Inspiration came from seeing a gifset from the Hounds of Baskerville in which John says "That's an order Corporal." and the subtitle "A Wild Kink Appears" flashes with Sherlock's grin. Enjoy!

"That's an order, Corporal."

It was amazing that such a simple combination of four words, not even directed at Sherlock himself, could have such an overwhelming affect. This rarely used phrase still haunted the dark-haired genius months after he had returned from the dead to rejoin with his blogger. Three long years had separated the two and it was hard to say what feeling was most dominant. There had been anger then, and sadness, and finally forgiveness. There has also been, on Sherlock's end anyway, a need that had been left unsatisfied. He had let this need be pushed back as it always was to make sure that the delicate balance of their friendship always remained intact. There were still these words there, in that little side room in the Mind Palace, enhancing the need and continuously making ignoring it more difficult.

At the time these words were first uttered, they had been in the middle of the case, and so Sherlock had only given himself a moment to reflect on the tingling John's confident voice had caused to spread down his spine before his mind was back to deducing the army base they were on. It wasn't until they had returned from the misty planes that his mind went back to the room in his palace marked "John Watson" that would lead him to this little scene he had tucked away.

Upon replaying that brief few moments, Sherlock again felt himself tingle with excitement; he went back over and over, listening to every nuance in the doctor's voice, watching as, with easy confidence that stemmed from years of issuing orders to troops, John even let himself look away from the young Corporal as if it wasn't even worth his time to remind him that his word was, indeed, an order. This confidence sent a thrill through Sherlock's brain and he reveled in it. He soon began playing with that scene in his mind, taking the words and changing the tones and inflections to see what the effects on his person were.

The most memorable of these experiments came when he imagined this phrase in the soft, husky voice that issued from those wonderful lips after they had just narrowly escaped a dangerous situation and John's compact body was flooded with adrenaline, high off their own daring.

"That's an order…"

Oh how Sherlock had shuddered then, glad that John had been in the kitchen fussing with the kettle and so missed this obvious display of arousal. He was sure his pupils must've almost overtaken the icy blue of his irises and a flush had almost certainly painted his cheeks with the rise in his heart rate. And then of course there was the erection he hid beneath the folds of his blue robes, one that would ensure that he couldn't stand up for at least a few minutes until he got his boiling blood under control.

And now, years later after that little discovery, he still replayed that imagined tone in his head when he was alone in the privacy of his room. As much as he had loathed it once, he had even started masturbating to this phrase ages ago, at first shunning it and glaring at his transport for not being more in control. Now it was a more regular occurrence to touch himself and imagine that husky voice giving him orders. Sherlock had never really imagined himself as the submissive, should he ever decide to entangle himself in physical relationships, but for John Watson he would beg and moan and follow every order issued from those perfect lips.

With a muffled groan, he released into his hand, spasming with the aftershocks that ran through his lanky body and finally laying flat on his back, sighing into the dark of his room. He gave himself a minute before getting up and cleaning himself off, wrapping himself once more in his blue robe and exiting to the main hall in the flat.

"Hey you, I was just thinking about dinner. Did you have anything in mind for takeaway or should I just make something?" came the relaxed voice of the doctor from behind the open fridge door.

Sherlock merely grunted and let himself fall into one of the kitchen chairs, steepling his fingers under his chin and looking for all the world as though he was deducing something boring instead of analyzing everything about the other man in the room.

Frustrating day at work judging by the bitten ends of his nails; wearing his most comfortable jumper and sweats, must be looking forward to a special on telly, intends to spend the evening relaxing on the couch; using a new toothpaste, store didn't have his usual brand, not used to the slight difference in mint flavour judging by the subtle movements of his tongue over his teeth…

The man in question turned and gave the genius a closer inspection of his own, a slight frown marring his features as he took in his still slightly flushed cheeks, the hair that still stuck to his forehead with residual sweat and the limp sag of his shoulders.

"Sherlock are you feeling alright?"

Instead of answering, Sherlock threw his best 'You're asking a dumb question' look across the room at his flatmate who simply rolled his eyes and sighed in a 'It's not dumb Sherlock, I'm making sure you aren't neglecting your transport' way.

"You look a little flushed. Don't have a fever do you?" He walked over to the man at the table, putting a hand on his damp forehead and looking concerned as he looked for signs of illness. "You feel a little clammy. I'll make you some soup. When was the last time you ate?"

"Boring. Sometime yesterday I think." Sherlock shrugged and leaned back in his chair, tilting his head up and staring blankly at the ceiling. At his response, John simply rolled his eyes again and set about preparing one of the few cans of chicken noodle soup they had that hadn't been sacrificed to one of the detective's infamous experiments.

