in John’s home for the day, doing whatever they wish.  And, apparently, Sherlock wants to spend the day in his headspace, in the safe and fuzzy space flickering between being “little” and acting his true age, where he can skirt the lines of being John’s little boy and get doted shamelessly on. “Please?” 

It had started with medical journals and articles out of The Forensic Examiner, but the more they play this game the deeper they fall.  John shouldn’t be surprised: Sherlock never had a childhood, never had a father with whom to share all of these special bonding moments.  There has only ever been John. 

So they have gone from chemistry textbooks and grisly true-life unsolved crime dramas (or whatever else Sherlock had lying about his bedroom when they first started this) to John nervously buying classic children’s books at the local toy store to take over to Sherlock’s house from time to time.  Then they slowly migrated to Sherlock rummaging through an old, tattered trunk he found in the depths of his house one day, where he found some of his favourite childhood books from when he was little.

When Sherlock had first shown him the old, dusty books and John had asked about them, Sherlock had said that he vaguely remembered a mother whose face he couldn’t quite picture reading them to him.  Mostly, though, he said that he just remembered reading them to himself at night, as he lay in his bed after tucking himself in, no one coming to kiss him goodnight.

The thought of it had made John immensely sad.

John shakes himself out of his reverie, looking down to the ground at Sherlock curled up at his feet.  Sherlock has a brand new copy of Treasure Island in his lap—one of his favourites.  They keep most of Sherlock’s belongings for this particular game over at Sherlock’s house, because there is less chance of discovery there.  Between the mother who abandoned him as a child and the alcoholic father who only comes home to sleep off his benders and pick a few fights, Sherlock practically lives alone most of the time.  But John couldn’t help buying a few purchases to keep at his home for times like this, or for when he wanted to take something to surprise Sherlock but didn’t have enough time to stop by the shops before meeting up with him.  Since Sherlock has found the book, John assumes that the boy has stumbled across his stash—although it is hidden well out of the way, deep in John’s side of the closet where Mary won’t find it—and that is what has brought this request on so suddenly.

Sherlock hardly ever instigates these games anymore.  Oh, he did in the beginning, John remembers fondly.  Though that had been mostly to let the older man know that it was all right—that he was, indeed, okay with it all, as he had told John many times.  But ever since then the times that Sherlock has started a scene have been few and far between.  He is, of course, more than happy to go along with them whenever John wants to play.  But John has noticed that Sherlock really only instigates a scene himself when he needs something specific from John—be that punishment or attention or cuddles—and he just doesn’t know how to ask for it.

John continues to look down at Sherlock and considers how he had dropped down lightly to the floor by John’s chair and folded himself up to sit quietly at John’s feet.  It is a small cue, but one that John has come to recognise.  Sherlock is prone to lying about in all manner of strange positions all over his own bedroom like a large cat, or any surface of John’s home if they happen to have the opportunity to come here, like they have today.  John has come to find out, though, that Sherlock only ever sits at John’s feet for one reason.

Whenever Sherlock instigates this game, John has learned the hard way that it is always best for him to pretend that everything is normal.  Once, at the beginning of a scene that Sherlock had started when they first began doing this, John had asked him if everything was okay and if Sherlock was sure he wanted to play.  Sherlock had gotten so angry at John that he’d stormed out of the room and hadn’t spoken to John for three days.  John was left looking after his moody teenage lover in bewilderment and alarm, wondering what he had done wrong.

John has come to learn that—while Sherlock tried so hard in the beginning to tell him that this is not something of which they need to be ashamed—Sherlock still has a hard time coming to terms with the fact that he has to give up a certain level of control to John when they play this way.  John knows that Sherlock enjoys a bit of rough handling when they have sex every now and then, and he will gladly give up control of himself to John in those situations, but he has always been a little more hesitant when it comes to submitting himself this way to John because it is something he craves more of, something he needs on a deeper level.  He views his complete submission to his Daddy, and losing control, almost as a sort of weakness.  Something that his “transport” cannot overcome.  So whenever he instigates it, it is always best for John to just act as though nothing out of the ordinary is happening.

A few times, all it ever ends up being is Sherlock sitting on the floor by John’s feet with his head in John’s lap for hours while John reads to him.  Or John sitting with him at the kitchen table, or Sherlock’s desk, and feeding Sherlock small bites of food off of John’s own plate.  Then they will get up and John will take Sherlock to bed.  The sex during these times is always passionate and loving and fantastic, but it doesn’t necessarily have to have the element of their game to it every time.  If Sherlock calls him “Daddy” during these times John will play along, but if Sherlock wants him to just be John, he doesn’t have a problem with that, either.

Sometimes Sherlock just wants to feel taken care of.  At these times it is John’s job to play caretaker or disciplinarian or proud, doting father figure.  Sherlock is surprisingly fastidious about their roles during these instances.  If John breaks character even a little bit—if he appears too eager or even just asks what it is that Sherlock wants him to do next—Sherlock will stomp off in a strop and the next week of John’s life will be hell.

So John realised that it was imperative for him to know all of the cues early on, big and small, and for him to learn that he was just to go along with Sherlock’s game, questioning nothing.

“Of course, love,” John tells him now, placing one hand in Sherlock’s hair to comb through the wild curls while he reaches down with the other to take the book.  He flips through the stiff pages, looking for one of the chapters that he knows Sherlock likes best.  When he finds it, he begins to read out loud, his voice a low rumble in the quiet of his house.  He feels Sherlock practically melt against his leg, releasing a tired, content little sigh.

John reads for a long time.  After a while, when he comes to a stopping point, he looks down to see Sherlock dozing lightly with his head still on John’s knee.  John smiles at him tenderly, fingers tracing the lines of Sherlock’s maturing face.  Baby fat is swiftly burning away to reveal dangerously-curving cheekbones but there is still enough roundness around the edges to make Sherlock look soft while he sleeps.

It has been a few days since the last time he spoke to Sherlock, let alone saw him.  Sherlock does this from time to time: missing days of school and disappearing without a word to John.  John worries constantly, knowing the kind of trouble that Sherlock can get into, and texts him often to be sure he is safe.  John is usually answered with short, one word replies; mostly responses which let John know that Sherlock is okay.  It is better than nothing, John supposes, but still.  With Sherlock’s past and the kind of life he leads, John would be happier with a little more information on the flighty genius’ whereabouts and safety.

At the moment, he knows without having to be told that Sherlock hasn’t slept in days, probably since the last time John saw him.  With Sherlock’s head on John’s knee and his eyes closed as he dozes lightly, John can see how the paper-thin skin of Sherlock’s eyelids looks bruised dark from tiredness.  His skin is paler than usual and his submissive demeanor right now is all more telling than Sherlock realises.  There is also the sickly yellow discolouration of a fading bruise along one cheek—something Sherlock has not made mention of and John knows better than to pry about it.  But John isn’t as blind as Sherlock likes to think he is.  He may not be a genius like Sherlock, but he isn’t stupid.  He can make his own deductions about certain things.

And right now, he deduces that Sherlock Holmes could really use a nap.

“Sherlock, love,” John whispers, shaking him gently on the shoulder.  “Wake up.”

Sherlock makes a sleepy, disgruntled noise and tries to burrow his face deeper into John’s bony knee.

“Come on, it’s time for a nap, pet,” John says, preparing to stand so that Sherlock will no longer have anything to lean on.  “Off you go, then,” he says, trying to get Sherlock to stand up.  “You’re for bed.”

At John’s words, though, Sherlock jerks awake, head snapping to attention as he sits up and looks at John with tired, red eyes.  “I don’t want a nap,” he says petulantly, a small pout marring his delicate features.

