Sherlock's fantasy for total submission had been an intense discovery.

It had come to Sherlock first when John, former army doctor, had pulled rank during their case at Baskerville. At the moment in question, Sherlock had felt himself grow mildly hard. He had shaken it off with a deep breath and filed the indiscretion away into a dark corner of his mind, feeling irritated by the momentary distraction.

The desire never left him. It itched at the back of his mind like a bug under his skin, like the craving he used to get before he'd honed his detective skills, the cravings for something to ease his mind, like cocaine. It was weeks of this; weeks of glancing up to see John's eyes on him and immediately feeling the urge to be taken suddenly and roughly.

Maybe three weeks after his initial fantasy, his mind began to escalate. He had a most peculiar dream one night. It had been the first good night's sleep he'd gotten in over a week, and he was crawling deep in his unconscious when he finally passed out, fully clothed, upon his bed. In Sherlock's mind, John was standing over him. Sherlock lay asleep in his bed, apparently more unconscious than a normal person should be, and John began to touch him. He moaned in his sleep. He begged for more. John began to hit him, over and over again. Sherlock's face split in two and he had a fierce orgasm as his own body tore into pieces.

Sherlock awoke from that dream in a violent sweat, and with a maddening erection, which he ignored.

For weeks after that, he found his mind wandering. Mid case he'd imagine John's strong arm tight on his throat, or gripping a belt against his skin. He noticed himself pushing his friend's buttons, trying to get him to take charge again, or to look at him the way dream-John looked at him. It never seemed to work. John was too passive, too quick to bite his tongue at Sherlock's daring quips and glares.

Professionally, Sherlock was as extroverted and dominant as could be, and never listened to John, so that made sense. At home, however, when there was no case to be had, sometimes all he wanted was to have John yell at him, hurt him, and possess him in any way possible. He didn't just want it- he started craving it.

Another dream took him, some weeks later. John had him tied up with his legs spread wide, whipping him mercilessly for hours before fucking him into impossible thoughtlessness. He went mad as he lay there, screaming and sobbing and morphing into some kind of weird animal—some weird, happy, placated animal.

Sherlock had lived nearly his whole life without a physical desire like this, and suddenly he could not repress the need.

A morning came when he found his thoughts drifting towards that fantasy again, while they were out at a crime scene. He was kneeling over a bloodied corpse, and suddenly it hit him. He actually forgot what he was doing for a moment. He cursed, furious with himself for experiencing this level of distraction. He had been in the process of explaining an obvious deduction to his simpler-minded friends when he had glanced at John. A terrible idea, he realized. The doctor's eyes were alight with admiration, and a surprising flame erupted in the pit of Sherlock's stomach. A flash from his dreams came to him suddenly—John's sweat-drenched chest, pulling his arm back to deal another blow to Sherlock's desperate skin.

Sherlock swallowed, having completely lost his train of thought. The fantasy image was sticking. Not good. Very not good. John stared at him concernedly. "Sherlock?"

"Er..." He cleared his throat, and with a fantastic rush and a sigh of relief, it all came back to him. Thank goodness. "Yes. Right." He switched back into deduction mode, and let the explanations fall quickly as he repressed his threatening erection.

That evening, when the case was solved and the two men had nothing to work on, Sherlock's mind wandered back to his cravings. John was seated in his armchair, and Sherlock was standing by the desk, tapping his fingers on its surface thoughtfully. John looked stunning. Masterful. His arms were thick with muscle never lost from Afghanistan, and his chest was hard. His legs were strong. He looked a real captain, Sherlock thought, even just sitting there, drinking tea with his brow furrowed.

Then, with a breath of hesitation, Sherlock spoke.

"John," he said in a low warning voice.

"Mm?" John sipped his tea quietly. So unsuspecting.

"I have this fantasy, John."

"Er… okay." John went pink. Sherlock wondered if he thought it was about him. He must. Why else would he be blushing so fiercely Was this a good reaction? One of fear and dread? He could not tell. There was only one way to know.

"It is a fantasy that you will control me, John."

The doctor coughed and sputtered, setting his teacup down with trembling fingers that fumbled as though unsure of what to do with themselves. "Er... what?" Excuse me?" He wiped his chin free of spilt tea.