It wasn't long before the flat was filled with the enticing smell of chicken broth. John spooned two portions into bowls before grabbing cutlery and placing one serving in front of Sherlock's silent form and taking his own place at the other end of their surprisingly clear kitchen table. When Sherlock made no move to start eating, John let out a huff.

"Come on Sherlock, eat the soup." Sherlock didn't move except to open his mouth in response.

"Dull. Not hungry." John let out a frustrated breath and placed both hands on the table on either side of his bowl, closing his eyes and steeling himself. His day must've been more frustrating than Sherlock first deduced since usually it would take much more stubbornness on Sherlock's part to make John reach his wit's end. The genius prepared himself for the 'It's good for you' lecture, one that John must surely be tired of giving by now…

"Sherlock." A shock went through the detective's body at the tone that issued from the doctor's lips; not the frustrated, condescending almost-whine that usually started off the lecture. It was low and strong, not loud but certainly commanding. Dominating. The kind of tone that didn't take no for an answer, the kind an army Captain would use against a rowdy member of his unit. Sherlock's eyes flickered away from the ceiling to see John open his and glare at him sternly. "Eat the damn soup. That's an order."

Sherlock nearly fell out of his chair from the jolt that voice sent shooting down his spine and right into his groin. He swallowed softly and picked up his spoon, silently taking a few mouthfuls of soup to distract himself from the rush of blood that was currently heading for a certain area between his legs. John gave a grunt of approval, turning back to his own soup.

"If I'd've known that worked so well I'd've started giving you orders ages ago," he mumbled as he went back to his own food. This nearly made Sherlock choke on his spoon and it was only years of practice that kept his reaction from showing on his face. They both finished their meals in silence and John went on with his planned evening of tea and telly while Sherlock locked himself away in his room once more. He didn't reappear until the following afternoon and if John noticed anything out of place, he didn't comment on it.

The next few weeks were tense for Sherlock, though you'd never know it from the cool visage he continued to portray. The first few days after the incident were the hardest on the genius' end, going back and forth between worry that John would start using this newfound advantage regularly, and arousal over the fact that this time, he knew what the order sounded like when it was directed at him.

Eventually he realized that John must've decided to keep this ace on the backburner until Sherlock was being truly unruly and he began to relax again into their regular routines. It wasn't until a few months later that the next incident occurred.

They had been working a case for a few days when they discovered that their suspect was expected to be attending a fundraiser with donations supposedly going towards raising British troops' pension and funds for PTSD treatment. They both new that the fundraiser was probably a load of crock, but with John's army status they had an in to the party. With the pulling of a few strings thanks to Mycroft, though obviously without his knowledge ("Really John, his passwords are easier than yours, it's a wonder all the Queen's secrets haven't been spilled already."), John's name was on the list along with a plus one.

The following Saturday, Sherlock was standing in their living room in his formal black suit, waiting for his flatmate. He checked the classic watch around his wrist and rolled his eyes.

"John! We're going to be late, we have to get there soon if we're going to be able to keep an eye on Wickers all night!" Second Lieutenant Wickers was their suspect, thought to be the mastermind behind a smuggling ring that had started taking on much more noticeable cargo as of late.

"Coming, I'm coming, keep your pants on for God's sake. I haven't put on my blues for a while, had to make sure they still fit right." The sound of his flatmate's footsteps sounded against the stairs and Sherlock turned in time to see quite a different Doctor Watson than he was normally used to.

While civilian life might've softened the edges around his muscles since his invalidation, his compact frame was evidently still in more or less the same shape as it was when John had left the army. To put it simply, his dress blues definitely still fit right. It didn't hurt of course that John's posture had straightened out of habit simply by donning this old uniform. John paused momentarily to adjust his jacket and Sherlock took a moment to let his eyes rake in the entire form of the man in front of him before carefully placing his cool mask back into his features. As the jacket was straightened, John stood commandingly on the landing and looked at Sherlock, crossing his wrists behind his back.

"Well, what do you think?" John threw his chin up slightly in the commanding way he had done for years (most of his unit men had been taller than him…) and gave Sherlock the full image of Captain John Watson. Sherlock swallowed lightly and gave a quick nod, distracting himself by looking at his wrists as he readjusted his cufflinks.

"Good. Shall we go then or would you like to admire your reflection a little longer? The taxi just pulled up."

Twenty minutes later, they were pulling up to one of the fancier hotels in London, complete with its own ballroom where the event would be held. They stepped out of the cab and joined the crowds, all moving towards the large oak doors. Sherlock noticed that from the moment they had left the car, John seemed to have reverted back to basic soldier mode, his eyes already scanning the crowd and checking the layout as they approached the front area flooded with light from the open doors. The discomfort that John would normally display in crowds of this social status seemed to disappear with the addition of other army blues dotted between the lavish gowns and the crisp suits. John took the lead as they approached the door, always glancing back at Sherlock to make sure he was still there while he continuously took in information from the crowd.

