Work Text:
John has decided that he has gone crazy.
And not just a bit crazy, but mad. Stark raving mad, totally and completely bonkers.
Because in case he isn't all that, John cannot explain why he is about to return to 221B, Baker Street, freshly showered and shaven, as if he's heading to a date.
What on earth would possess him to go back there? Just what?
Oh, only the most erotic experience you have ever had in your life? a taunting little voice mocks him while John is putting on his gloves. You want to play some more.
John tells the voice to shut up.
It's Saturday. Bloody Saturday.
John can still remember the smoky voice of the stranger, asking him to return tonight for another round of - what? Happy bondage time?
Images of a pale body in leather restraints, trembling and sweating, flash before John's inner eye and automatically, goosebumps rise all over his arms at the memories. It had been breathtaking. Nothing had ever made John so hard.
He hasn't looked up any of the stranger's personal information, hasn't dared to give the other man a name, a face, an identity. It's easier to pretend that he is just someone John has stolen from, one of his many victims.
Just someone you decided to fuck with a plug while he was restrained and horny and helpless in his flat, the voice speaks up, sounding delighted.
John snarls and slams the door of his shabby attic flat shut, burying his gloved hands into the pockets of his jacket.
He can't really ignore the voice any longer, can he? It's right, after all. John has never experienced anything like it. It had been exciting, entirely thrilling and the stranger had loved it just as much as John himself. John knows that.
Still - returning? He shouldn't. He really, really shouldn't, even though he had agreed to it in post-orgasmic stupidity.
After all, he has stolen from the bloke. John has made a nice amount of money from the things he took - it had been half a laboratory after all. The bills are paid, the heater is working and John hasn't been hungry for a whole week. All thanks to his recent burglary. John would be pissed if something like that happened to him. He wouldn't want to have a bloody bondage session with the arsehole that stole his £1200-microscope.
Not much he can do about that with his arms handcuffed to the headboard, hm? the voice points out for him.
"If he's called the police, it'll be me who ends up in handcuffs," John mutters and earns a suspicious look from the old lady that John is now sitting next to.
Without actually realising it, John has caught the underground towards the City of Westminster. Great. It seems his body has already made the final decision for him.
And really, John can't will himself to over-think it any longer. He will never be able to forget about the incident. If he doesn't go tonight, he will always wonder what he might have missed out on. He'll never find a moment of peace.
Resigning himself to his fate (Oh, shut up, the voice tells him. You're not stepping up to the gallows, you're about to fulfil the fantasies you've been wanking to for the past nights!), John looks out of the window to watch the darkness of the tunnel they're passing through.
Much sooner than he likes to, John is getting out of the underground and walks up the steps towards Baker Street. It's dark out but London never sleeps and there are still plenty of people on the streets. John is so close to the flat, nearly there. He knows he should be nervous but by now, all he can think about is that handsome - no - gorgeous stranger. That man and his long, pale legs, the dark and unruly hair, that voice.
He passes the building front, disappears into the small alleyway close by, climbs over the small wall with ease, takes the rusty fire escape stairs and arrives at the window he has broken into last time. It's been replaced, he notices, with a sturdy metal frame and properly jointed window glass that doesn't look very breakable at all.
It also stands ajar. John smiles and swiftly climbs in.
True to his profession, he stops and listens. The living room is dark and empty, just like last time. No policemen hidden behind the sofa as far as John can tell.
He can move a lot faster, more efficiently without the bothersome bag and is up the stairs in no time. The bedroom door has been left ajar as well and the yellow light of the bedside lamp creates a ray of light on the hallway floor.
John briefly hesitates. This is it. Enter or leave - there are no other choices and once he walks into that room there will be no going back.
Naturally, John ends up walking over quickly and pushes the door open.
And there he is, the resident of the flat, gracefully kneeling on his bed. Once more, a blind-fold is keeping him from seeing anything at all but other than that, he is unrestricted and free to move. The lighting is just right, pronouncing the strong cheekbones that peak through under the silken fabric, the line of his collarbones, the curve of his buttocks. His hands are resting on his thighs which are slightly parted so John can get a very good look at the man's cock. It's half-hard in the unruly nest of genital hair.
John swallows several times before closing the door behind him.
Immediately, the man's head snaps up and the corners of his lips are lifted in a faint smile.