John frowns down at him, mouth set in a stern line.  “Well, I don’t care what you want.  You’re exhausted and you need to rest.”

“But I want to stay up and spend time with you, Daddy.”

Ah, and there it is.  Sherlock never really sinks into his headspace until the name slips out of his mouth.  John had been careful before, not wanting to push too hard because he wasn’t sure if he had been dealing with his incorrigible teenage lover or his petulant little boy, but now that he knows which one he is talking to, he knows exactly how to deal with the problem.

“Sherlock,” he says warningly, “Daddy thinks you need a nap, so you’re going to get a nap.  Don’t argue with me, young man.”  He reaches down to pull the tall child up to stand along with him and Sherlock lets him, though once he is beside John he tries to wiggle out of the hold the man has on his arms.  John lets him do as he pleases, instead moving his hands along Sherlock’s back.  He gently pushes the scowling brunet towards the stairs that lead up to John’s bedroom, intent on putting Sherlock to sleep.

It seems Sherlock has other ideas, though. 

“I don’t want to!” Sherlock practically yells, digging his heels into the ground as John tries to move him closer to the stairs.

John huffs impatiently, his temper rising as he glares at the ill-behaved child in front of him.  “Someone’s being a rotten little goblin today.  Do you want a spanking, Sherlock?  Is that it?” he asks harshly.

Sherlock’s eyes go wide as he stares at John, shining wetly at just the mention of a spanking from his daddy.  “No,” he answers in a tiny, wavering voice that cracks in anxiousness.

“Then do as I say,” John responds with a tone that is dangerously low and level.  He knows, though, that it is never that simple.  Sherlock doesn’t want John to be angry with him, but he knows the boy wants to spend as much time with him as possible.  Nap time is Sherlock’s least favourite activity while they scene.  John knows Sherlock hates it so much because he is in his “little” headspace but away from John, when they already have such limited time to be together like this in the first place.  It is no easy task for John, either, but sometimes when Sherlock is in this headspace it is the best time for John to take care of Sherlock and give his body the things it requires to function.

“But, Daddy,” Sherlock starts, and John can tell by the sound of his voice that he is on the verge of throwing a mighty strop. 

John tries to hide his astonishment.  Sherlock almost never throws tantrums when he is little, always keeping a more reserved, shy demeanor about him in nonsexual aspects of their game.  But now…John has never seen Sherlock behave like this. 

“I don’t want to sleep!” Sherlock yells out, voice warbling.  “I’m not tired!  I want to be with you!”

“Sherlock, that’s enough,” John bites out, tone hard and low to counter Sherlock’s increasingly loud and shrill shouts.  “You’re going down for a nap and if you open your mouth one more time, you’re not going to like what I’m going to do.”

At that, Sherlock’s mouth snaps shut with an audible click of his teeth.  He is quiet and complacent until they get into John’s bedroom and the man begins to turn the bed sheets down so that Sherlock can get underneath them.  Once John has them pulled back, he steps away and silently gestures for Sherlock to lie down.  Instead, Sherlock just stands by the side of the bed and glares at him. 

It is a look that little boys shouldn’t be giving their daddies at all if they know what is good for them.

“Don’t push me, kitten.  I’ll bend you over my knee and smack your little arse until you know how to behave,” John warns him, tone frosty.  They’ve talked about spankings before, agreed that it was something they were both comfortable with, but they have had few occasions in which to implement them.  Sherlock has said before that he wouldn’t be opposed to a bit of discipline.  Yet with the threat of it near, John can see Sherlock’s eyes wavering wetly at the dark promise of John’s words.  However, no matter how sweet and innocent, John will not be deterred by sad puppy-dog eyes.  “Now go lie down.”

“No, Daddy!”

John takes a moment to stare at Sherlock in surprise.  Sherlock hardly ever tells him “no” outright.  He will say that he doesn’t want to do something, and he will complain and moan and cry crocodile tears when John forces an issue, but the little boy isn’t usually so brazen as to tell his Daddy “no” when John wants him to do something. 

Well, if Sherlock was aiming for a smacked bottom, he sure as hell hit the mark.

John drops himself down onto the bed to sit suddenly, pulling Sherlock down with him before he even knows what is happening.  There is a small gasp of surprise from the quick movement, but it is nothing compared to the undignified squawk that is released from Sherlock’s throat when John’s hand lands squarely on his bum, hard.

“Don’t tell me ‘no’, young man,” John informs him, bringing his hand down again.  Sherlock squirms in his lap and yelps as John’s palm connects with his arse.  “Stop moving, Sherlock,” John orders crisply.  Sherlock’s long body instantly stills, submissive for the moment, draped over John’s knee as he is.

Sherlock has grown taller over the few months that John has known him.  Where he was once the same height as John, Sherlock has sprouted up during a recent growth spurt and the two of them are still getting used to the difference.  They had fit together so perfectly before but there is a little awkwardness now as Sherlock adjusts to his longer limbs and added height, and having him draped over John’s knee this way isn’t exactly ideal for what the man has in mind.

Sherlock is still complacent in his lap, though, despite the discomfort.  John takes the opportunity to grab onto his hips with firm hands, lifting up slightly so that Sherlock’s weight is resting on his own two feet instead of across John’s lap.  One of John’s hands drifts over to the small of Sherlock’s back, pressing down gently and making sure that Sherlock stays bent over double.  When Sherlock is in the position that John wants, the man’s hands then move around to the front of Sherlock’s trousers, where he works open the flies with a little difficulty in his current position.  John manages to get them open, though, and he pulls Sherlock’s trousers down, letting them pool on the floor by Sherlock’s feet, leaving him in his pants.

Sherlock whimpers at the implication and wiggles around in John’s grasp, hating a bare-bottom spanking more than anything.  But John has to teach him that there are consequences to his actions, and telling Daddy “no” is never okay.

“Hush, now,” he says.  “You brought this on yourself.  I told you to behave.  All you had to do was go down for your nap.  Just an hour or two.  And then you could have gotten up and we could have played.”

He uses both hands to roll down Sherlock’s pants from either side of the boy’s hips, keeping them just below the plump swell of Sherlock’s arse.  When Sherlock tries to move his hands over to cover his bottom, John makes an angry sound in the back of his throat and pulls Sherlock’s hands up onto the small of his back.  John holds them there in his large, gun-worn grasp, his fingers wrapped tightly around Sherlock’s delicate wrists as he takes in the sight before him. 

For someone as skinny as he is, John will never understand how Sherlock has such a perfectly beautiful, lush backside.  John can’t help but run one of his hands over the smooth, pale flesh of it for a moment before lifting his hand up and then bringing it back down harshly with a resounding smack that fills the silence of the room.

Sherlock gasps at the hit, body jerking forward and hands trying to move to shield his bottom from any more attacks.  John just tightens his grip on Sherlock’s wrists and doesn’t give him the chance to try to squirm away again—he lifts his hand once more and brings it down in a powerful arc that lands directly on the fleshy globe of Sherlock’s arse cheek.  Sherlock whimpers at that one, but John doesn’t give him a second to do much of anything else before he is spanking him again, ripping a cry from Sherlock’s throat.

John is not going easy on him.  He knows that Sherlock can take a spanking, knows that he enjoys it from time to time.  And Sherlock only ever really pushes for a spanking by acting bratty when he really wants one, so John knows that this is what Sherlock’s ultimate goal had been.  If the severity of Sherlock’s strop was anything to go by, John knows that Sherlock wants his punishment to equal the crime.  So he continues to spank Sherlock’s bum, even when the skin is a bright, angry red colour from John’s hand and Sherlock is a sniveling, whimpering mess in his lap, squirming relentlessly and trying to get away from John’s punishing smacks.