"Name?" said the elderly usher by the door as they took their first steps towards the ballroom.

"Captain John Watson and guest." There it was again, that tone. It seemed to have come forward with the other habits being in uniform brought to the surface over John's normally submissive personality. If he was going to talk this way all night, Sherlock didn't know if he could stand it.

"Ah yes, so glad you could join us Captain Watson! Welcome."

"Yes, I'm glad I could be added to the list on such short notice. Pardon me for asking, but is Second Lieutenant Wickers here yet? We served in the same unit for a time and I was hoping to get a chance to catch up with him." John smiled softly, though it didn't quite reach his eyes as it normally would. This was a mission and he would be damned if he let those years in the army go to waste if they could help the case.

"Not at all sir, let me check the roster… Wickers… Wickers… Ah! It seems as though he hasn't arrived yet, sorry."

"That's fine, I'll keep an eye out for him. Thank you."

They both nodded at the usher, who smiled serenely before moving to the guests behind them. As they entered the ballroom, it became apparent that no expense had been spared to make this party truly a memorable experience. Long tables lined the walls with mountains of exquisite food while polished servers wove between guests offering cocktails and refreshments. It was still quite early in the evening so the room was only half full. They moved to the end of one of the banquet tables, their eyes both scanning the crowd.

"What's the plan then?" John murmured, keeping his eyes on the other guests.

"Socialize, see if we can find anything else out about the Second Lieutenant before he shows up," Sherlock murmured in response, his eyes flicking to John's smaller form once before returning to the people around them. "If you see him, text me. I'll do likewise. It'd be better to corner him before the speeches when he can't sneak out the back if he spots trouble. He won't be able to run far with the servers walking everywhere, they'll slow him down."

John nodded and straightened his back once more before making his way into the crowd, taking a flute of champagne off a tray of a passing server as he went. Sherlock nodded to himself once, steeling himself up for the drones he would need to listen to for the next little while. Hopefully there would be someone with a half decent mind to converse with in the field of morons around him.

A half hour later and Sherlock still hadn't found anything of use in the crowds he had spoken to. Imbeciles, the lot of them. He decided to look for John to see if he had found anything else and without another word to the group he had busied himself with, made his way back to the edge of the room. Using his height to his advantage, he scanned the room for a familiar blond head. Unfortunately with so much of the crowd now being populated by soldiers in blues, it was more difficult to spot John among them. A few minutes later he finally found his target and made his way through the crowd.

"…so then I turn and Nicholson is running down the hill as fast as he can, waving his arms like a maniac!" The group around the doctor all laughed in unison and John's eyes caught Sherlock's as he joined the group. "Ah, this is Sherlock Holmes, my colleague." Everyone nodded in greeting as John introduced them. A couple of them were from the board hosting the party while others were soldiers like John. "We were just swapping stories from the army days. Mr. Cartwright here is a friend of the Second Lieutenant."

"David, please John, we're all friends here! Yes Lewis and I met through another charity ball some months ago and have become close since then. We share a fondness in antiquities you see!" As Mr. Cartwright launched into another story, John leaned closer to Sherlock, speaking on the pretext of taking another sip from his half-empty glass.

"Think this guy is going to get duped by Wickers for some of his goods?"

"Most certainly. Wickers must do his homework before coming to these fundraisers… Ah, speak of the devil…"

The man in question had just entered the ballroom with a pretty woman on his arm, assumingly his wife. The doctor and the detective nodded at each other and John politely excused them as they left the crowd engrossed in Mr. Cartwright's story.

"You take his left, I'll go right." John barked out, taking charge, as was his military role as Captain. Sherlock did as ordered, shoving the tingle that raced over his skin to the back of his mind to deal with later. Whether Wickers knew who Sherlock was or was simply aware of the way both men were racing towards him didn't matter, either way he turned and hightailed away from his confused wife.

"Lewis Wickers! Stop where you are!" Sherlock shouted as they followed him down the hall out of the ballroom. Wickers made no move to stop and Sherlock let out a panted curse.

"Second Lieutenant! Stop right there, that's an order!" Sherlock nearly fell over as he heard the shout commanded across the room. Wickers' military instincts must've kicked in because he paused momentarily at the order before his brain caught up with the situation. It was too late however and his momentary pause allowed John to barrel into him and push him to the ground. He struggled for a moment but soon realized escape wasn't going to happen that night. John kept him down until Lestrade was able to show up with a squad of Yarders who arrested him and took him away. As required, they gave their statements to the DI as crowds shuffled beyond the other officers, trying to get a better view of the commotion outside.

