Sherlock's mind was ablaze as he watched as certain Dr. John Watson settle down onto the sofa. Sherlock had apparently been recommended to the doctor by a number of friends, after complaining that the men he dominated provided him with little to no challenge. Mr Holmes was notorious in the area as a born submissive, whom nobody had ever been able to control. So, on a crisp Thursday afternoon, John had made his way to 221B Baker Street, to see just what all the fuss was about.

Sherlock could tell that he was being scrutinized, that his every feature was being meticulously examined by the man in front of him. There was a stillness in the room that brought a chill to Sherlock's naked body as he knelt there, waiting. A tiny part of his all-too active brain was pleading, begging, 'Don't antagonise him, don't think about anything, stop thinking", while the rest of it continued to chatter endlessly, obsessively processing information at an unthinkable rate. Sherlock felt heat rush to his face as he remembered how many times he'd watched men slam the door in his face, tired of his inability to switch off, to sit still. So many times he's been unable to control himself, unable to be the dull little subs they desire. It makes his chest ache with overwhelming frustration; he can't seem to find someone who can actually dominate him, who can make that powerful mind stop in its tracks.

Perhaps this one will be different. As he looks at the man sitting there, it's all he can do not to roll his eyes. He's about a head shorter than the men Sherlock is accustomed to, and his eyes are gentle, his attire casual. Sherlock fidgeted continuously as his impatience grew. He wanted to get up, he needed to DO something, be somewhere, anywhere. He was sick of kneeling in front of this idiot, he just wanted to put some clothes on and get to the lab, he was SURE that there was a correlation between the Cuban cigars found in the man's pocket and the depth of the brand mark on the body's arm, if he could only just...

"Stop." The command made Sherlock's eyes snap back to the doctor, who had fixed him with a stern gaze.

"You've been kneeling there for all of thirty seconds, and already you're itching to get up." Sherlock frowned. Thirty seconds, surely that's not right? He was certain that he'd been kneeling there for an hour at least, each second dragging on as he'd considered in how many different ways this situation was a waste of his time.

"I don't think..." he started, but was cut off immediately.

"It wasn't a question. Do not speak unless spoken to." Sherlock couldn't help but shift irritably where he knelt, his fingers tapping impatiently on the wooden floor. John's eyes narrowed.

"Hands behind your head, and keep them still." Sherlock obeyed instantly, but in a matter of seconds, his fingers began twirling in and out of his curls, and scratching at imaginary itches. His brow furrowed as he considered whether some part of him was deliberately testing John, experimenting with the doctor's tolerance.

He was vaguely surprised to watch the doctor leave the sofa and walk over to the umbrella stand. But a wave of recognition washed over him as he watched John retract a particularly thin cane from the stand, and bring it back with him. Once he had settled himself again, John commanded Sherlock to crawl further forward, until there was only a foot of space between them. He looked down at Sherlock with a patient expression.

"I told you to keep your hands still. You disobeyed me Sherlock, didn't you?" Sherlock squirmed and nodded quickly, disconcerted by the intensity of John's gaze.

"Answer me, Sherlock." Something inside him jumped at the commanding tone in the doctor's voice, and he quickly obeyed.

"Yes, Sir." John nodded.

"Ask me to punish you for disobeying me". Sherlock hated having to ask, it made him feel so vulnerable. He stared insolently back at the doctor. John's eyes widened and Sherlock could sense the frustration radiating off him. This was the point where most Doms lost interest, confused with trying to control a sub who seemed to simply detest being submissive, and left to find someone a little less testing . As John got up from his seat, Sherlock closed his eyes. He counted the footsteps as reached the door, and he heard the clunk of the cane being replaced. He waited for footsteps to thump out onto the landing, but was surprised to find that instead, the footsteps returned, and John Watson sat back down.

"Look at me Sherlock". Sherlock opened his eyes and stared.

"I won't punish you until you ask me to. But do you know what I'm going to make you do instead?"

Of course he knew, from the tone of John's voice, from the tensing of his shoulder muscles, from the shade of pink that coloured the tips of his ears. Of course he KNEW.

But still, he shook his head. "No, Sir?"

John leant back more comfortably into the sofa and folded his arms.

"I'm going to make you sit there. I can tell how much you like it down there".

Sherlock felt anger shoot through his body. This buffoon had NO idea what it felt like to sit there, as your mind rushes through thousands of pieces of information, reminding you of all the opportunities you're missing, all the useful, interesting things you could be doing. No, he was NOT going to sit there and waste another minute. He scrambled off of the floor, resistance pulsing through his very core. However, John seemed to have predicted this reaction, and stood up with him. John pointed a finger towards the floor and said in a dangerous tone "Down." After a pause, the natural submissive in Sherlock obeyed. When he was in his kneeling position again, Sherlock automatically put his hands behind his head. At this, John smiled.

"Good boy. Now stay like that for me". And Sherlock did. Sherlock Holmes kept his position. He kept in that same position for a staggering, record-breaking 15 seconds, before his willpower wore off and his brain went into overdrive again. His fingers started twitching in his hair, agitated. John remained patient.

"Keep your hands still for me, Sherlock." Sherlock blushed, and forced his fingers to stop moving. This time, this time he would do better for John.

And so it went on. Sherlock would manage to keep position for a little longer, and each time he moved, John would tell him to keep still. Each time, Sherlock would feel a little more proud, and his brain would chatter a little less. And each time, John would be there, concentrating only on him, not reading the paper or staring out the window. He just sat there, his eyes fixed on Sherlock, as if nothing else in the world mattered more to him than ensuring he kept still. To be stared at so intensely, with such deep interest, made a warm sensation spread across Sherlock's lower abdomen, and he felt his cock swell slightly with each minute that went by.

Sherlock managed to keep still for 30 minutes. And during those 30 minutes, he couldn't help but think that what he wanted more than anything else, was to be praised by John again. It had felt surprisingly wonderful to be "good" for once. His cock was now obviously hard, and Sherlock felt a mixture of humiliation and desire at this fact. He needed a distraction.

"Sir?" he nearly whispered, looking up through his curls curiously at the doctor.

John smiled a little and beckoned him closer again. Sherlock removed his hands from his head to crawl on all fours towards the doctor, before returning to his position.

John put his hand gently underneath Sherlock's chin. "What is it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock swallowed thickly, the hand resting under his chin forcing him to keep eye contact.

"Sir, would you please punish me, for disobeying you?". John smiled proudly down at him, and the warmth in Sherlock's chest seemed to spread further down into his stomach.

"Yes, Sherlock, I will. Stay here and don't move."