Sherlock approached John's armchair, looking ominous as he hovered over the crimson man. "You heard me perfectly, John." He smoothed out his shirt, and placed his hands on his hips, trying to appear serious. He witnessed John's pupils dilate a little, and heard his breath hitch. Those were good signs, at least. "Since Baskerville I cannot stop re-envisioning the way you pulled rank on the men there, taking charge like that." At the very thought, Sherlock's mouth began to water. "You are quite captivating that way. I started imagining what you could do as a superior officer. Then I started imagining you as… my superior officer. I imagined myself calling you 'Sir,' and I found myself... surprisingly excited by that."

John stood suddenly, a little clumsily as though he didn't know what to do with his limbs. He seemed a little dazed. "Er... I didn't... I had no idea." He swallowed. "I didn't even know that you had... feelings... like that. For me, or... even... at all!"

"Neither did I," Sherlock admitted with a slight shift in his stance. "Since these feelings have come up, however, I have decided not to chaff them. There is little point to being dishonest or secretive, after all. It only distracts from the outcome and the work, which it has already begun to do. I thought it best that I put this desire out in the open so I might return to my normal state of affairs without the constant nagging fantasies."

The doctor's face was turning magnificent hues. He was bordering on violet. "Oh," he said lamely. "Sherlock, this is..."

"Unexpected," Sherlock offered.

"Well, yeah."


John looked uncomfortable. "Not... necessarily." Sherlock straightened his posture a little, giving his shorter friend an insufferably contemplative glare, attempting to deduce what he could from him.

"Tell me," said Sherlock, slipping as close to his friend as possible. He wanted to push him to the edge, to test his limits and see what would make him tick. This, already, was making John's heart rate increase. Sherlock could infer it simply from this closeness. His pupils were blown wide, and the sight made Sherlock smirk. "In what way is this not unwanted? I want to know, John. I want to know everything." He made his voice as low and husky as could be.

His friend opened his mouth, but nothing came out. A very good sign. He cleared his throat, and then tried again. "I... god, Sherlock, I... I've always thought you... y'know..." He swallowed. "I… I mean, I've had thoughts of… I do have a thing for domination, but it's never… I mean, I've never… I've only read, and seen, but I… but for you… Jesus, I never would have thought…"

Sherlock's eyes flitted to John's mouth as he spoke, the longing in his gut building faster with every word. "Tell me. Please," he growled, leaning intimidating close to his friend with the hope that John would claim him. "Tell me what you want from me."

John didn't seem to have a verbal response. An inhuman sound escaped his throat, and he moved forward, catching Sherlock's mouth hungrily in his own for their first kiss.

The detective melted.

He knew, then; he knew what his body was really meant for. He felt his power leave him at this simple gesture. His mind went blank, and that was when he realized he was simply made to serve this man, to be used and owned by John completely. He accepted the doctor's tongue openly. His entire stance was emanating submission, and he hoped that John would catch on. Indeed, John took his face in his hands, and pressed him close, his fingers telling plainly that he wanted the control as much as Sherlock wanted him to have it. Through that touch, Sherlock could feel John's elevated pulse, and that excited him. John's tongue had dominance in Sherlock's willing mouth. The detective's body was reacting to all this-reacting in new and exciting ways.

"What would you do for me?" John asked in a low whisper into Sherlock's parted lips.

"Anything," Sherlock croaked. "You may hurt me. Own me. I'll be yours." His eyes gleamed.

John gulped. "You want me to hurt you?"

"Pain would always be most appreciated; yes."

John's breathing was heavier than ever.

"You are serious," John said quietly, all things seeming to click in his mind at last. "You really want me... to hurt you."

Sherlock nodded once. "I do. I imagine you'd be good at it. I have thought about suffering pain since the case of The Woman, you see. Then, at Baskerville, you outdid yourself by pulling dominant rank. The two incidents seemed to mesh in my mind, and I have barely been unable to shake the thought of enjoying pain at your hand."

He narrowed his eyes, holding his ground on the subject. His voice dropped to its deepest and most desperate baritone. "I wish to be hurt by you, John. I wish to become yours. Please. Hurt me. You'll find I have a remarkably high pain threshold." His gaze was begging silently.

Sweet, hesitant John let his fingers slide into Sherlock's hair, took a fistful of the curls into his palm, and tugged gently. Sherlock closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply.

"Oh, much harder than that, John," he said gently, and the tremor of his voice held the perfect balance of submission and insistence. The man knew how to get what he wanted.

John's grip tightened, and he then pulled hard so Sherlock's head was forced back. His throat was completely exposed, vulnerable and wanting. He could feel John's hot breath on the soft spot beneath his chin, and it was sending shivers down his spine. The twinge on his scalp felt wonderful. He wanted more. He emitted a small murmur of approval to encourage John to continue, and his doctor understood.