"Thanks gents, have a good one eh?" Lestrade said as he made his way back to the squad car. "Oh, and John! Lookin' sharp! You should wear the old blues more often." John blushed a little and nodded to the Detective Inspector before waving him off, just in time to be ambushed by the crowd they had been speaking to earlier.

"Thank you Captain, and of course you as well Mr. Holmes! To think what the rascal would have done with my treasures! I am in your debt!" Mr. Cartwright squeaked as he vigorously shook John's hand. They waved away his comments and made their way to the exit, having both had enough of this party for the night. They caught the first cab they spotted and were soon on their way home.

"Well, that was an interesting night…" John sighed as they drove away, his straight posture sagging into one of relaxed fatigue the farther away they got. Sherlock only hummed in response, his eyes glazed over in thought over the events of the evening. Now that he was no longer distracted by the case, his mind brought back all the nuances of John's commanding voice from throughout the night and he was glad his flushed cheeks were lost in the dark of the night.

The rest of the trip home was met with silence and soon enough they were back in the flat. John went upstairs to change out of his blues while Sherlock went to take off his own suit, now wrinkled from running after Wickers. He put on his baggiest pants and draped his housecoat around him before making his way back to the living room and plopping down in his chair with a huff. He was joined a few minutes later by his flatmate who was now back in one of his jumpers and pajama bottoms. Sherlock gave him a once over before 'hmm'ing softly and turning his gaze away.


"Oh, nothing. You just look very different than you did in the uniform. Even your posture changed."

"Oh… Habit I guess. I can still call up all that Captain stuff when I need to but I suppose it's more natural when I'm wearing those clothes."

Sherlock flushed as he once again remembered the incident with the soup and, to his dread, John noticed.

"You alright?" he asked with a concerned frown.

"Yes, I'm fine!" Sherlock snapped back, panicking slightly as John started paying closer attention. John took a step back in surprise at Sherlock's tone before narrowing his eyes at the other man.

"Hold on, where did that come from? No need to snap at me, I was just-"

"I said I'm fine John, so just drop it would you?" His voice took on an almost squeaky quality and he cursed himself for such an obvious tell. So much for control of the transport, yet again. John's demeanor changed slightly and he stood up a little straighter, his frown deepening.

"Sherlock, what's wrong? You can't be bored already, we just solved the case. What's going on with you?"

"I am in no mood to discuss it with you." He sent an icy glare at the other man and turned so John could mostly only see his back.

"Sherlock. Tell me." Damnit. That tone again. John didn't even have to specify, Sherlock knew it was an order and he couldn't help the shudder that ran through him.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Don't play dumb, Captain, it doesn't suit you. You know very well what. Don't do that command thing, this isn't the army, you are not my superior officer and I am not required to tell you something just because you order me to." Sherlock snapped back, panic rising in his gut even as he took in the steely gaze of his friend and felt heat flush through his extremities. John was beginning to show just how easily he could slip back into Captain mode, despite his cozy exterior.

"You didn't seem to have a problem with me playing soldier when it helped you with a case, why are you being so defensive over it now?" Sherlock huffed in response and turned away again, curling himself into as small an area as he could. It took a minute but the soft gasp behind him notified Sherlock to John's dawning discovery. "Oh… my God. It's so simple isn't it? You like it. You like being ordered around, being the one dominated for once."

"I've had enough, I'm going to bed!" Sherlock shot up like a rocket and had barely taken two steps when…

"Stop right there." He couldn't help it, his feet had a mind of their own as he stayed rooted to the spot. He clenched his hands at his sides as his chin fell to meet his collar. He heard John move closer, his usual shuffle being replaced with the commanding footsteps of the soldier from barely an hour before. He stopped right behind the detective and Sherlock's tension only grew. "Am I right?" His tone stayed low.

"You tell me." Sherlock all but spat, grinding his teeth together in frustration. There was another pause before John's next words, and try as he might to make himself move, Sherlock stayed where he was.

"Turn around and look at me."

He was done for, now. John knew his secret and he was using it. Sherlock whipped around trying to show one last ounce of defiance before John humiliated him for such a stupid weakness. He was surprised however when he turned around and met, not a smug smirk, but smoldering eyes that were nearly consumed by the inky blackness of John's pupils. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat.

"I'll ask you again and I expect an answer. Am I right?" Sherlock swallowed loudly.

"Yes…" his voice came out as barely a whisper, so captivated was he by the scene in front of him. He saw approval flash in John's eyes before heat enveloped them once more.

"Go kneel by the coffee table. For the rest of the night, you will speak when spoken to, follow every order I give you without question and reply with sir, do you understand?" Sherlock's eyes nearly rolled back at this command and he swallowed thickly.


