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Sherlock huffs a breath, the cold making it visible in a small cloud of air, while John’s head hits the head rest for the fourth time. The fog doesn’t lift at all, making it harder for Sherlock to drive even as he wants to get a chopper and rush John to a hospital. He may have assured Sherlock that the wound isn’t deep but that doesn’t stop the worry from clouding his mind.
The car grinds to a halt, waking John. He looks at Sherlock questioningly. Sherlock frowns. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Please don’t tell me we broke down.”
He leans over to check the fuel. Empty.
“Appears that we did.”
John groans, resting his head on top of the dashboard. “Anywhere we can refill?” He asks.
“I have no idea.”
“Aren’t you The Sherlock Holmes, Only Consulting Detective in The World?”
“Yes John but I don’t know everything.”
“Yeah you do.”
“Not this time.”
“Brilliant,” John murmurs, “This is brilliant. Now we’re stuck here in this fog, on the moor in THE MIDDLE OF DECEMBER-”
“It’s the 24th of December, John. Not exactly the middle, we’re nearing the end of the month.”
John shoots him a glare and he falls silent.
“How are we going to get out of here, Sherlock.”
“Check your phone again. Do you have network?”
John fishes out his phone from his pocket. “No network.” Sherlock’s lips press together in a thin line, his mind working furiously in order to get them out of here and into a hospital. Or at least somewhere safe enough to stay the night.
He brings up the only map of the moor he had memorised and searches for their location, along with any nearby farms or shacks to shelter them in case of snow.
Unbeknownst to him, it has already started snowing lightly.
He comes up with one place that is closest to their current location and also the safest, but the exhilaration of finding it is diluted by the name of the place itself.
Sherlock opens his eyes and stares at John, who is clutching his wound and looking at him expectantly.
“Find anything?”
Sherlock continues to stare at John, his gaze unfalteringly intense.
“What?” John asks
“I found a place.”
“Great! Let’s go there then! Why are you staring at me like that.”
“The place is….”
“Is what? I am pretty sure it’s better than sitting here in this car all night, getting cramped up. I don’t care what it is, let’s go.”
Sherlock blinks repeatedly. “John… are you sure? ”
“Yeah, of course. Come on now.”
Soon they are out of the car, and walking blindly in the direction Sherlock is taking them. He notices John shivering and drapes his thick bell staff around his shoulders. John’s own coat is pressed against the wound in his side.
When they finally arrive at the place, the snow which had previously been a light drizzle has steadily started falling faster and thicker.
They both step in.
Sherlock watches from the corner of his eye as John’s mouth falls open.
“Sherlock why did you not tell me that we were going to......”
“An abandoned BDSM den.”
------------------
Sherlock scrubs a hand over his face as John gawkes at the equipment. "What the fuck, Sherlock."
"This is the only place that was close enough, John. And don't pretend you've never seen a sex toy in your life."
"Of course I have, but this isn't...."
"Isn't what?"
"Nothing."
"Your wound," Sherlock says, and skims his fingers over the spot where John took a knife for him. "Is bleeding" he manages to choke out. "You shouldn't have done that, John."
The next moment is heated, heavy with the implications of what is being said and what isn't. Sherlock stares at John, his breath catching in his throat as arousal wars with worry, completely confusing him about what he wants, and what he doesn't.
"Done what?" John asks, his voice low and dangerous. Sherlock himself does not know whether he was referring to John taking a knife for him or the fact that two days ago, he had stepped away when Sherlock had almost kissed him.
It's Sherlock's turn to step back. "We need to find some supplies to clean your wound."
"Yes," John says. Sherlock finds the First Aid Kit inside the sole cupboard, stuffed so far back into it that he has to get out the handcuffs and dildos in order to reach it
He watches as John's face turns a particularly arousing shade of dark magenta and tries his hardest not to stare as the blush creeps down, and disappears into the folds of John's shirt.
He manages to clean John's wound without doing anything stupid and immediately retires to look for a comfortable enough bed to sleep in for the night.
(Un) fortunately, finds what he was looking for.
A bed.
With handcuffs attached to the headboard and a mattress that is so thin, it is almost non-existent.
There is a metal table towards the right, with chains attached to it. Along with a sex swing, a spanking bench and a huge dildo placed strategically towards the left of the bed. Sherlock idly wonders what could have put a place like this out of business and forced the owners to abandon it.
And then his thoughts shift, moving towards more and more unholy things such as how he would look if he lied face-down on the spanking bench with John standing behind him....
Sherlock shakes his head.
He needs to keep out such thoughts if he wants to be in control of his transport.
Just when Sherlock manages to compose himself, John walks in, eyes widening even more after looking at all the equipment in the room. Sherlock’s cock twitches in his pants and he groans internally.
It is going to be a long night indeed.
---------------
Neither of them speak for what feels like hours. Sherlock stands suddenly and gestures towards the only thing that resembles a bed in the room. “I, um, you can take the bed. I will take that table over there,” he says, pointing at the metal table with chains.
“Sherlock…..”
“It’s fine, John. I can easily control my transport. It won’t be uncomfortable for me.”
John sighs. “Fine. Wake me if it gets too uncomfortable? We’ll take turns using this one.”
He nods mechanically and settles in, not bothering to undress due to the cold.
They lie down facing one another, John on the bed, and Sherlock on the bench, each using his arm as pillow.
For a long time, the only sounds in the room their joint breathing.
Gradually, Sherlock feels his eyes getting heavier and heavier and before he knows it, he is fast asleep.
On the bed, John falls asleep too.