John will never tell him, but one of the things he loves best about playing this game with Sherlock is that the brunet doesn’t hold anything back when John is Daddy and Sherlock is his little boy.  He doesn’t try to act detached and aloof, and he doesn’t try to keep himself together the way he does in his normal life.  When they play like this, Sherlock lets himself go, lets himself be taken care, lets himself feel, and that, to John, is absolutely beautiful.  He cries out in pain, he sobs in pleasure, he tells his Daddy exactly how he feels, and he shouts out that he loves John.  Sherlock hardly ever does that when they aren’t playing.  But like this…Sherlock is free in a way he isn’t in the rest of his life.

When John thinks Sherlock has had enough for the moment he pauses in his punishment, hand poised over the red bottom as he gives them both a break. “Are you sorry for misbehaving?” John asks him.  Sherlock is panting heavily over his lap, trembling on his feet with his arms straining across his back.  His arse cheeks are the loveliest shade of a furious-looking pink and John’s hand is beginning to tingle from its exertion.  “Will you listen to Daddy now?”

This is the point where he gives Sherlock the decision.  He is secretly asking if Sherlock has had enough.  John has had to learn all sorts of little tricks to understand what the boy wants, because getting Sherlock to come right out and say it is like pulling teeth.

When Sherlock takes too long to answer, John tears his eyes away from the pretty picture of Sherlock’s arse to look at him, turning to find Sherlock staring at him out of red-rimmed, wet eyes.  His cheeks are tracked with tears and the tip of his nose is as rosy as his bum, but the glare he is shooting John is all child-like petulance.

“No,” Sherlock says simply, jutting his chin up as best he can in his position.

There’s nothing else for it.  John just sighs and shakes his head, raising his hand back up to start the volley of spanks once again.

Sherlock practically howls when John’s hand connects with the sensitive skin of his sore arse.  He struggles against John’s hold like a wild thing, squirming so much that John actually begins to have trouble holding on to him.  John gets in a few more hard hits but the sounds coming from Sherlock’s throat are so visceral, so wounded, that John stops in surprise.  His grip loosens slightly on Sherlock’s wrists but doesn’t let go, and he rests his other hand gently over one of Sherlock’s inflamed arse cheeks.

“Do you want to use your special word, Sherlock?” he asks quietly, his voice soothing and low, and although Sherlock is whimpering and sobbing John knows that he’s been heard.

“N-no!” Sherlock cries out with a rigid shake of his head.

It had been John’s idea, of course.  Sherlock hadn’t wanted it but John had insisted—if they were going to do this, they were going to have a safeword.  He knows they aren’t doing anything to physically hurt each other (with times like this being the exception, though a few swats to the bum are hardly life-threatening), but the mental aspect of what they are doing together is a large concern.  For John, at least.  And, for the few times when Sherlock does get his bum reddened (which John knows are bound to happen) John wants to be sure that Sherlock is always, always, completely okay with everything that is happening.

But when the stubborn boy refused to take a safeword the first time, John knew that getting him to use the one John practically had to force on him was going to be almost impossible.  So John had created a backup.

“Give me your colour, then,” he tells Sherlock calmly, fingers stroking the inflamed arse cheeks tenderly.

“G-green,” Sherlock says, the word barely recognisable through his sobs.

John doesn’t buy it for a second.  “Sherlock, if you don’t tell me the truth, I will safeword and stop this whole thing right this instant.”  His tone is hard and brooks no argument, though it is in no way harsh.  But he does want Sherlock to know that he is very serious about this, so he drops his voice lower and his hand grips Sherlock’s hip warningly as he growls out, “Now, give.  Me.  Your.  Colour.”

There is a long pause where Sherlock is completely and utterly still before he suddenly takes in a great, big, shuddery breath and then trembles violently as he releases it.  “Yellow,” he says finally.  His voice is low and quiet, and John can hear the shame and embarrassment in it without even having to look at Sherlock’s face.

He doesn’t know why Sherlock does this to himself—why Sherlock pushes himself to his limits.  And why he thinks that John won’t notice.  But John supposes that is the whole reason why Sherlock needs him in the first place.  Because Sherlock does this from time to time, even in their normal relationship.  He needs something, but doesn’t know how to ask for it, doesn’t even know what it is sometimes, so he just keeps pushing this way, experimenting, hypothesizing.  He won’t just come right out and ask John for what he wants, he won’t let John just take care of him the way John wants to, the way Sherlock needs him to.

John should be mad that Sherlock has used him this way, right now, in this particular situation.  Sherlock knows that John hates when he doesn’t let John care for him the way John wants, or makes John do things that hurt him.  And right now Sherlock was letting John hurt him past the point of pleasure, past the point that his body could take.  Sherlock knew this and didn’t safeword or tell John to slow down.

But John also knows that there is a reason for it.  There must be—Sherlock never does anything without a reason.  And from the fading bruise on Sherlock’s face (which must be the explanation for why the teen has spent the last few days avoiding John) the man can guess what exactly that reason is.

This isn’t what Sherlock wants, though.  This is what Sherlock thinks he wants.  But John knows better.

Sherlock doesn’t want rough right now.  Sherlock doesn’t want more pain to mask the pain that is already there.  He doesn’t need that.

He needs softness.  Gentleness.  Love.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John says on a sigh, voice broken.  He lifts the boy up from his bent position delicately and turns him so that they are facing one another, hugging Sherlock to him in a silent apology for misreading all of the signals.  He can’t really blame Sherlock for this mess—he doesn’t know what he needs.  It is John’s job to take care of him, John’s job to know when something is wrong, and John’s job to fix it.  John knows that Sherlock is just scared and hurt and angry, trying to sort through the confusing mess of his emotions in the only way that he knows how.  John just wants to tell him that it’s all okay now, that John has him, that John will always have him and will never let him go.  His arms reach to wrap around Sherlock, to hold the fragile yet resilient boy.  It is a natural instinct for John to feel a surge of protectiveness for Sherlock, to want to comfort him and try to make everything better.  It comes almost as easily as breathing.

Sherlock sinks into his outstretched arms willingly enough, a pliant, gangly little thing that is all arms and legs as John tries to move them into a more comfortable positon.  He tilts his head up to kiss Sherlock softly, but their lips have barely met before the reddened bum touches down on John’s lap and Sherlock inhales a sharp gasp of pain against John’s mouth.  “Hurts,” he whimpers, not pulling away from John, wanting to stay close, connected.

“I know, I’m sorry,” John says, turning his head ever-so-slightly so that he can press a chaste kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, feeling the tense muscle of his clenched jaw.  He peppers Sherlock’s face with little pecks, tasting salty tears, as his hands slip down the youth’s back to glide sympathetically over his sensitive arse cheeks, feeling the heat coming off of the over-worked skin.

He stands slowly, settling Sherlock on his feet.  He drops one last kiss on Sherlock’s lips as he tugs at the boy’s hand and pulls him towards his en suite while he says, “Come here, kitten.  Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Sherlock frowns, confused, but allows himself to be toted along, pants pulled low across the front of his groin, showing off sharp hip bones and the top of his pubic bone while still tucked adorably underneath his plump arse cheeks in the back.  “But, Daddy, what about my nap?” he asks, bringing a hand up to wipe at the tears drying on his face.  “I thought…”

“No, sweetheart,” John tells him with a small shake of his head as they enter the bathroom and the man bends to turn on the taps of the bathtub.  He adjusts the temperature and tests it before putting the stopper in and then turns to rummage in the medicine cabinet as the tub fills.  “You don’t need to nap right now.  You misbehaved and you got punished for it, so it’s even.  Right now Daddy just wants to take care of you and make you feel better.  Tell you that he’s sorry.  Will you let me?” he asks Sherlock, finding what he is looking for and turning back to the boy.