"Yes, what?"

There was a brief pause while Sherlock considered the commanding form in front of him. John's eyes flickered, daring him to rebel against the control he was holding over the taller man.

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Now move."

Sherlock's body quickly moved as ordered, taking the spot on the floor by the coffee table as John had indicated. He watched with rapt attention as John removed his jumper, revealing a black tanktop that showed off the muscles in his arms, that spread over broad shoulders and hinted at the pecks and abs hidden under the cotton, before tossing it onto his chair. Against his chest rested his dog tags, their metallic ridges gleaming in the low light of the room. He rolled his shoulders once, sighing as his back cracked and the chain around his neck jingled with the movement before finally letting his eyes fall to Sherlock's form once more. He paused again before moving to circle his flatmate slowly, looking down at him with heated eyes.

"So, you do like being given orders, do you?" His voice was barely more than a whisper as he took slow steps around Sherlock's form.

"Yes, sir."

"You tell me what to do all the time, do you realize that?" He continued his circuit, looking around the room in mock casualty as one foot fell in front of the other. "Stupid little things you could do yourself. I think you like giving me orders. Do you like giving me orders Sherlock?" The man on the floor hesitated, his tongue poking out to wet his suddenly dry lips.

"I… I've never thought of them as orders, I just-"

"Tonight you will listen to every order I give you and you will revel in every one of them, is that understood?" It was good that John was behind Sherlock at this point and so didn't see the way his eyelids fluttered or his irises almost disappear behind pale lids, though his voice more than gave him away.

"God, yes…" John paused in his steps and Sherlock quickly realized his mistake. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Tell me, Sherlock, do you enjoy physical submission along with being verbally dominated?"

"I-I'm not sure, I've only dabbled in sexual experimentation before, I didn't-" His sentence was lost in a cry of surprised pleasure as John's fingers found purchase among his dark curls and pulled his head back almost violently, making Sherlock's spine arch abnormally. The dark-haired detective gasped and writhed as blood flew directly to his groin, an erection forming to tent his sweats.

"Do you like this, Sherlock?" John whispered, leaning in so his lips barely brushed the shell of his ear. "What's going on in that genius brain of yours now?" He tightened his grip just a little and Sherlock could only ramble out incoherent syllables as said brain flooded with pleasurable responses. "Hmm, I guess you are a little masochist afterall…"

Sherlock was thrown off balance when John let go with a slight shove, sending the taller man down to all fours as he caught himself. He took deep breaths as the length of his body shuddered with residual pleasure, his nails dragging into the carpet beneath him.

"Where is your riding crop?" Sherlock lifted his head to look up at John in confusion, panting breaths still wracking his frame. John merely raised an eyebrow, showing impatience with Sherlock's response time.

"In… In my room, second shelf in the closet beside the bed… sir." John nodded and pivoted on the balls of his feet, walking towards Sherlock's room.

"Take your shirt off," he called over his shoulder before disappearing from Sherlock's sight.

Sherlock took another moment to recover from the shudders racing across his body before lifting himself back onto his knees and doing away with his shirt. He felt goosebumps rise over his skin but ignored it as he waited for John's commanding presence to return. Silver eyes watched as the compact form made its way back to the living room, crop in hand. His breath caught as John bent his legs to crouch in front of him, bringing their eyes to the same level. Somehow, even with John in Captain mode, his eyes held a softness that was just for Sherlock.

"Before we continue, there are a couple things we need to get out of the way." John's voice was low and serious, but there was a compassionate undertone as he made sure Sherlock was paying attention to his words. "Firstly, if I surpass your limits at any time, whether it be your pain threshold or your comfort zone, say stop and I will. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir." Sherlock internally winced at the excited pitch that overtook his usual cool baritone, his eyes unable to pull away from John's intense stare. John nodded in approval before continuing.

"Second, if we choose for this event to be more than a one-time thing, I want you to rest assured that this is for your enjoyment in private as well as mine. I will not use this as leverage at crime scenes or in front of Lestrade unless absolutely necessary to ensure your safety. Understood?"

Sherlock's stomach did a flip at these words. For a moment a scene flashed in his head of being surrounded by Yarders and having John undermine and dominate him in his element. It was what he had feared when John first figured out this little trick and for a moment he felt a stab of fear in his gut. He took a moment to close his eyes and take a steadying breath, replaying John's words and returning to a state of relative calm before opening his eyes again. Of course John would want to quell any doubts before they got too far. Caring John who never wanted to put Sherlock into a truly compromising situation despite how many times the opposite had occurred. His heart swelled.