John's tongue was hot and wet on his neck. He licked the length of it from collar to chin, and Sherlock clung to John's sleeves with a gasp as excitement flooded him. "So," John sighed against his skin. "So... you want to submit to me." It was a statement, and there was enough lust in the tone that Sherlock could tell John was not at all averse to this idea. Sherlock swallowed, and nodded almost imperceptibly. "You want me to... own your body, do you?" He pressed his lips to the nape of Sherlock's neck, and the detective's breath caught.

A rush of warm need flooded him, pooling in his lower belly. "John, I will be yours," he blurted out before he could stop himself. His fantasies were crowding his brain, and he didn't quite care about taking this slowly anymore. He dropped to his knees with a shocking thud that reverberated in the sitting room.

"Shit," John swore, looking mortified. "Sherlock, not here."

But Sherlock's hands were fumbling with his friend's belt already. John's trousers were tight over his cock, which was aching, begging release towards Sherlock's face. "Please," he breathed.

John suddenly took him by the hair, and tore him away from his crotch. Sherlock stumbled backwards to the floor, looking up at his sweet army doctor with curious eyes, deducing his next actions. John would go for the shirt collar next. And he did. John bent to take Sherlock's shirt collar in his fist, and tugged him upward so their faces were close. "I said, 'not here,' Sherlock. Don't you listen?" His tone was dangerous, and Sherlock loved it. He grinned mischievously up at him, watching his friend carefully, waiting for the next move. With his free hand, John began to slide his undone belt from its loops, and clutched it threateningly in his hand. His breath had grown heavily into a state of panting. Sherlock licked his lips at the sight.

"Yes, Sir," Sherlock said a little weakly.

John growled. "Ooh, I like that," he muttered. "God, Sherlock, this is so..."

"Perfect," Sherlock hissed.

"Yes. Surprisingly natural." John's hand tightened at the already-tight collar at Sherlock's throat so that his breathing was slightly restricted. He watched Sherlock's cheeks turn pink and his breathing pick up as he struggled a bit for his air. At the same time, the corners of Sherlock's lips curled up in a satisfied grin. John's groin felt an eager pulse at this.

Sherlock placed a large, spidery hand on John's.

"You always said breathing was boring, didn't you?" John squinted. Sherlock arched with longing, nodding but not saying a word. The submissive detective's eyes were gleaming. "I may want to play with that some time, then, if you'll let me. Go to your bedroom."

Sherlock made to stand up, but John kept him down with a forceful hand. "No," he said, and Sherlock stared at him with wide eyes. This he had not expected, but he certainly was loving it. John's dominance-that was what he wanted. But what was he playing at? He let go of Sherlock's shirt collar so the kneeling man breathed deep again. John put up his hand in a gesture that told him quite plainly Stay. Like a dog. That thought made Sherlock's stomach churn with arousal. "Crawl," he ordered. Sherlock smirked to himself. He could tell John was pushing his buttons now, testing the waters just a little. He was curious as to how much power he could exercise, and how much Sherlock could take. But Sherlock needed more than this. He needed to shut his brain off. Only the work and the occasional cocaine had ever been enough, but kissing John and feeling powerless at John's hand were certainly doing wonders for the time being.

He knelt in an affirming gesture of submission, and fell to all fours. His obedience was warm and tangible. John looked incredulous, and extremely pleased. Sherlock knew this was working. John enjoyed taking control, and Sherlock was glad. He crawled forward, his cheeks burning with humiliation. This felt stupid, but the fact that John wanted him to do it made him feel obligated. He loved this subservience. It kept him hard. It kept his overactive mind at bay. The floor was cold under his palms. Sherlock, with his impossible-to-turn-off senses, could read everything of their lives from the state of the floorboards.

"Move," John nudged, and Sherlock felt a sharp tap on his rear to encourage him. Oh, this was brilliant. Sherlock needed more.

And John certain gave him more. Sherlock became his plaything. Once they'd reached the bedroom, John took him by the back of his shirt, and dragged him more forcefully than Sherlock could keep up with. His knees skidded on the floorboards a little on his way to the bed before John drudged him upward and bent him face-first over the edge of the mattress. John knelt behind him so Sherlock could feel his warmth and his desperate hardness against his backside. "Sherlock," he said quietly, slinking a soft hand around his friend's throat as he whispered into his ear over his shoulder. "I don't really know what you're okay with."