It is a topical analgesic ointment, and Sherlock takes one look at it before he sniffles and nods, looking contrite.  John can’t help himself from pulling the child into a hug and dropping a kiss on top of frizzy curls before he lets Sherlock go and turns his attention to the bath.  It is halfway full now, and John grabs up the bottle of bubble bath that has sat unused under the sink for months now.  Mary won’t notice if any is missing, he is sure.  He pours a liberal amount under the faucet, letting it mix and froth up, creating a mountain of white foam that Sherlock stares at with wide eyes.

When the water has reached the right level (hard to tell underneath all of the bubbles, but John thinks it’s good enough), he shuts off the taps and then turns to face Sherlock, holding out a hand.  “Come on, love.  Take off your pants and let Daddy help you into the bath.  I’ll rub some of the ointment on after you get out and dry off so that it will sting less.”

Sherlock complies silently, reaching out one hand for John and using the other to pull off his pants.  His movements are awkward in his unevenness, but he doesn’t let go of John.  When his underwear are around his feet, he steps out of them unsteadily, dipping one foot into the water cautiously to test out the temperature first, before putting in his other foot when it is found to be satisfactory.

John helps him sink down into the white, frothy bubbles slowly.  Although he didn’t make the bath too hot, he can tell it still smarts when it comes into contact with Sherlock’s sore bum.  He winces apologetically, remembering bath time after spankings of his own when he was younger.  But Sherlock soldiers through the uncomfortable burn and becomes accustomed to it eventually, sinking the rest of the way into the tub until he is completely immersed in the water.

“Do you want Daddy to fold up a towel to put under your bottom, sweetheart?” John asks him as he settles down on the closed lid of the toilet and unbuttons the cuffs on his long sleeves, rolling them up to his elbows so that they don’t get wet.

“No, ‘m okay, Daddy.  Tub feels kinda nice against it.”  Sherlock’s speech is off, always a sign that he is deep in his headspace, either submerged in his role or so relaxed and content that he can’t form sentences correctly.  One way or the other, John is always happy to hear it.

He lets Sherlock relax in the water and then moves to grab a flannel from the airing cupboard before turning back and dipping it into the bath, wetting it.  Bringing it back up and wringing it out, he tells Sherlock, “Close your eyes and turn your face towards me, love—that’s it.”  He uses a corner of the flannel to gently wipe at Sherlock’s cheeks, scrubbing away his dried tears and the tracks they have left behind.  Then he moves it to wash the rest of Sherlock’s face, passing it over his forehead and his chin and scrubbing at his nose.  John loves taking care of Sherlock this way, and he loves it even more when Sherlock lets John take care of him this way.  John knows that Sherlock is perfectly capable of taking care of himself, but it is his choice to allow John to care for him in this manner, to treat him this way, and John knows just how precious a gift that is coming from someone like Sherlock.

As John cleans him up, Sherlock sits quietly still and lets John wipe the flannel over him, making a small noise of contentment in the back of his throat.  He tilts his face towards John, and there is something about Sherlock leaning into John’s attentions that makes a rush of affection wash over the man, threatening to drown him.  John runs the edge of the flannel softly over the faded bruise on Sherlock’s cheek and he suddenly wishes that he could just stay with Sherlock like this forever.  He wishes that he could make him feel good, take care of him, keep him safe.  Do all of the things for him that he knows Sherlock will never do for himself.  He never wants to stop showing Sherlock how precious he is.  How much he is loved.  John wants to shower Sherlock in affection; he wants to drown Sherlock in love; he wants to give Sherlock everything that he has been lacking his whole life, while Sherlock was growing up with nothing and no one to take care of him.  John wants to protect him, love him, care for him, make him happy.  He wants to do all of that for Sherlock, and so much more.  The desire for it swells inside of John, practically choking him, surprising him in its intensity.

As John is sitting there, softly running the flannel over Sherlock’s pale skin, he realises suddenly that there is something in his closet that he has been meaning to give Sherlock, a present that he had picked up for him.  Right now, with Sherlock there with him and being so good for John, he can’t help but want to give it to the boy, because he knows that it will make Sherlock happy.  And he wants so badly for Sherlock to be happy, always. 

“I got you something,” John tells him, whispering in the heavy silence of the bathroom.

Sherlock cracks one eye open at that, looking at John suspiciously.  John understands his trepidation—it’s not every day that Sherlock throws a strop and then gets a gift afterwards.  That’s usually not how it goes at all. 

“You did?” Sherlock asks him after a moment, deducing silently that John isn’t playing some sort of trick on him.

“Mm-hm,” John says, trying to bite back a smile.  His boy is so clever, after all, and it makes him so proud.  “A present, for bath time.  Do you want Daddy to give it to you?”

John knows that Sherlock can never resist presents.  He opens both glass-green eyes to look at John and nods his head enthusiastically.

“All right, but I’ll need to go get it,” John tells him, dropping the flannel to the floor next to the tub and using his empty hand to caress Sherlock’s cheek softly, unable to resist touching his pretty face.  “You have to stay in the tub, Sherlock, do you hear me?  Don’t get out without me, you might slip and hurt yourself.  Understand?”  He knows Sherlock is an adult, not really a child, but Sherlock is tired and his spanking has thrown him deep into his headspace.  He is unequivocally “little” right now and John doesn’t want to risk it.

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock answers him, feet splashing about underneath the bubbles at the end of the tub in excitement.

“Good lad,” John chuckles and stands up, dropping a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s frizzy head before leaving the bathroom and heading for his closet.

He is surprised that Sherlock hadn’t found it when he was rummaging through John’s things earlier.  But no, there it is, still wrapped up tight in its bag from the toy store where John had bought it from a week ago, shoved underneath books and a few clothes he had bought for the brunet.  When Sherlock was looking for Treasure Island, he must have pushed this particular item deeper down into the old box in which they keep Sherlock’s things, otherwise John knows the nosey genius’ curiosity would have gotten the better of him and he would have unwrapped the plastic bag to have a peek inside.

There is a second item wrapped up with it that John certainly didn’t buy at the toy store—well, not that particular toy store, anyways—which he had serendipitously stumbled upon just the other day.  When he found it, he had been giddy as a child himself to discover not just one gift for Sherlock that he knew the boy would love, but two.

He grabs up the entire plastic bag, not taking either item out yet, and carries it back into the bathroom where he finds Sherlock still waiting for him.  He is quietly sitting in the tub and building a tower of bubbles while his feet make little splashing noises at the far end of the tub as he kicks them back and forth lightly.  John’s heart swells at the sight of him.

“Look at you,” he says in a low voice, settling back on the lid of the toilet and beaming down at his little man.  “You’re sitting there for me like I asked, so pretty and patient.  Good boys who wait for their daddies deserve presents for listening so well, don’t you think?”

Sherlock looks up at him with an eager smile, bits of fluffy, airy bubbles in this hair and a dollop of them on one cheek as John pulls the first item out of the bag with a grin.

The toy isn’t overly large, but it is big enough to not be dwarfed by Sherlock’s currently disproportionately-sized hands.  John always has the hardest time finding toys for him that don’t get swallowed up and lost in his grip, but when he came across this, there was no way he could pass it up.

It is a bath toy in the shape of a pirate ship, soft plastic and hollow to ensure that it floats, though it is a little bottom heavy because of the special feature that sold John on it the moment he saw it.  The ship itself is the majority of the toy, a bright brown colour with nicely detailed wood grain.  There were little black windows painted onto each side of the ship and a more elaborate grey window on each side of the bow.  On the deck of the ship, the mast was a bendable yellow rubber pole with matching sails and there was a white flag with the pirate logo.  The tip of the flag was connected to the top of the mast by a plastic rope of thin yellow rubber, and it stretched from the crow’s nest to the stern of the ship.

