A/N: Hi everyone! So I've actually already posted this fic to a03, and I've been considering posting it here too... and I figured what the hell, it can't hurt. If you would prefer to read it there, you can find it under the same title, under the author 'JohnWatson'.
Anger pulsated through Sherlock, vibrant as a live wire, and hot as lava. It felt as if it were alive; a whole separate entity inside him, and it was mutilating him from the inside out. The burn of his voluminous rage devoured his entire being, and disallowing any reasoning or rationality he might have once possessed surface when he needed it most.
In other words, Sherlock was at my most vulnerable.
His brain was cloudy with my fury, rendering him incapable to focus on anything else. He needed an outlet, and fast. If he didn't succeed in finding a distractive means to vent, He would probably succumb to a more self-destructive revenue.
He simply couldn't comprehend it, no matter how hard he tried. How could he have possibly missed it? The evidence had been right there, laid out for him, beckoning and teasing his over-inflated intelligence cheekily. Yet, somehow, he had missed it. Despite the fact that it was there, in plain sight, gift wrapped for him and embellished with a bow.
Stupid, bloody, little ring.
Of course, if failing in noticing the missing ring wasn't lowly enough, it just had to happen that the ring was a vital piece in unlocking the answer to this particular case. Of course the absence of the ring had to be a key piece of evidence. Of course it had to be Anderson that picked up on the little unblemished band of skin encircling the woman's ring finger, a tell-tale sign that she'd been married for a long period of time and wouldn't have suddenly removed the ring for no good reason. And to put the icing on the cake, Anderson had only learnt to make the deduction of the missing ring because, of course, he had picked up on how to from Sherlock himself.
However, this wasn't the only cause for Sherlock's landslide of emotion. The anger had been welling up inside him for months and months now, much like a disease. Each time his fury almost won him over, he had pushed it down, much like finding a temporary cure for the illness. But now it had finally surfaced, and it was deadlier than ever.
Every time he had felt truly angry in the last few months had built and built, right up to this spectacular outburst. There was no telling what he might do now.
"Arrgh!" Sherlock halted his alarmingly vigorous pacing to abruptly fall into his armchair, swinging his legs over the armrest on one side to leave them dangling over the edge. At that precise moment, John walked in.
His dressing gown was draped over his shoulders, and bind looped loosely around his waist. He was drying his hair with a towel. Sherlock envied his ability to control his temper so effortlessly. His years in the army had probably taught him much about patience. John's gaze fell on Sherlock. It was time, wasn't it? John knew he needed to distract the man, and quick.
"You haven't moved since I got into the shower, have you." John stated rather than questioned, eyebrows rising into the creases of his forehead. Sherlock turned away, folding his arms childishly. John rolled his eyes.
"Well, when you're through with the moping, there's food on the table. I got Chinese." Sherlock glared at him. John was fully aware to the reasons behind Sherlock's distress.
"I'm not 'moping', John. I don't 'mope.'" With that said, Sherlock stood in one rapid yet fluid movement, and led the way to the kitchen. John followed, shaking his head.
After dishing out the food, John and Sherlock sat down to news on the telly. A reporter was droning on about some sort of robbery…
"…Electronics store was robbed, resulting in over five thousand dollars in losses. Police have no leads just yet; though suspect that this was the work of a gang, although-"
"Well obviously this was the work of more than one individual." Sherlock rumbled in annoyance. The police's lack of competence was really getting on his nerves, especially after the day he'd just had. "The variations in the breakages of the display cases are blatant. One perpetrator was right handed while the other was left. Such can be seen in the shatter pattern of the glass and in-"
The telly flicked off. "Jesus Sherlock, calm down." John had the remote in his hand. Sherlock suddenly realised he had almost been yelling. He hadn't taken a single breath throughout his little rant and was drinking in large gulps of air like each was his last. "We all have our off days, Sherlock. Stop beating yourself up over it, it's not a big deal. Besides, the case got solved anyways so-"
"No, John! It's just- how- how could have missed it? Explain that John, and I might regain my rationality." Were this a cartoon, the steam would've been pouring out of Sherlock's ears by this point. "I need… I need to be distracted, John. Make me forget, and do it quick. Help me." He shuffled across the couch closer to John. They were so close now their thighs were touching. John could feel the detective's hot breath in his face, and read his irritation in the stiff contours of his body pressed against him, and see the fire of his rage burning in his cloudy eyes.