John groaned, and his hot breath on Sherlock's cheek made his chest tighten excitedly. "I've always wanted... I mean... God, Sherlock, I had no idea, and this is just so..."

"I know," Sherlock cooed. "I really will be yours though, John. Anything you want to do to me. Anything. If it really is too much, you will know. I will make it clear."


Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "John. I will never want you to stop. I would like to be yours, always. I would like you to have me under your power and give me no say in what happens to me. If it really comes down to it, however, you may rest assured on our usual lookout signal."

The erection nagging into Sherlock's buttocks was pulsating against him. Sherlock leaned into it, trying to please John. When John let out a gasp, Sherlock tried to turn to face him, but John pinned him down. "Don't fucking move," he hissed suddenly, and the detective's insides gave a nasty throb. How wonderful.

"Yes, sir," growled Sherlock obediently, his tone a little teasing. For that, he received one sharp slap on the rear. He lurched. The sting, while quite insignificant, sent a jolt of pleasure through him nonetheless.

"Don't talk to me like that. Mean it."

Sherlock had to take a deep breath to recover from the arousal that had struck him. "Yes, Sir."

John's hands began to roam the great expanse of Sherlock's back, sliding slowly over the curve of his buttocks so that the submissive man shivered from the delicacy of it. "Sherlock, hearing you say 'yes, Sir' is one of the most beautiful things in the world." He was massaging the muscles of his backside, so Sherlock squirmed under his touch. It was soft, and that bored him, but he held still for John. "So, tell me... this fantasy... it came to you...when?"

"At Baskerville," Sherlock said in a strained voice. "When you pulled rank- Sir."

"What was it I said, exactly?"

Sherlock hissed through his teeth, blinking fast as John's hand moved between his legs to cup him through the fabric of his trousers. "I, er... I believe you said 'That's an order.' Yes. That was it."

"And that's what you'd like me to do, is it?" John's tongue found the back of Sherlock's neck. He shuddered under its wet heat. "You'd like me to order you around? To make you hurt and tell you it's your duty to oblige me?"

Sherlock actually moaned lowly as his friend's grip tightened on his cock. "Ooh, yes, Sir," he sighed, letting the last word roll off his tongue in an elongated purr. John suddenly let go of him, and Sherlock felt himself ache without that touch. Then, with no warning, his trousers were coming down, pooling around his knees.

Something leather slid over the bare skin of Sherlock's arse, then. He shivered. John's belt. Of course.

He buried his face into the duvet, waiting. He knew John was going to exert his power over him with a blow, and he was ready for it.

When it came, the sting of the leather strap sent a deep pulse through him that seemed to totally eradicate all thought from his head for the first time in his life. He let out a deep sound from the pit of his gut. It was a sound he could not name, but it was something deep and visceral and beautiful, and it reverberated through the room loudly, mingling with the echoing snap of the belt as it whacked him.

John's breath hitched. Sherlock knew that he was admiring the pink that had surely bloomed on his marble-white skin. Indeed, a second later, he felt John's fingertips brush the sore spot lightly. It tickled a little, but Sherlock remained still. "Again?" he requested. "Please," he added and then, as he sensed the tension from John without even looking at him, "Sir."

The sting befell him again. There was another pause before the third whack came down. Three more times John slapped him hard with the leather belt before Sherlock heard the buckle hit the floor with a clunk.

"Did that please you, Sherlock?"

He nodded vigorously into the bunched duvet, just noticing that his knuckles had gone paper-white with the pressure they exerted from clenching his hands into fists. The pain was pulsing in his whole body, and his mind was blissfully blank. He wanted to experience this ecstasy forever. He wanted to remain thoughtless, and keep the pain coming. He wanted to beg for John to give him more, to never stop, but he didn't. He just waited.

"You like the pain. I've whipped one girl in the past, but it was never so hard. God, this is… I love the way you love it. Do you want me to continue?"

"Yes, please, Sir," Sherlock croaked.

John swallowed audibly. "Tell me, Sherlock."

"I would very much like to be hit more, John. Sir."

The army doctor reached his hands around Sherlock's torso as though to hug him, but in fact he was just pulling him upright so that they kneeled together with John's erection-still pinned down by his trousers-cradled in the line of Sherlock's reddened arse. He began to undo the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. The brilliant sleuth found himself quite immobilized with lust. It was swelling in his brain like a tumor, and he found it suddenly hard to control his limbs. They hung limply at his sides, and his head felt heavy. He leaned his head back so that his curls enveloped John's face. The shorter man did not seem to mind. In fact, Sherlock heard him breathe deeply in this position as though he was inhaling the smell of his hair. It made Sherlock's heart expand a little.