The best part about the toy, though, was the pull string located toward the bottom of the ship on the stern of the boat which would sent it zooming across the water once it was pulled back and released.

Sherlock reaches out to take it in his hands, eyes wide as he silently studies his new toy in the same exact way he does every single time John gives him a present.  At first John had thought that Sherlock did it because he didn’t like his gifts and was trying to figure out a polite way to decline them.  John is slowly coming to find, though, that it is more a silence borne out of surprise that someone thinks about him enough to buy him seemingly insignificant presents for no reason at all.

The toys and clothes themselves still make John slightly uncomfortable when used like they are now, during their games.  They make everything a bit too real for John.  Sure, he knows filthy things can be spoken, and titles and nicknames can be thrown around for fun.  When props are brought in, though, the scenes suddenly become more real—tangible in ways that can be felt, touched, seen—and John still has trouble adjusting to them.  He enjoys them, definitely, but there is always a distinctly dirty feeling he has afterward which settles in the pit of his stomach when he thinks about what they have just done.

It is something they both need to get used to, he guesses.  One getting gifts and the other giving gifts meant to be used in these games.

John realises that they have been sitting in the loo for quite some time now with only silence around them, so he clears his throat a little awkwardly, licking his lips.  “Do you like it, kitten?” he asks, trying not to sound nervous.  But, really, he doesn’t think it will ever stop being nerve wracking to put himself out there in such an embarrassing way, with the possibility of being rejected always in the forefront of his mind.

To his utter delight, however, Sherlock’s face breaks into a gigantic grin as he continues staring at the rubber pirate ship.  Then a sudden loud, booming laugh splits the air, real and honest.  John doesn’t think he has ever heard Sherlock laugh like that before in all the time that they have been together.

“It’s the best!” he exclaims as he sets the ship in the water in front of him and giggles happily as it stays afloat, cheeks a ruddy pink from his glee and the warmth of the water.  “Where did you find it?”

John smiles fondly down at him as he watches his boy with his new toy.  “Just happened across it at that shop in town.  Same one where I bought Dr. Barium,” he says, referring to the soft toy he had bought for Sherlock previously, the first acquiescence John had made to this fetish of his.  He remembers fondly the day that Sherlock had announced that he had named his bear “Dr. Barium”, proudly holding it up—after it had been thoroughly washed and cleaned—and hugging it tight.  The name had been an awful pun for an element on the periodic table while the title was a loving reminder of his Daddy, melding two joys and comforts in Sherlock’s life into one singular entity.  Watching Sherlock now, John laughs as he pushes the ship straight through his bubble tower, cutting a deep path into the white foam.  Sherlock looks so happy, so carefree in that moment.  His face is pink from the enclosed heat of the bathroom and his hair is a frizzy mess from the moisture in the air.

John takes in the sight of Sherlock sitting in the tub surrounded by bubbles, gripping his bath toy, and he can’t help the indulgent, loving grin that spreads across his face.  “Is this what you needed, then, love?” John asks him suddenly, and he knows that Sherlock knows he isn’t talking about the toy any longer.

John understands why the allure of this game is so strong for Sherlock.  The brunet never really got a childhood, after all; he never got to be a kid, to be taken care of.  Even when Sherlock was a child he was forced to be an adult, and he likes that he can let go with John, quiet his mind and not think about anything at all.  Because he knows John will take care of everything.  It is a heady feeling, to have someone’s trust and love and care so fully in your hands.  But John needs Sherlock to know that it will always be easier, better, if Sherlock just learns to ask for the things he needs on his own, without John having to suss it all out for him.

Sherlock sighs in contentment as he pushes his toy across his bathwater.  “Yes, Daddy,” he admits, not looking John in the eye.

“You know, we could have been doing this all along, instead of me scolding you,” John tells him, and his tone is only the tiniest bit reproving.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything to that, he just keeps sifting his long fingers through the bubbles and pushing his ship along the surface of the water, but he is blushing profusely in embarrassment now and so John just lets him keep his silence.

“Come on, then, let me clean you up.”

He grabs his own bath sponge from the side of the tub and wets Sherlock down before he pours a dollop of his body wash onto it, working the gel into a foamy lather and pressing it into the skin at Sherlock’s neck, planning to start from the top and work his way down.  He spends a little more time than is necessary working the soap into the delicate skin at the juncture of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, because it is John’s favourite place to press his face to.  He loves it most when Sherlock smells like him.  It reminds John of the times they get to spend together, so few and far between, with real life separating them.  When he is satisfied with how clean Sherlock’s neck and shoulders are, John slowly works his way down the length of one arm with the sponge.  He scrubs with delicate, surgical precision at Sherlock’s hands, taking deliberate care with each of his fingers before slowly lowering Sherlock’s arm gently back into the water and starting on the second one, giving it the same treatment.

He can feel Sherlock watching him, silent the whole time, clutching his toy in one hand and then the other as John occupies each one in turn.  When John is done with his arms, he turns his attention to Sherlock’s gangly, giraffe-like legs, bending over the tub to pull one out of the water and lift it up to better scrub it.  Sherlock giggles and helps him out, leaning back and letting bubbles rise up around him.  He rests his back against the end of the tub and places his ship on his chest, setting it to float lazily across his stomach on the shallow water that has risen over his body.  John gives Sherlock’s legs much the same treatment as he gave his arms, although John can’t help the little lingering brushes of fingers that he applies to the soles of Sherlock’s feet.  It makes Sherlock laugh and squirm in the water, wetting John’s sleeves even though they are up around his elbows.  John chuckles as he delicately places the foot he is holding back under the water and turns to look at Sherlock’s face.  He finds Sherlock flushed in a way that John can guarantee has little to do with the heat of the room, breathing deeply.  His pupils dilate as he bites his bottom lip while looking at John.

It is a strange experience, giving someone a bath.  John has never bathed anyone, child or lover, before in his life.  He has showered with Sherlock, of course, and wiped him down with damp flannels to clean him after sex.  Yet the act of actually bathing someone, of cleaning them methodically and caring for them so wholly—of being the provider of such an important, basic human necessity—is staggering in its tenderness and beauty.  As he bathes Sherlock, he finds that there is something intensely intimate and strangely erotic about it.  He is surprised at how startlingly gentle he wants to be with the boy, a parental touch meant to care for and nurture, yet there is nothing innocent in the intent behind it, in the way Sherlock is looking at him now.  But he had told Sherlock that he would bathe him, and a bath is what Sherlock will get, before anything else.

“Your hair now, baby boy,” John whispers, voice cracking under all of the emotion suddenly weighing it down.

Sherlock sits up, water sloshing around noisily, and they move around each other until they find a good position for John to wet Sherlock’s hair, pouring shampoo in his palm and then massaging it into his scalp.  Sherlock practically melts into his hands and John savours every second of it.  He has Sherlock tilt his head back again and rinses the suds out of his hair, careful not to get any in Sherlock’s eyes.  John watches, riveted, as the water runs down Sherlock’s neck and over the smooth planes of his body.

It’s all so very plain, so absolutely mundane, and so achingly arousing.  John can’t help it when his cock starts to respond to the closeness of Sherlock, the little sounds of pleasure he is making as John rubs off the last of the suds.  The heat of Sherlock’s body is so near and John gets lost in the feel of Sherlock’s slick, wet flesh under his hands.  With a flip of his stomach and tingle of his skin he suddenly remembers the other gift in the bag which he brought into the loo from his closet.

“I got you something else, pet,” he says, and if Sherlock notices how rough John’s voice has become, he mentions nothing about it.