"You've come," is all he says.
For a moment, John simply looks at him. He decides it's time to break the one-sided silence, time to speak up.
"I have," he replies and is surprised how calm it sounds in the face of the other man's naked and absolutely gorgeous body. "Did you think I wouldn't?"
The smile widens a bit and the man cocks his head to the side as if evaluating John's every word, the tone of his voice, the pronunciation of each syllable.
John wonders what the sound of his voice can tell someone who is blind-folded, whether or not it speaks of the day-to-day life of a burglar that has never really had a chance to escape the cycle of crime, whether or not it forms a certain image of John's appearance in the other man's mind, whether or not it sounds like the voice of someone a stranger could trust.
"I wasn't sure," he eventually answers. "You had taken what you wanted, after all. How much did you make, by the way? Three-thousand, maybe?"
He doesn't sound the least bit angry and John has suppress the urge to laugh.
"Roughly speaking, yes", he confirms. "You're not angry?"
A determined shake of his head. "No, it's been replaced already. I didn't care much. I'm just glad you've returned."
"Really?" John enquires, but to be fair, why else hasn't the other man's half-erection faltered during their conversation?
"Last week has been... quite satisfying. I wish to repeat the experience, under slightly different circumstances of course."
He shifts a bit and points to the floor next to the bed. John, who hasn't really bothered to look anywhere but at the naked beauty in front of him, moves his eyes downwards. There's a sheet of white cotton, a table-cloth maybe, and on it, last week's toys are arranged. Leather straps, restraints, ball gag, plug and some other very exciting objects the man hadn't used. John shivers at the sight.
"Last time, I was still very much in control. I could have stopped you, could have defended myself, could have struggled. This time, I'd like you to be in charge. I want to be helpless and at your mercy."
John feels his cock stir in anticipation, getting excited at the promise of those words.
"All right," he says and his voice has gone deep and slightly smoky - he's aroused.
"However, I have one condition."
John hesitates for a few seconds, then: "Tell me."
The man leans forward a bit, hands curling slightly into the flesh of his thighs, muscles visibly tensing.
"I want to know your name."
John stares at him. Names. John doesn't like knowing names let alone giving away his own. Names make it personal, names make it real. John prefers to think of this as a game, an exciting, thrilling but highly impersonal game, just like his break-ins. No comittment and certainly no relationship of any kind shoulder ever come of this.
"Why?" he demands.
"Names make it real," the other man replies and John flinches when his very own thoughts are voiced.
The stranger understands it, then. John realises that really, he cannot keep thinking stranger when they have already played once, have already touched so intimately. The other man knows that names will change the game, will make all the difference in the world. He's willing to take the risk and maybe, so is John.
"John," he finally introduces himself. "My name's John."
"John," the other man repeats and it sounds like he's tasting the name, trying to get a feeling for it before continuing. "I'm Sherlock."
It's unusual, it's exotic, it's fitting. John doesn't for a moment think he has been told an alias.
Sherlock.
It sounds just right.
"Sherlock," he more or less growls because now, the other man isn't a stranger any longer but Sherlock, who has turned John's head and made him desire things he hasn't known he wanted.
Sherlock nods and unconsciously or not, spreads his thighs a bit further apart.
"Let's get started," he says and John gladly obliges.
He removes his jacket and after a few seconds of hesitation, the gloves as well. They were fun the last time, impersonal and rough, but tonight is different. Tonight will be much more intimate, much closer. His shoes and socks join the small pile on the floor.
John approaches the white sheet on the floor and chooses a pair of thick, strong leather straps. He moves over to the bed where Sherlock is still kneeling patiently. A bit rougher than strictly necessary, John gets a hold of Sherlock's wrists and uses one of the straps to tie them together. John has been securing ropes and the likes for long enough to know which kind of knot will make this restraint an escape-less one for the recipient.
John can hear Sherlock's breathing quicken. Smiling, John forces the other man's arms upwards and uses the second strap to tie them to the headboard. He watches Sherlock pull, slightly at first, then a bit stronger. Nothing. No escape.
"Well done," he comments and John leans down to give Sherlock's neck a painful nip.
"Quiet," he orders and Sherlock's mouth snaps shut immediately.