----------------------------
Sherlock wakes to the sound of furniture being moved around and sunlight streaming through the scant windows in the place. He sits up and immediately regrets it because of the cramps in his lower back and neck.
A quick look around reveals that John is not here. There are people in the room milling about, each of them moving articles of furniture to a truck waiting outside. The dildos and sex swing are gone. So is John’s bed.
“Where’s John?” Sherlock yells and all eyes turn to him.
“Oh, your boyfriend? He’s having a cuppa with the director.”
Sherlock ignores the former statement. “Where can I find him?”
“In hell, in a few years,” mutters a worker to his left. Sherlock looks him up and down. Deductions flit through his mind but he does not examine them too closely.
He steps out of the place, to find John chatting with the director, calmly sipping from his cup. The director is a tall man, although a little shorter than Sherlock, he has a few pounds on him. And going by his stature, he served in the army too. Sherlock's fist clenches as John throws back his head and laughs at something the director says.
"So." Sherlock injects himself into the conversation, effectively increasing the distance between the two former soldiers. "What's the joke?" He asks.
John looks at him strangely. "We were just talking about how Robert here ended up running a BDSM den post service."
"Hahaha, that was really funny." Sherlock says flatly, no trace of humour evident in his voice. "Did you ask him for a lift back home?" Sherlock asks John, completely ignoring the bewildered look he gets from Robert at being so flatly ignored.
"Oh yeah, almost forgot about it. Could you do us a favour and drop us to 221B?" John asks him and he agrees immediately.
Ten minutes later, they are both seated at the back of the truck, along with a few other goods which had already been loaded in before the plan was made.
"What was that?" Sherlock asks John, eyes flashing.
"What was what?"
"You chatting up an ex army soldier."
"Firstly, I wasn't chatting anyone up. And secondly, he is just an old acquaintance. We were catching up."
"Did you see how he was looking at you?"
"....no? Why?"
"He looked like he wanted to bend you over that spanking bench and have his way with you."
John chuckles- "I'd say you look like YOU want ME to do exactly that to you." -and winks.
Sherlock feels all of the blood in his body rush to his groin. "I-um-"
John quickly looks away, thus making the silence even more awkward. Throughout the journey, neither of them say a word.
When they reach home, Sherlock changes the dressing of John's wound and John notices his hindered movements.
"What happened?"
"Got cramped up while sleeping." He answers.
"Let me see."
"It's fine, John. Just a minor cramp."
John ignores his protests and continues to examine Sherlock's back.
"You'll need a massage and you'll be good to go soon enough."
"John, my body is just transport, it doesn't matter how cramped up I am. I certainly don't need a massage, of all things." Sherlock wrinkles his nose haughtily.
John hears none of it. And so, it is decided.
After a warm shower, Sherlock strips down to his underwear and lies face down onto the sofa while John hovers at the arm, oil in hand.
Gently, he massages Sherlock's lower back and neck, worrying the skin between his shoulder blades with his fingers. John's hands map the expanse of his back and the touch feels light, comforting but arousing all the same.
"It's true. You were right." Sherlock blurts.
"About what?" John asks. His hands stop moving, confusion rippling off of him.
Too late! You should have thought before you opened your mouth, Sherlock chastises himself.
"About me wanting you to do exactly what Robert wanted to do to you."
John smirks.
He lets his hands wander, sliding under the thin material of Sherlock's underwear, groping his arse, moving lower, lower. Sherlock groans deep in his throat and doesn't fail to notice the effect it has on John.
John's hand doesn't stop this time. It slips between Sherlock's legs, carefully fondling his balls and lubing them up.
He avoids touching Sherlock's hole, instead circling around it, teasing. It drives him insane but he manages not to reach back and shove John's hand into his hole.
And then something unexpected happens. The sting of a belt across the sensitive skin of his arse makes him moan, partly in pleasure, partly in pain.
"B-been shoplifting, have we, John." Sherlock asks through gritted teeth.
"None of them even know how to use it right. This isn't made for whipping. It's made for spanking."
"Indeed. Get on with it Jo-"
Another moan is ripped from his throat as the belt unexpectedly hits his clothed arse again. And again.
John sets the belt aside, and works off Sherlock's pants, revealing the creamy expanse of skin marked with straight red marks from the belt.
It is beautiful.
John gets down onto his knees, slowly parting Sherlock's cheeks and rests one oiled finger at his entrance. Neither pushing in, nor pulling away. He just leaves his finger there for a long time, instead licking a wet stripe across Sherlock's left cheek, then right.
Sherlock almost comes from that alone but John draws back his tongue and his finger just in time.
Sherlock aches.
"J-J'n, please."
"No, Sherlock not so soon. I'm not going to let you have your release so soon." John growls, "At least not before I fuck you into this mattress. It is Christmas after all, and I'm gonna take my time to unravel you."
"Yes. Yeesss, please do that I need that John I need you inside me…" he trails off because John's finger is now pushing into him, working past the ring of muscles and "Holy shit it feels so good. So good, yes,"
Sherlock pushes back onto John's fingers, seeking the friction, but John stops him. Electricity rushes up Sherlock's spine as John's fingers brush against his prostate. "J'n…. John. Fuck me NOW."
John chuckles at his impatience and gently withdrawing his fingers, lubes himself up. Sherlock moans as John's entire length sinks inside him.
The filthy sounds of skin slapping against skin, John's considerable length and their combined moans, all send Sherlock tumbling into pure, white bliss.
When he opens his eyes next, John has fallen asleep on top of him. Sherlock smiles a warm smile down at him and gently threads his fingers through John's hair.
This was the Best Christmas present he could have possibly received.