“Something else?” Sherlock asks him, turning to him with a frown.  His hair is midnight-black now from the water, plastered back against his skull and straight for once.  He looks slightly different and yet so similar to himself.  John much prefers his curls, but he thinks Sherlock is gorgeous any way he looks.

“Yes.”  John nods hastily, turning around to grab the second item out from the bag he had brought in.  “Look, here.”  He holds it up to Sherlock and they both stare at it for a moment before Sherlock breaks into uncontrollable giggles.  His wet, bubbly hands reach up automatically to take his gift from John as he continues to stare at it in unabashed happiness.

It is a yellow rubber ducky; a generic bath product that has some very un-generic features.

For one, it is dressed as a pirate. 

John hadn’t believed it when he saw it, thinking it was too good to be true.  But no, there it was, sitting in a box on a shelf, a black tricorne on its head with a red bandana painted on underneath.  It had a brown waistcoat covering its body with a full cravat at its neck, with sleeves and lapels trimmed in a lighter brown with adorning golden buttons painted on.  It was even complete with a black eye patch covering one side of its happy little duck-face.

The second uncommon feature of this particular rubber duck pirate centered on the fact that John happened to find this gift at a store that carried a more adult line of toys.

Sherlock, though, seems like he could care less about that second fact.  He has set the duck down in his bath water and is watching as it bobs along above the waves that he makes with his legs, giggling at the sight of it.

John leans over the side of the tub and watches Sherlock play with his toys.  He spends a moment enjoying the look of utter contentment and relaxation on his little boy’s face before he trails his fingers through the water, skimming the top of Sherlock’s thigh and catching the child’s attention.  “Sherlock, that is a very special little ducky,” John says softly, pointing a wet finger to it as it floats along between his parted thighs.  “Do you know why?”

“Because he’s a pirate, Daddy!” Sherlock answers immediately.

John chuckles.  “Yes, well, that makes him special, too.  But he’s mostly special because he has a secret.  Do you want to know what his secret is?”

Sherlock’s eyes are wide as he shakes his head, smile suddenly gone from his face as he takes in the seriousness that has settled between them.

John leans over the tub and grabs up the duck, wrapping his fingers around it, the plastic shiny with water.  “This will be just between you and me, all right, baby?” he asks Sherlock.  “Promise?”

Sherlock nods, licking his lips, eyes never leaving John’s.  “I promise, Daddy.”

John graces him with a smile.  He has such a good little boy.  He holds up the bath toy between them, letting Sherlock’s verdigris gaze settle heavily on it.  “Your ducky is meant to make little boys like you feel good,” John tells him, voice dropped down to a secretive whisper.  “See, watch.”  He presses down on the back of the duck and it quietly hums to life, vibrating in the palm of his hand, water droplets shuddering off of it in a flurry as it quivers.

“Oh,” Sherlock gasps, eyes going wide as he stares at his toy.

John lets it sit in his hand for a few seconds longer before he licks his lips anxiously and then asks, “Do you want to let your ducky make you feel good?”

“Yes, please,” Sherlock answers without a second thought.

“All right, lie back, baby,” John says.  He uses his free hand to help guide Sherlock to lean against the back of the tub.  Sherlock rests his head on the rim of the porcelain and stretches his long body out beneath bubbles that are slowly dissipating, becoming almost transparent in their slow disintegration. 

The toy isn’t really made to offer maximum stimulation to the male body, but the small bullet inside is strong enough to set the whole duck vibrating.  John trails the duck slowly down Sherlock’s wet torso, watching his stomach muscles jump and tense under it as it travels lower and lower.  By the time the toy reaches Sherlock’s groin, his cock is straining up towards it.  John lifts the duck up slightly to set it gently on top of Sherlock’s prick, holding it there while Sherlock gasps as the vibrations shudder through his shaft and down into his balls.  John rubs the duck up and down his length a few times before dipping it lower, passing it delicately over his tender scrotum and under the water, deeper between his legs.

Sherlock gasps and shudders, trying to spread his legs as wide as he can in the narrow tub so that John can have better access to all of him.  John twists the duck in his palm, letting its back cradle Sherlock’s balls.  He presses the tail of it against the smooth skin of Sherlock’s perineum and lets the head of it carefully press into the front of his bollocks, near the bottom of his shaft.  Sherlock moans at the dual sensation and tosses his head back, hair plastered to the ceramic wall of the tub and pupils blown wide.

“Does it feel good, love?” John asks, not taking his eyes off of the sight before him.  Sherlock’s mouth is loose and slack, and John wants so badly to taste it.  “Does your duck make you feel good?”

Sherlock can only whimper and nod his head, fingers clenching at the sides of the porcelain rim to keep from sinking to the bottom of the tub, away from John’s hand and his toy.

“Christ, look at you, you sinful little thing,” John breaths out, licking his lips.  “Daddy has to touch you, sweetheart.  Can Daddy make you feel good like your duck does?”

Sherlock whimpers, biting his lip and thrusting his hips up, water splashing against the sides of the tub and sloshing around noisily.  “Yes, Daddy, please.”

He doesn’t wait any longer.  He shuts the duck off and drops it into the water, then wraps his hand around Sherlock’s engorged and straining cock.  Sherlock releases a tiny little huff of air but John is already there, bent over him in the tub, kissing his mouth and swallowing the sound down.

“Up,” John mumbles pulling away from Sherlock only slightly and helping him stand.  “Come on, I want you in bed.  Right now.”

He helps Sherlock out of the tub and gives him a cursory pat-down with a towel from the rack, running it over his hair haphazardly in a way John knows will only cause tangles later as the curls dry, but he could care less.  He doesn’t even care that Sherlock is still wet; John pulls him out of the bathroom and pushes him down onto the bed as droplets of water fly off of him and the ends of his hair drip onto the duvet.  John is on top of him before Sherlock can say anything about it, though, covering the boy’s mouth with his own and bringing his hand back between them to stroke Sherlock’s cock once again.

Sherlock moans against his mouth and John can’t help the involuntary thrust his hips give at the sound, the erection still trapped behind his trousers digging into Sherlock’s naked thigh.  God, his prick is so hard that it actually hurts.  He lets go of Sherlock’s cock only long enough to divest himself of his clothes, kneeling over the boy’s body on top of the bed as Sherlock tries to help him undress with fumbling, uncoordinated hands.

When John is naked, Sherlock automatically reaches for his cock, drawing a hiss of pleasure out of the blond.  Sherlock pumps him a few times before he looks up at John, face a flushed mess underneath the man, and says, “Please, let me suck you.”

John’s prick twitches in Sherlock’s hands at his words.  He loves it when Sherlock says filthy things in that small voice of his, with that wide-eyed look of wonder on his face.  But still, just because he loves it doesn’t mean that it’s decent, and Sherlock really should learn to watch his mouth.

“Sherlock,” he admonishes, making a tsk-ing sound with the tip of his tongue against his teeth, “little boys shouldn’t say such things.  That’s dirty.”

Sherlock makes a whimpering sound at John’s reprimand and thrusts his hips up into John’s, desperately seeking some sort of friction, some sort of connection.  John sighs at the terribly wanton display.

“What am I going to do with you?” he wonders aloud and Sherlock groans at the teasing words, at the feel of John grinding down into his thigh.

“Daddy,” Sherlock moans, licking his lips and looking at John, pupils so blown that John can’t even see the dark little specks in his eyes that make them so off-putting.

John groans at the image underneath him.  His resolve wavers as he stares at the wet, plump cupid’s bow of Sherlock’s mouth, thinking about the way it feels around his cock, knowing he shouldn’t even bother putting up a fight anymore.  John suspects that Sherlock actually likes this game mostly because of the fact that he can be an incorrigible little brat yet still wind up getting his way in the end, the little tosser.