John lifts a finger and traces the closed lips with it, taking in the perfect swing of them. He presses against them until they part and grant John's index and middle finger access. Sherlock's mouth is moist and hot and at once, the man starts sucking, twirling his tongue around John's fingers.
"Eager, aren't we?" John growls and pulls them out, wiping off the saliva on Sherlock's nipples.
They harden, glistening with spit and Sherlock lets out a tiny whimper.
John moves away once more, eyeing the assortment on the floor. He had liked the ball gag, the muffled sounds, the look of those gorgeous lips stretched tight around it. John has plans for that smart mouth but surely, a bit of forehand stretching can't do any harm, can it? He picks it up, returns to the bed and wordlessly presses the silicon ball against Sherlock's mouth who opens up willingly and lets John adjust the gag. Sherlock obediently bites down, lips stretched and John fastens the straps behind the other man's head, securing it.
Sherlock is shivering now and still on his knees which creates a very awkward position with his arms tied to the headboard. John strokes Sherlock's cheek with a thumb and tells him to unfold his legs so that he can lean back and lie down properly.
"Spread your legs," John orders and Sherlock does, nicely displaying his cock. It is almost fully erect now, the pink head revealing itself.
John strokes it lazily with one finger, not putting any pressure into the touch, simply letting the texture of it brush over his own skin as he touches the base, the middle, the very top. Sherlock's hips jerk upwards and John takes care of that by using his free hand to press down onto Sherlock's right hipbone.
"Don't," he says.
Sherlock grows still and John continues his teasing. Feather-light touches, over and over.
Under John's restraining hand, Sherlock tries his hardest not to wiggle and jerk. John's fingers move a bit, outlining Sherlock's balls, teasingly stroking over his buttocks, his inner thighs. John brushes a thumb over Sherlock's flat stomach, leans over to have another go with the nipples. Unlike last time, John doesn't touch the body underneath him harshly and for once, simply sticks with brushes and not-really-touches that slowly but surely drive the other man crazy.
The occasional whimper is muffled by the gag.
A look up at his face tells John that Sherlock is biting down hard on the silicon ball by now. A small trickle of saliva has escaped his mouth, making its way past the gag and down Sherlock's chin. John swallows and his cock grows harder at the sight, yearning for some more space to expand.
This time is different, he remembers, this time, I know for sure he wants this. I can have him, he can touch and pleasure me.
He lets go off anything Sherlock abruptly and stands next to the bed. For a minute, maybe two, he simply watches Sherlock breathe and tremble. Then, he slowly undresses himself, all the while watching Sherlock. John loves the way Sherlock's hips jerk when John unzips his trousers, adores the clenching of his thigh muscles when the sound of discarded clothing sounds through the room.
Once he has fully stripped, John picks up another set of leather straps.
"You're moving too much. You were much more well-behaved last week," he informs Sherlock in a low voice and fastens one of the restraints to the man's right ankle, tying the ends to the leg of the bed. He repeats the motion with the other ankle, careful to tie the knot just right. John wants to be able to untie these quickly and efficiently when a new position is required.
Once he is satisfied, John moves upwards and kneels over Sherlock, placing his legs left and right from Sherlock's chest. John's cock is just as erect as Sherlock's now and all John wants is some friction.
There's more drool now, glistening on Sherlock's face in the shine of the lamp. John wipes at it with his thumb and Sherlock exhales sharply, causing more saliva to gather at the edges of the gag. It really shouldn't be erotic but it is. It's arousing and John can't keep himself from rubbing his erection against Sherlock's chest once, twice, while rubbing the liquid into Sherlock's skin and tracing the lips around the ball gag, lightly touching the teeth.
"Slobbering like a dog," he murmurs and Sherlock whimpers.
John loves that Sherlock can't control the drooling, can't voice his thoughts. But he has plans, plans the gag interferes with as much as he loves what wearing it does to Sherlock.
"I'll free you from the gag for tonight," John tells him, leaning forward to be able to speak directly into Sherlock's ear, "but I want that pretty mouth of yours to do something else than talk and drool in that case."
John can't see of course but can imagine the screwed-up eyes underneath the blind-fold. Sherlock knows what John is asking, thinks about the possible consequences and finally, gives a faint nod of consent. John can't suppress a grin.
He quickly opens the clasp behind Sherlock's head and removes the ball, carelessly dropping it onto the floor next to the bed. Sherlock's tongue moves to catch the worst of the mess around his lips, but John doesn't give him much time for clean-up.