"Go for a walk." John suggested, he hoped it wasn't too obvious to Sherlock that he was trying to avert the inevitable. Luckily Sherlock seemed to take no notice, caught up with his anger as he was.
"No! A walk would let my nagging thoughts take over, flood my conscious mind. I need… something to take my frustration out on, something that would occupy my mind. And quick."
"Violin?" John had often witnessed Sherlock putting his emotion into music when it became too much for him to handle, composing for days on end.
"Can't. I took it to the store yesterday, basic maintenance. She won't be ready for a few hours yet." Sherlock grunted. John's face furrowed in concentration, lips pursing thoughtfully. A roar of frustration ripped from Sherlock's throat, as the man stood and progressed straight towards his gun, kept beside his skull on the mantelpiece. Sherlock's fingers were centimetres away from the weapon when John's hand shot out from beneath Sherlock's arm and snatched the gun away.
"I think the wall's copped enough of a beating to last a lifetime." John proclaimed. He began untangling himself from Sherlock's bony frame in order to keep Sherlock's desperate hands of it, but never did he succeed in doing so.
Sherlock grabbed John's wrist and jerked the limb forward, the smaller man falling right into Sherlock's larger frame, gun hanging limply from his finger. John's chest was now pressed right up against Sherlock's back, and The Doctor was completely unable to move, locked tight in the other man's grasp, utterly at his mercy.
Sherlock slowly spun, keeping a hold on John at all times, until he was facing the man.
"All this time I was searching for a release, and yet it was right here in front of me." Sherlock's arms were encircled in a constricting manner around the shorter man's frame, while John's hands were placed loosely on Sherlock's back. Sherlock's hard, greenish eyes stared directly into John's rendering him unable to look away. Sherlock plucked the gun right out of John's hands, and ran the smooth – yet deadly – muzzle of the well-used weapon along the pale arch of John's neck.
Sherlock felt the gun tremble as John gulped. Sherlock grinned darkly. "Look at you, John. You're so pathetically terrified of me it's almost cute." Sherlock placed the gun behind him on the mantle, gaze never breaking from John's.
John gulped. He knew what that tone meant. But he had a backup plan. He would just have to be convincing, and that meant going all out.
Sherlock's hands wound themselves into John's slightly damp hair, lips crashing into John's. John's soft lips melded with Sherlock's hotly, John stretching up on his tiptoes to accommodate Sherlock's immense height. Sherlock's lips caressed John's lower lip within their wet folds, teeth making just enough of an appearance to drive John wild and leave his lips reddened and swollen.
John's hands were now clutching desperately at the silk of Sherlock's shirt (he had really meant it when he decided to go all out. He needed his stunt to be believable for it to work). Sherlock's mouth broke away from John for a gasp of air, while John's lips merely gravitated south, opting to map the contours of the pale column that was Sherlock's neck. John could feel the rush of Sherlock's hot breath mussing the hairs on the very top of John's head. The room was permeated with the sounds of Sherlock's heavy breathing and soft sucking noises John's lips were making against Sherlock's neck.
He broke away to gasp a breath of air. John leant back a little to admire his handiwork. Sherlock's neck was now embellished with a large purplish hickey.
"Indeed," Sherlock mumbled, voice gravelly with need. He fisted his hand roughly within John's hair, yanking his head back sharply so his lips could meet his. Their open mouths clashed hungrily, fusing together in a passionate dance. Sherlock's hands smoothed down John's back, until they sat just above his waistband of his pants. He altered his grip so that he now had a strong hold on John's hips, and shoved him back towards their bedroom. John stumbled, gasping in shock at the sudden gesture, their lips breaking contract for just a moment. Sherlock, however, was gripping the man so hard he was bruising John's flesh, and the smaller man hardly lost his footing at all with his support. Things weren't looking to good for John.
By the time their lips found each other again, Sherlock was roughly manoeuvring John towards their bedroom, shoving the man forcefully in short, sudden, spurts.
At this rate, John would probably already be all bruised up before they even reached the bedroom. Sherlock seemed to get more and more violent each time.
After copious amounts of unnecessary manhandling on Sherlock's part, the pair arrived at by Sherlock's bed, lips still locked in a desperate embrace. John's hands slip beneath the hem of Sherlock's shirt, palming the smooth skin of his torso. His hands glided over the wiry yet firm rippling of muscle, fingertips faintly coasting over the small, erected nubs of Sherlock's nipples. A moan ripped from deep within Sherlock's throat, his hips pushing right into the cradle of John's as he continued to play with his nipples. John decided the stretch of Sherlock's shirt over his body and John's hands was becoming too much, and bent to rid Sherlock of the confining garment.