John can’t be too mad at him, though, he thinks as he scrambles off of Sherlock and moves up his body, aligning them so that Sherlock can take John’s prick into his mouth.  They both wind up happy and sated in the end, so John can’t really complain.

Sherlock is eager with his tongue, sucking John in with frantic pulls as the man straddles his thin chest and bends over him.  He slowly presses his cock farther and farther into the intoxicating heat of Sherlock’s mouth and then pulls away before Sherlock gags, sliding back in before he is even halfway out.  He relishes the way the top of his cock feels against the soft ridges of the roof of Sherlock’s mouth, the feel of Sherlock’s warm tongue on the underside of his shaft pressing upwards.  Sherlock lifts his head off the mattress just as John pushes forward again, taking John’s cock all the way to the back of his throat in one swift movement.  He swallows around it and sucks harder while John curses and jerks above him.

God, it is unfair how well Sherlock can take a cock.  John doesn’t ever stand a chance playing this game when Sherlock wants to suck him.  And if he lets it go on for too long, it is over far too quickly, before John ever has the chance to fuck him.

That just won’t do.

“Come up here, baby,” he says, voice hoarse with arousal as he crawls off of Sherlock and shuffles to sit at the edge of the bed, reaching into his bedside table to fumble with a bottle of lube.  He pops the cap and coats his fingers and palm, rubbing the liquid around and warming it.  “Daddy wants to fuck you.”

He pulls Sherlock into his lap, spreading Sherlock’s feet wide on either side of his hips.  He slips a hand, fingers slick with lube, down under the boy’s arse, dragging his digits along the exposed cleft between Sherlock’s cheeks.  Sherlock squirms at the sensation of the smooth coolness and clutches at John’s shoulders, but otherwise he doesn’t say anything.  He waits patiently as John circles his rim, slipping a finger inside of him and wetting him, quickly stretching his hole enough for a second.

“Daddy,” he finally whispers, breath hot against John’s cheek.  John turns his face to capture Sherlock’s lips, soft and supple against his own.

John presses his fingers in deeper and he can feel Sherlock’s legs tremble on either side of his thighs, arms tightening around his neck as John prods gently at Sherlock’s prostate, massaging it, teasing it.

“Feels good, baby?” he asks against Sherlock’s kiss-reddened mouth.

“Mm-hm,” Sherlock whines with a small nod.

John smiles at his brave little boy, proud of him for taking two of John’s fingers so quickly, with such minimal stretching.  “Another one, kitten.  Because I know you can take it, like a big boy.  All right?”

Sherlock’s mouth drops open to pant heavily but he nods his head, agreeing, and John squeezes a third finger into his hole, lube dribbling out as it is pressed up against the tightness of Sherlock’s body.

“Look at you, so perfect at taking my fingers.  You take everything I give you so well, Sherlock; you’re such a good boy.  My cock in your mouth and my fingers in your arse.  You take my cock in your arse perfectly, too.  All of it.  Amazing.  So beautiful.”

John has found that Sherlock also has an insatiable and rather lascivious praise kink—which suits John just fine because he loves showering Sherlock with compliments.  It seems the two are perfectly suited for each other: Sherlock loves being praised when he shows off, and John loves watching Sherlock show off and telling him so.

Strange, the pair of them.  John firmly believes that no one is better suited to each of them than the other is.

He presses all three fingers in deep, as far as they will go.  The palm of his hand bumps against Sherlock’s arse cheeks and the boy takes in a sharp breath and winces, throwing his head back while John whispers into his neck, “Daddy loves you so much.”

Sherlock’s gasp of pain turns into a whimper of pleasure as he drops his head back down and searches John’s lips out for a kiss.  John takes Sherlock’s mouth and slips his fingers out of Sherlock’s hole, using his wet palm and the lingering lube on his fingers to slick his own cock as he grabs himself and aligns his body with Sherlock’s.  He pushes in slowly, Sherlock’s mouth opening under his so that John can slip his tongue inside him there as well.  John can feel Sherlock’s thin body shivering from the overload of sensation as he crouches in John’s lap while the man keeps up a steady pressure as he pushes into Sherlock.  When John finally bottoms out and pulls Sherlock fully down into his lap in a firm, hard motion, he is surprised by Sherlock’s head jerking away from his kiss, a grimace on his face.

“Ah!” Sherlock cries out, biting his lip, and instead of a sound of pleasure it is one of pain.  John pauses for a moment, confused, before he remembers Sherlock’s sore, reddened bum.

Oh, well, John thinks with an evil smirk, maybe it will help remind him that he should learn how to ask for what he needs from me, instead of throwing a strop. 

“Does it hurt, baby?” John asks as he grabs a handful of Sherlock’s arse and squeezes it lightly.

Sherlock winces and nods his head.

“It was naughty of you to throw a tantrum and get Daddy to spank you like you did,” John informs him placidly as he pulls out of Sherlock, away from his stinging bum, and then pushes his hips steadily upwards again, thrusting for the first time. 

Sherlock grits his teeth as their skin connects with a powerful slap but doesn’t say anything. 

“You know Daddy is more than happy to give you what you want, kitten.  You just have to learn how to ask for it.”  John wants to take care of Sherlock completely.  He would do anything for his lover, anything Sherlock asked of him or needed from him—that much should be clear by now.  He just doesn’t understand why Sherlock insists on still holding back from him.

John fucks into him again, harder this time, the sound of his thighs meeting Sherlock’s arse cheeks reverberating loudly off of the walls of the bedroom.  Sherlock whimpers as John pounds into him, clutching at John’s shoulders.  His fingernails bite into the man’s skin and his lips are a thin white line as he presses them together.  “Daddy’s sorry that it hurts, baby, but you deserve it,” John tells him, panting as he thrusts harshly, pulling on Sherlock’s hips to help bring the boy down onto him with extra force.  “Do you know why?”

Sherlock bites his bottom lip and shakes his head.

“Because you were a naughty boy, Sherlock,” John says, voice hoarse with arousal.

Sherlock whimpers.  He doesn’t like being a naughty boy.  John doesn’t really mind it sometimes.

“Say it,” John tells him.  “Tell me what you were.  Daddy wants to hear you say it.”

Sherlock winces and bites harder on his bottom lip, fighting against the urge to admit that he was bad but not wanting to disobey his Daddy again.  “I was—” he begins, but lets out a strangled little sob as John thrusts harshly into him.  “I was a naughty boy, Daddy.  I’m sorry.”  John pulls another sob from him as he surges up into Sherlock.

John’s hands come up to caress Sherlock’s back, running down to his soft, sore bum.  “Shh, it’s all right, baby,” he whispers, reaching up to give Sherlock a sweet little kiss on the mouth.  “Daddy forgives you.”  Sherlock is being such a good boy now, as opposed to earlier this afternoon, when he was throwing a fit.  So good, in fact, that John thinks he might even let him come.

“Daddy,” Sherlock whines, his voice broken and breathless as he sags into John’s body, letting the man hold him, use him, fuck him however he wishes.  John can feel Sherlock’s cock pressed tight between their bellies, sliding slickly through the smeared precome that Sherlock has leaked all over them, the feel of it no doubt wonderful on Sherlock’s stiff prick.  God, he always gets so wet, it drives John crazy to feel it, see it, to know that he is the cause of it.  John presses his hips up faster, harder into Sherlock’s arse, squeezing the brunet tighter to his body, giving them both more. 

Sherlock moans into his neck, a shattered noise that sounds like, “Oh, God.”