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Is there anything you want to say before we continue?" Sherlock stayed quiet for a moment, looking over his friend, his only true friend in the whole world, the only man he would trust in this situation, the only person he would allow to have such power over him. His eyes drifted down to John's lips, relaxed in a neutral position, neither smiling nor frowning, merely pressed together lightly as he was being considered. During his little speech, John had referenced this event as something they should enjoy, but he never specified the intentions behind it. Was it simply release for them both? Or was it a way to get closer, to move their friendship into unknown territory for them both? Sherlock let his eyes lift again.

"Can I… Can I ask you for something?" A momentary look of confusion and curiosity passed over the face in front of him before he nodded. Sherlock steeled himself for his next question, the answer of which would dictate how the events following would go forth. "Kiss me?" A flash of excitement shone in John's eyes and he smiled a little.

"Is that what you want?" He knew what was being asked. Not simply wondering if Sherlock really wanted a kiss, but asking if that's where he wanted this to lead. They could keep it physical and empowering and intimate in a fashion but not truly, or they could pass over that invisible line and know that what they were to each other was forever changed.

"Yes, sir."

A warm hand, strong and steady, moved to gently cup the sharp edges of his jaw and Sherlock felt his eyes flutter closed as the short distance between them disappeared. There was a moment of feeling John's hot breath against his face and then the firm press of lips, starting so gentle and careful before moving into something more. Sherlock pressed forward, moving his lips against John's and reveling in the sigh of pleasure and approval that issued from John's throat. Sighs turned into moans as the kiss grew more heated, strong hands moving to tangle in messy curls as lips and tongue dominated previously unknown territory. John ripped his lips away from Sherlock's, answering his pleading whine with a commanding growl of his own.

"This is my show Sherlock, I've waited far too long to do this to wait any longer," he whispered, his lips barely millimeters away from the other man's. Sherlock barely noticed the needy sounds he made, pleading with his eyes for John to continue kissing him until they were both dizzy with pleasure. John smirked and stood up, taking the riding crop in hand again and towering over the panting form of the detective still kneeling on the floor. "Turn around; stay on your knees and put your hands on the table."

Sherlock did as directed, liquid heat boiling in his veins as he waited for John's next move. He was struck by the memory of something The Woman said once; I would have you, right here on this desk, until you begged for mercy twice. Well, he would never have let that happen, would never have begged The Woman for anything, least of all what she was implying; but for John, he just might…

"Do you remember what you were doing with this the first day we met?" John's voice had once again taken his commanding tone, the sound of the leather whispering against the skin of his hands as he gently ran his palm against the crop. Sherlock shivered.

"Testing bruising patterns, sir." He nearly jumped when he felt the first cool touch of the leather against his back, its flat edge running gently along the skin stretched over his shoulders. His hands flexed against the hard wood of the table in front of him.

"Testing bruising patters, yes… And were the results ones you were hoping for?" The leather slowly dragged down Sherlock's spine, making his eyes roll back, before stopping at the waist of his sweatpants.

"T-they concluded that the victim had been beaten with a crop within two hours of the time of death, sir. The man in custody was the murderer who killed the victim." His voice was breathless as he found it harder and harder to maintain a logical train of thought, most of his attention going to where leather brushed against skin. He found his back arching as the crop was dragged back up to his shoulders.

"Hmm. Interesting. What do you suppose your bruising patterns will look like?" Sherlock barely had time to consider the question before the first slap of leather against his skin, a gasp leaving him at the sting just beneath his left shoulder blade. The hit hadn't been as hard as Sherlock had expected, maybe just testing the waters with his endurance. "Well?" was the impatient question from behind him.

"That would depend…" Sherlock croaked out, his voice shaking with the endorphins that started to flood his system to soothe the ache. He knew the spot John had struck would be turning red, then white again as the area swelled into a welt.


"On the intensity of the blow, the location, the general healing rates of-" his voice was cut off by the first full-on moan that was ripped from his throat, his back arching and his eyes rolling back as more endorphins flooded his brain, the spot just above his hip throbbing in time with his racing heartbeat. "…the general healing rates of the subject in question." he finished his response in barely more than a whisper. As he got his body under control, he felt John's breath ghost over his ear again as the Doctor leaned in close.

"Do you know how long I've been waiting to hear that sound Sherlock? So fucking long…" Sherlock whimpered in response, a shiver making its way through his body and causing goosebumps to raise on his bare arms. "By the time I'm through with you, your voice will be hoarse for days… I will have you moaning on this floor and you will beg me for more. How do you feel about that Sherlock?"

"Nygaah, John…" was all Sherlock was able to muster for a response, John's voice causing all sorts of new reactions within the slim frame of his body.

"Do you want more Sherlock?"