Sherlock's eyes were only for John as the smaller man popped open each of the little buttons of his top with his mouth alone, mouth attaching itself to Sherlock's chest when he had succeeded in taking Sherlock's shirt out of the picture. John's mouth was slowing making its way south, leaving a glistening trail of salvia down Sherlock's body in its wake. His hands scratched lightly up the leg of Sherlock's inner thigh, before caressing the top of his thigh, so close to the bulge in straining the material of Sherlock's pants.
Sherlock gasped, bucking desperately into John's barely-there touch, begging for that little bit more. "John, John, please. Just- Oh my god-" John finally allowed Sherlock relief, hand slipping beneath the waistband of Sherlock's pants, the length of Sherlock's clothed erection entirely at John's mercy. His hand fisted around Sherlock's erection, roughly working the organ at a pace he knew would drive Sherlock wild. And wild did it drive him. Sherlock had been devastatingly desperate for John's touch, but no way had he been anticipating anything like this. But boy, did he love it.
His plan did seem to be working quite well so far.
"John, more, I need more! John, ohhh, please!" Sherlock begged. And more was indeed what John gifted Sherlock with. At the peak of each upstroke, John's fist twisted around the head ever-so-slightly, rolling the foreskin with his fingers, eliciting a moan from Sherlock before his fist plummeted down his length. He knew full well that just how madly sensitive Sherlock's foreskin was, and his efforts were indeed already having an effect.
Sherlock's hips thrust in time with John's pumping fist, his mouth fell open to compensate for the laboured panting of Sherlock's breath. His other had trailed over his balls, still encased in his pants; his fingernails scratching against the fabric lightly. Sherlock was rapidly being worked up to a quick orgasm; John knew only too well what unpleasantries were in store for him if he didn't act quickly... but he appeared to have succeeded this time. Getting Sherlock off before he had the chance to get violent seemed to be the solution.
Unfortunately for John, the detective caught on to what was happening. He could see what John was doing. He wouldn't let John thwart him from what was rightfully his to take, there was no way he was settling for a quick little hand job. No, John was His and there was nothing the doctor could do about it.
With much difficulty, Sherlock heaved himself away from John, gripping him by the shoulders and shoving him away. His head hung low, irregular gasps gushing from his body, the warm air tickling the bare skin of his chest. Sherlock was almost surprised with his own self-control. He had felt the warmth building within him, growing and expanding deep within his belly. He hadn't been far away from the violent crashing waves of orgasm that would have surged through his body, and sent his very toes curling in pleasure.
It suddenly touched within the realm of his awareness that John was calling his name. "Sherlock, Sherlock? Are you okay? Did I do somethi-" John's speech ceased in a rather undignified squeal.
Sherlock had John on the bed, and had the man pinned down under him. "Mine," Sherlock growled.
"W-what?" John squeaked, shocked and more than a little frightened. No, no, NO, it had all been going fine, but it seems John would once again have to endure Sherlock's aggressive and increasingly violent wrath. He had really thought for a moment there that he had managed to get out of it this time, but apparently not, so it would seem. A shiver of fear ran through John.
"You're mine, John," Sherlock gripped John by the waist, and skilfully flipped him over so his back faced up. Sherlock pulled John's trademark jumper over his head, his shirt quickly following. "Perhaps you forgot, or, more likely, you were asking for it with that little stunt there." Sherlock growled menacingly, as he ridded John of the remainder of his clothing callously. Sherlock sat astride John, the unsatisfied bulge in his pants nestled within the cleft of John's arse. "Because only I'm allowed dictate how you touch me, or how I you." The handcuffs were extracted from the bedside drawer. John recognized the familiar just somewhat dreaded metallic tinkle of the handcuffs.
"No John, I've had enough of waiting." John's hands were snatched up in Sherlock's, but before John could attempt an escape, his hands were twisted and held behind his back in one of Sherlock's large hands, as the handcuffs dangled from the other. "Don't deny me from what is truly mine any longer. You are mine, John Watson, and there is naught you can even begin to do about it."
John was too late. It had begun. Despite his best efforts, Sherlock had still managed to prevail. Once Sherlock was in this state, there would be no going back.
John eyes fell shut in resignation, and accepted his fate.
A/N: As always, I very, very much appreciate feedback, whether it's complimentary or critique. If you're interested, my tumblr is no-such-thing-as-too-much. Thanks so very much for reading! *blows you a kiss* :D