“You love this, don’t you?” John asks him, and he can’t help the note of wonder in his own voice as he clings desperately to his boy, his thrusts never wavering.  “You love being fucked like this, having me talk to you like this?  You love being the absolute focus of my attention.”  John knows that is why Sherlock loves this little game that they play, why he is always so desperate for it.  He needs it as much as John does.  “Does it make you feel good?  Does it make you feel special?” John asks him, fucking into him, his mouth smearing the words across Sherlock’s lips.  Sherlock whimpers at John’s words and John knows, he knows, that he’s figured out why Sherlock loves this as much as John does.  “We don’t have to play this game for you to feel special, baby.  I’ll give you whatever you need, whenever you need it,” he promises, because John doesn’t ever want Sherlock to feel like this is the only way that he can be taken care of, that Sherlock can get what he needs.  “Always.  All you have to do is ask me.”

“This, John,” Sherlock cries out as he clings to him, voice deep once more and broken, cracking around the edges.  “I want this.”

“All right, baby boy,” John says, the words catching in this throat as he strokes Sherlock’s back.  “If this is what you want, then I’ll give it to you.”  Because John will always give Sherlock whatever he asks for.  Without hesitation.

“Yes, please,” Sherlock pleads.  “Oh, please.  Daddy…”  And he is back to being “Daddy”, back to their game.  Which John doesn’t really mind.  Sherlock always comes so very hard for his Daddy.  John loves it.

John emits a sound in the back of his throat that sounds suspiciously like a growl and lifts Sherlock off of him, twisting them around and dropping Sherlock down to the bed.  Before Sherlock has any time to protest the loss of contact, John is changing their positions.  He spreads Sherlock’s thighs wide with rough hands and holds them open as he situates himself between them, then slides back inside the boy, meeting no resistance.  Sherlock draws in a sharp breath at the different angle, his cock twitching as it lies on his stomach, red and engorged and dripping precome onto his already slick skin.

“Touch yourself, Sherlock,” he says, pushing into the wet heat of the body under him, lifting Sherlock’s legs and hooking them over his shoulders, pushing himself in deeper.  “I want to see you come, baby.  I want to see you make a mess all over yourself.”

Sherlock moans and does as his Daddy says, bringing a hand up to grab his cock.  He doesn’t stroke himself, just holds his shaft, his hand moving jerkily on it as John pounds into him roughly, but John knows it’s not enough to bring him off.

“More, baby, God, please,” John pants out, mindless.  He doesn’t even know exactly what he is saying, he just knows that he wants to see Sherlock stroke himself.

“Feels too g-good, Daddy,” Sherlock bites out, squeezing his eyes shut as John thrusts into him particularly deep.  “Gonna…gonna…”

“Yes.  Yes, baby, that’s all right.  That’s perfect.  So good.  So good for Daddy, come on, so beautiful, love you so much.”

“D-Da…Daddy!”

Sherlock comes with a broken gasp and a thrash of his body, clenching down around John’s cock and pulling the man’s orgasm from him as well.  Hands come up to dig into John’s shoulders, fingernails biting harshly into skin while John’s climax burns through his body.  It sets his nerve-endings on fire, making his extremities tingle and his breath catch in his lungs.  He can feel himself emptying into Sherlock’s arse, each twitch of his cock inside that tight heat so unbelievably good that it makes a little shudder of pleasure run through him.  Even though he likes to pull out afterwards and look at the mess he has made of his little boy, he can’t seem to break the connection that he has to Sherlock yet.

Instead, John stays kneeling over Sherlock for a long moment while his head stops spinning, feeling his cock softening slowly.  When he finally feels like his arms won’t hold him up any longer, he drops down onto the bed beside Sherlock, feeling the cool air hit his sweat-soaked skin as he falls away from Sherlock’s intense body heat.

He lies there for a moment, trying to catch his breath as he lets his thoughts swirl about his head.  In the aftermath, he has a habit of feeling slightly guilty and dirty over what they have done.  He knows he shouldn’t, but he just can’t help it.  He always tries to reconcile the dignified, brilliant boy who lives outside these walls with the one who lets John do all of these filthy, naughty things to him.  The one who can take John’s cock up his arse, and call him “Daddy”, and still rattle off lightning fast deductions, and read people’s lives from their clothes, and be amazing and brilliant.  But, try as he might, he finds that he just can’t.  They are two wholly different people—the Sherlock who faces the world outside and the Sherlock who is curled up on his bed next to him, sweaty and sated.

John looks over at the incorrigible teen, who frustrates and confuses and completes him.  Sherlock’s hair is a tangled, frizzy mess from not being dried and combed properly, his face is flushed blotchy with what looks suspiciously like embarrassment, and as John looks down the length of Sherlock’s body he can see semen streaking the skin of his stomach.  The side of Sherlock’s thigh and bum that is visible to John is still bright red from his earlier spanking.  He looks like a complete and utter mess.

John thinks he’s never looked lovelier.

“You, Sherlock Holmes, can be quite the brat,” John says with a giggle, turning onto his back and looking up at the ceiling above him, voice still breathless from exertion.  “Did you know that?”

There is a long moment where Sherlock doesn’t answer him, doesn’t say anything at all.  John turns back to look at the teen, finding him lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling as well, a look of utter contentment on his face.  “Thank you, John,” he whispers to the ceiling softly.  “This is exactly what I needed.”

“Yeah, I know,” John replies quietly.  “Now lie with me here for a minute, will you?” he asks, moving up the bed to rest his head on his pillow, taking Sherlock in his arms.  He comes to John willingly.  “You know it’s hard for me to hurt you and watch you cry like you did earlier, knowing it’s because of me.  Even when you want it.”

John knows that Sherlock needs this just as much as he does.  Sherlock needs the opposite aspects of it, the part that John can provide.  The discipline, which lets Sherlock know that someone cares enough about him and what he does to himself to correct his self-destructive behaviour; the attention that he never got from anyone, family or otherwise; the comfort of a loving hand which he has never felt; the nurturing, the guidance, the coddling, the care, the playfulness.  Everything that he never had as a child.  Everything that he can get from John, everything that John is more than willing to give him. 

It amazes John that the two of them, each with their own set of kinks and fetishes, have found each other and come together this way, their sexual desires complimenting each other behind closed doors much the same way their personalities complement each other out in the real world, beyond the walls of this bedroom.

Things aren’t perfect, he knows.  They are still learning each other in this new game they have introduced into their relationship, testing boundaries and pushing limits.  It is hard, especially when Sherlock doesn’t know how to communicate fully and John doesn’t know how to ask the right questions.  Sometimes it feels like they each only have half of the answer to a riddle and they are trying to put the pieces together to figure out what the question was in the first place.

He knows that there will be bumps.  There will be times where things don’t go quite right, where they aren’t on the same page.  But Sherlock never really seems to mind.  It is all like one big experiment to him, and he takes it all in stride.  Ever the scientist, ever the childlike adventurer.  John loves that about him, much as he worries what it will mean to these games that they have decided to play.

John has made the decision to take care of Sherlock, however, to protect him and teach him.  To help him learn and help him grow.  As much as Sherlock was the one who pushed John into indulging this kink in the beginning, it is John who has agreed to pursue it, agreed to continue it, agreed to finally integrate it into their lives.  He has taken on the responsibility of caring for Sherlock as his little boy, and John knows that this isn’t just for fun any longer—this is something that has become integral to their relationship, their lives.

As he lies there and thinks, he feels Sherlock wiggle in his embrace, wrapping legs and arms around his body like a gangly teenage octopus and cuddling deeper into John’s side.  John tilts his head to see him drifting off to sleep, and presses a warm kiss to Sherlock’s forehead, preparing to doze off himself.

Just before John drifts off, he hears a sleepy, “Love you, Daddy,” mumbled into his neck.

John has never felt more complete in his life.