"Yes, sir…" Before the syllables even passed his lips he felt the slap of leather in quick succession over the sides of his ribs, his body spasming from the combined hits and making one of his arms crumple under his weight. He fell to his forearms against the coffee table, moans and random sounds passing his lips in a pleasured jumble. There were two more hits after that, against his spine, and then one on his thigh that stung despite the layer of cloth that protected his skin. As his strangled gasps leveled out, he felt the cool leather caress his skin again, so tender in contrast to the harsh hits he had felt moments before.

"Good Sherlock, very good… On a scale of 1 to 10, how was that for you? 1 being light pleasure with little pain and 10 being all pain with no pleasure?" The tenderness in John's tone coupled with the caresses to his throbbing skin nearly made Sherlock cry out from the shudders that ran down his form. "Take your time. It's important to find your threshold early on, so we can avoid it or push it in later sessions, if you so desire."

"A-about… 4 I g-guess… Sir…" He heard a pleased hum from behind him, along with the rustle of cloth as John joined him on the floor, kneeling as well so that his knees were at either side of Sherlock's. This sent a whole new shiver down his spine and he gasped lightly as he felt the shaft of the crop come up under his chin to lift his head up and back over John's shoulder. He felt John's erection against the bump of his tailbone and he leaned back to grind against it, causing a pleased groan from the soldier.

"Very good indeed Sherlock… Still some room for more before we hit your limit… I wonder…" Sherlock had barely enough time to contemplate what might come next when he felt the nails of John's free hand dig into the skin under his collarbone and drag down his front until just under his bellybutton, causing his body to arch forward in an almost impossible angle to keep contact for as long as possible. A strangled cry escaped his throat as John looked over his shoulder to watch angry red lines appear where his nails had carved into the first layer of skin.

Sherlock barely noticed the strangled noise that was ripped from his throat, his body shuddering against John's as he registered this new form of pleasure. His hands reached back to grasp at John's shoulders, his breathing harsh and irregular. He mumbled something to the quiet of the room and John nipped at his ear lightly.

"What was that? I didn't quite catch it." Sherlock made another antagonized sound, his brows furrowing as he tried to get some composure.

"Again," he ground out, a frustrated edge to his voice, "Please, Captain, do that again…"

It was John's turn to groan now, Sherlock's request going right to the growing erection between the Captain's legs. The crop clattered to the floor and one of John's hands once again tangled into the Detective's hair, holding his head back as the other drew a slow descent down pale skin, the burn causing Sherlock to whine and buck his hips.

"Like that, huh?" He was met with another whine and an insistent cant of bony hips, violinist's fingers gripping at his shoulders in desperation.

"Yes…" breathless baritone answered, icy eyes lost behind fluttering lids. The hand in his hair tightened and he cried out, his body writhing though he didn't seem to notice.

"Yes, what, Sherlock?" was the harsh whisper growled into Sherlock's ears and the detective cried out again, nearly sobbing as he felt nails dig into his flesh once more.

"Yes, sir!" he all but shouted, his voice cracking as pleasured shudders wracked his body again. "Yes, sir! Please, sir, more, I need it!" They both groaned as John ground his hips against Sherlock's arse at his response, desperate noises coming from both sets of lips as they moved in desperation for any kind of friction to relieve the pressures in their groins. More bright lines were dragged out of pale flesh, each one causing more writhing movements from the normally calm detective. Without warning, the hand on Sherlock's torso moved to harshly cup the erection jutting out in front of him. The strangled noise that left Sherlock's mouth was, in John's opinion, well worth the wait.

"I'm going to touch you now, Sherlock. I'm going to touch you and you're going to come for me and you're going to scream, is that understood?" His words were punctuated by rough gropes, each one calling forth a strangled moan from his lanky detective.

"Yes, God yes, please John…"

Without another word, the detective's sweats were pulled out of the way, his erection springing free and being immediately engulfed by John's calloused hand. The next sound that issued forth was a combination of relief and pleasurable agony as the rough gropes turned into confident strokes, each one bringing Sherlock ever closer to the already quickly forming orgasm that had been building since the first command had been issued. Behind him, John continued to grind against the pert rear he had been presented with, his own needy sounds adding to the maddening pleasure his partner was feeling.

All too soon, Sherlock was gasping out warnings.

"Ah, John… Going to… Can't hold it back…"

"Come for me Sherlock. I've got you, come for me, scream…"

Scream he did, shouting John's name to the heavens as he shot out over the Captain's hand and his own chest. He gasped and moaned as aftershocks wracked his body in waves, his form spasming more than ever before as he came down from his incredible high. In his ear, he heard John cooing softly, whispering compliments and approving phrases to the detective who was leaning so heavily against him.