When his shirt fell away, John pushed him back down so his naked chest enjoyed the softness of his plush bed. His back was exposed, and John thought it was perfect. Vulnerable. Gorgeous. All his.

From where Sherlock lay, ready and aching, he knew John was processing these things. They had certainly rushed this, though he thought it was hardly a bad thing. He had wanted this, and so had John. He could never have known John would agree so quickly, or with such happy fervor. But he was glad that he did. Very glad.

This first night that they explored their new discovery, they did not have sex. It felt unnecessary. They merely explored one another. Mostly, John was testing Sherlock's pain limits and ordering him to talk him through it, in detail, so John would know exactly what brought Sherlock the deepest joys. John licked the length of Sherlock's spine, causing the detective to arch and shudder, but he went no further. He would not let Sherlock serve his cock yet, because (in John's words) he wanted to "save that for a time when they had gotten their roles down." Sherlock would not really understand what he meant by that until weeks later, but for now, he just wanted to feel what John could do to him, to lose himself in the repetitive blows to his back, buttocks, and thighs.

John hit him, repeatedly, until Sherlock was shaking; until his muscles were forced into compliance and his hair stuck to his face with sweat. Silent tears had gathered in his bright eyes, and a few had actually fallen. The man's flesh had turned violently pink and shiny. Skin was threatening to break open in a number of places, and he was nearly purple there. He was so close to bleeding. There was a thin sheet of sweat coating John's body, as well. He shook his head at the beaten man before him. "You look beautiful this way, Sherlock," he told his submissive detective. His fingertips delighted over the welted areas so Sherlock flinched and stretched out his long limbs like a cat waking up. "God, Sherlock," he sighed huskily. "I could lick you all over."

"Anything, Sir," Sherlock breathed. He said it without even thinking. His usually flawless brain did not seem able to catch up with his mouth. All his feeling resided in the pain of his skin and the pleasure in his lower belly. it was all he could think about. He didn't even remember the cause of death of the victim from his last case. He was so blissfully unaware. All was well.

"That's what I like to hear," John hummed, pressing his fingernails into the raised flesh of one particularly nasty looking welt so that his Sherlock cried out with a roar of pain. "Ah, that as well," said John. He sounded so pleased, and that pleased Sherlock more than anything.

"Here," he said suddenly, and Sherlock heard an unfamiliar chinking sound. Sherlock's brain whirred: A small chain; the quiet sound of it passing over John's hair. His dog tags, Sherlock concluded. Clutching the ornament in a tight fist, John took Sherlock by the hands, and helped him up. He turned him around so they were facing each other again. Standing, Sherlock found, caused the pain on his buttocks to enflame. He winced. "Here," John said again quietly. Sherlock's eyes were piercing his. Lust was heavy on both their eyelids. The little chain slipped over Sherlock's head. The metal of the tags was cold on Sherlock's hot chest. He licked his lips, watching John cautiously. John opened his mouth once or twice as though he was going to explain his action, but he seemed to decide better of it. Sherlock did not press.

He liked wearing the dog tags. The tiny metal pendants were a part of John, and he wore it close to his heart. It made him feel wanted. It made him feel kept, and that thought sent a thrill through him like nothing else in the world.

The rest of the evening was spent in quiet repose. Occasionally Sherlock knelt at John's feet- as he made more tea, as he made dinner. He was begging with that gesture for another go, another round of euphoric agony. His body throbbed through the night from the pain, and he loved it. He reveled in it.

Sherlock crawled into bed with John that night. He curled into John's chest. His raw, whipped skin burned from the contact, but he didn't care. By focusing on the pain and the warmth of John's arms and the coolness of the dog tags on his chest, Sherlock was able to quiet his mind and actually sleep deeply and dreamlessly and for hours- for the first time in his memory.

Just before drifting off, Sherlock wondered vaguely what this relationship would become; how dominant John would prove to be, and how intense the relationship might get. For now, though, Sherlock was quite at peace- totally spent with blissfully mind-numbing pain, and happy to be relaxed in his doctor's inviting embrace.

Recently edited this chapter so that I would approve of it more. I mean, heck, the old version was written during a CLASS. I hope it doesn't upset any re-reading that I know you guys like to do.