Leaning forward and settling into place, he presses his cock, pink head exposed, against the parted mouth. Sherlock stills for the tiniest of moments, then lifts his head and sucks almost greedily.
John doesn't bother to stifle the pleased moan. Sherlock definitely knows what he is doing, carefully caressing the slit on the very top with his tongue before slowly swallowing the whole length bit by bit.
John helps along by pressing forward and then, Sherlock's head is moving back and forth again, a game of suction and determined strokes of his tongue. It's exquisite and John carelessly lets another moan escape because why shouldn't Sherlock know that he is doing a wonderful job at cock-sucking?
The hair around John's genitals brushes against Sherlock's lips and nose, possibly a bit scratchy against his face, but the man never falters, eagerly swallowing and fighting his gag-reflex whenever John hits the back of his throat.
It's perfect, absolutely perfect.
Finally, when John must fear that the fun might be over way too soon, he carefully pulls back and shudders at the smacking sound of his glistening erection leaving the moist warmth that is Sherlock's mouth.
"Mhm," Sherlocks hums as if he has just tasted the most delicious treat and John allows it because it isn't actual speaking and sounds utterly sexy anyway.
"I think I'd like to fuck you soon," John tells him and Sherlock moans in response.
He jerks his head towards the bedside table where a tube of lubricant is waiting to be used. John contemplates whether or not to use one of the plugs to stretch Sherlock but decides it is too much effort to leave the bed again.
Instead, he slicks up his fingers, rubbing his hands together to warm them up a bit. Sherlock on his back won't do for the actual act but for now, it works just fine. After a few cruelly light touches for Sherlock's probably aching erection, John moves one finger between Sherlock's buttocks and finds the muscle.
Not gagged any longer, Sherlock cannot stop the needy moan but John doesn't want him to be quiet any longer. Entering and carefully stretching Sherlock's hole, John murmurs: "You may moan, whimper, cry - I don't care as long as it isn't talking. You sound gorgeous."
And Sherlock does.
He clenches around John's slick fingers, shamelessly moaning and shaking with need. John thinks he might come just from the sight, the sound of it all. He starts scissoring Sherlock slowly, carefully stretching and prodding.
When finally, finally the man is thoroughly prepared, John pulls out his fingers and a heart-felt Oooh! from Sherlock is all he needs to know that yes, Sherlock is already missing the penetration.
John hurries to untie Sherlock's ankles and guides the man, helps him with rolling over so Sherlock can half-kneel on the bed. The leather straps at the headboard twirl once at the movement.
Fumbling for the lubricant, John carefully prepares his cock, if a bit sloppily. He doesn't care about the mess or the imperfection of the coating. All he wants to do know, all he cares about is fucking. Sherlock. senseless.
His hands come down on Sherlock's buttocks, squeezing them a bit before parting them, moving his erection to the prepared, slick entrance.
"Come on!" Sherlock hisses and John presses his fingernails into the flesh of Sherlock's arse as a warning.
"Patience!" he reprimands him and even though he is shaking in need himself by now, John only presses against the muscle lightly, reminding Sherlock just who is in control tonight.
Sherlock presses his face into the pillows then. A sound escapes his throat, something between a whine and a sob and John knows that Sherlock has understood. Un-curling his fingers and watching in satisfaction the ten half-moon shaped marks appear on the pale skin of Sherlock's buttocks, John finally pushes into Sherlock.
They moan simultaneously when John sinks in deep.
Despite everything, John gives Sherlock time to adjust to the feeling. He doesn't want to hurt him after all, this isn't really about pain.
As soon as Sherlock's breathing has become more even again and his hips start moving to find friction, John starts pulling back. He manages two slow, precise thrusts before he looses himself in the sensation and starts fucking Sherlock properly, slamming into him, the sound of skin-on-skin, balls-on-arse echoing through the bedroom.
Sherlock is moaning, shaking, sweating and one of John's arms sneak around Sherlock's hips to get a hold of his cock while the other is holding him up. Sherlock's erection is hot and heavy in John's hands, having been very much neglected so far, and John strokes and squeezes, never slowing down with his thrusts.