It took a few minutes for Sherlock to get control of his body again and when he did, he disentangled himself from his Captain and went to get a washcloth to clean up the mess he had made. When he came back to the living room, he found John leaning back against the couch, his head resting back against the pillows. Gently, Sherlock took his soiled hand and wiped it clean, noticing as he did that John was still sporting a rather impressive hard-on.



"Do you… Shall I assist you with that?" Two pairs of eyes moved to look at the junction between the Doctor's legs. John groaned and palmed it roughly.

"You don't have to Sherlock. God, I should be thanking you for everything you've let me do already." He chuckled softly, one side of his lip being pulled between his teeth and he stroked himself again. When he looked up again, he found Sherlock's elongated form leaning over him, his arms resting on the cushions on either side of John's shoulders.

"Please…" the detective whispered, his eyes flicking between John's own and his lips. "Please, let me do this for you…" As his voice trailed off, Sherlock ghosted his lips over John's, both men letting out a shuddering breath. "John…" For the second time that evening, their lips met in a slow glide, eyelids closing in bliss as mouths opened and tongues brushed sensually. Shifting lightly, Sherlock slowly moved his hand down to replace John's, gently applying pressure to the bulge his questing fingers found.

"Oh, God… Sherlock…" John once again carded his fingers through dark curls, this time his grip much looser, gently tilting the detective's head so their kiss could deepen as Sherlock freed the neglected erection.

With slow, uncertain movements, he stroked John's prick, being rewarded with the Doctor's moans and soft encouragements. Gaining confidence, his strokes became firmer, pulling at the skin in just the right way to leave John breathless with pleasure. His hips started moving in tandem with his colleague's movements, his breathing getting harsher by the minute.

"Oh, Sherlock, fuck this feels so damn good… I'm getting close, just a little tighter…" John groaned again as Sherlock complied and started bucking in earnest. In no time at all, the good Doctor was coming in spurts, his moans swallowed by Sherlock as he kissed him passionately. A few minutes later, after a quick wipe by the cloth Sherlock had retrieved, both men sat on the floor with their backs against the couch, their heads resting back against the cushions and their legs brushing gently.

Hesitantly, pale fingers nudged against their tanned counterparts. Without looking, John moved so his fingers intertwined with Sherlock's, giving them a gentle squeeze and turning to look at his partner. Pensive eyes met his and he smiled softly.

"That was… Thank you." Sherlock smiled at John's whisper, his cheeks flushing a little. His response was interrupted by a wide yawn, to which John chuckled. "Alright, bed time. C'mon you…" They both got up and walked to the landing, where they paused, shuffling uncertainly.

"I guess-"

"Would you-"

They chuckled as their speech overlapped and John scratched the back of his neck, suddenly shy.

"Would you, um… Would you care to join me tonight? You don't have to if you don't want to, but…" The detective let the sentence drift off, his gaze suddenly fascinated with the bare toes that wiggled against the hardwood beneath them. John smiled and placed a gentle hand against his forearm to get his friend to look at him.

"I'll be down in a moment, yeah?" he said when their eyes met, offering him a small smile which was returned tenfold. Sherlock nodded and walked into his room. Even with the fatigue he felt, his body was buzzing. Not only did they solve the case, but John had then done something he had dreamed of for years and now they would share a bed. Sherlock quickly shuffled under his blankets, propping his pillows up and sitting against the headboard.

A minute later, John reappeared, his own pillow in hand and he smiled at the sight of Sherlock's bare chest proudly displaying the stark red lines even within the relative darkness of the bedroom.

"How are they?" the Doctor inquired softly as he got in on the other side of the bed. Sherlock looked down at his chest and smiled softly before responding.

"They're fine… I'll definitely feel it tomorrow." They both smiled and shuffled down until they were laying face-to-face, Sherlock's eyes roaming all over John's face.

They were silent for a minute, simply getting used to being in a bed together. This time, it was John whose hand breached the space between them to grasp Sherlock's, their palms meeting in the middle ground. The detective's voice was the first to break the silence.

"Thank you, John… For the case, and for tonight."

"You don't have to thank me Sherlock. It's my pleasure, for both." Gently, his thumb ran over its pale partner, goosebumps rising on the attached arm.

Sherlock bit his lip, looking as though he had something else to say but couldn't find the words. John leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on his lips, pulling back slowly and moving so that their foreheads touched.

"Don't worry about it Sherlock. If it can wait 'til the morning, then we'll talk then, hm? We have all the time in the world." Sherlock paused for a moment before smiling softly and nodding. "Good. Get some sleep now."

"Yes, Captain."

So there it is. If I get enough responses, maybe I'll write more chapters, but this is as far as my inspiration goes tonight. So let's see what response this gets, eh?