John comes first because really, it is all way too much - the foreplay, the restraints, the sight of Sherlock's pale and long back and those sounds he is making, needy and horny whimpers and moans that are music to John's ears.
His cock is pulsating, filling Sherlock with warm, sticky semen and the clenching of John's hand around Sherlock's cock must be a bit painful but enough to make him hit the peak shortly after.
John allows himself to collapse onto Sherlock for a moment, panting, a pearl of sweat rolling off his forehead and falling onto Sherlock's back, before he carefully and slowly pulls out. Sherlock's body is trembling in post-coital exhaustion, the bliss of orgasm keeping him from saying or doing anything.
John sits down on the side of the bed, taking in deep breaths. Normally, this would be the time for cuddling.
"Wow," Sherlock finally manages and John has to laugh a bit.
"Yes," he agrees and settles a lazy hand on Sherlock's calf. "Pretty much."
They rest in comfortable silence for a few minutes, simply reveling in the feeling of a having enjoyed a proper and breath-taking shag.
"I'll clean you up," John eventually tells him and gets up, still naked and not caring he's a bit sticky between his legs himself.
Sherlock mumbles something into the mattress that might have been "You don't have to", but John doesn't care much about his opinion anyways. As far as John is concerned, the one in charge is still John himself.
He leaves the room and enters the bathroom across the hallway he had found when first entering the flat for a complete different purpose than having a blissful shag with the inhabitant. He finds soft washcloths and towels in a cupboard and decides to sneak down into the kitchen to find a bowl.
Eventually, he returns to the bedroom where Sherlock has managed to roll onto his back again, still tied to the headboard, blind-fold tight over his eyes. John wonders what it must be like, not knowing what your sexual partner looked like and whether or not it made the experience much more arousing or not. Remembering the reactions Sherlock had shown earlier, John thinks he can guess the right answer.
The water is luke-warm, the washcloth a soft flannel and John, who has had a quick clean-up in the bathroom while preparing the bowl of water for Sherlock, sits down on the bed.
"Spread your legs," John tells him, this time in a completely different voice.
Sherlock does, but speaks up: "You really don't have to do that, John."
John only makes a humming sound in response and starts cleaning Sherlock's soiled stomach and sticky cock with one of the small towels, careful around the sensitive skin down there.
Then, he presses Sherlock's legs up and back with one arm and only a hint of force. He dips another washcloth into the bowl of water.
Carefully, very carefully, he cleans the cleft between Sherlock's buttocks, rubs softly over the abused muscle and efficiently wipes off the drying semen. The entrance is red, a bit raw, but luckily, no blood is visible. John switches washcloths, twirls a corner into a neat little roll and makes it wet before pressing it into Sherlock, cleaning the entrance as much as possible for now.
In a way, cleaning Sherlock up is arousing but John is way too exhausted and spent for now to have another go.
"Is this about the names?" Sherlocks asks in between the occasional hisses when John manages to rub the cloth over a particularly tender spot.
"A bit," John admits. "It's been a lot more personal than last time."
Sherlock chuckles lowly. "I don't even know what you look like. I don't think that's very personal at all. More real, yes, but-"
"I disagree," John interrupts him simply and finishes up. "This'll do for now. I don't think I've injured you, though, which is good."
He puts away the bowl and stands up, going through the pile of clothes on the floor to find his underpants. Sherlock shifts on the bed, still tied to the headboard.
"What about the restraints?" Sherlock asks, sounding a bit impatient.
John laughs again and it sounds a bit creepy, even to his own ears. "They stay where they are. Maybe until I come by - tomorrow night, yes?"
Sherlock tenses up at once. "You wouldn't do that."
"I wouldn't?" John reaches for his trousers. "I'm not too sure about that. I'm not gagging you again, you can call for your landlady to help you out in case of an emergency."
He finishes closing the trouser button and reaches for his shirt, pulling it over his head and slipping his arms into the sleeves in one swift motion. Vision no longer disturbed by fabric, John looks over at Sherlock who is lying stock-still.
John walks over, leaning down to place the faintest of kisses onto Sherlock's lips which are pressed together tightly. The man is not amused.
"You're not serious," Sherlock tells him but there's a tremble to his voice that betrays his concern.
"I am not," John agrees and moves to open the knots around Sherlock's wrists. "At least today. Another night, though, maybe?"
Sherlock shivers on the bed.