Work Text:
”Bored.”
John paused his typing long enough to look heavenward, praying for assistance. When neither an interesting corpse nor a new case file dropped onto his head, he shook it wearily and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“So help me Sherlock, if you say that again…” Sherlock hopped up from his armchair and grabbed his violin, letting loose a string of manic notes pointedly before setting it down again and pacing around the room. John saved a draft of his blog post, then carefully closed his laptop and set it aside.
“Why don’t you go see if Lestrade has any cold cases he needs help with?” Sherlock waved a hand at him dismissively, one long, graceful wrist revealed as the sleeve of his dressing-gown slid down his arm. John very carefully avoided staring; Sherlock would definitely notice, and subsequently subject him to a round of interrogation to rival any he’d seen in his Army days.
“He doesn’t have any.”
“Maybe Molly has some fresh bodies for you to experiment on.” Sherlock pointed at his phone, which had been lying traitorously silent on the table all weekend.
“She would have called.” John glared at the phone, as if it had done him some personal affront. He stood and walked to the kitchen, flipping on the electric kettle for a cup of tea before opening the door to the refrigerator. Moving aside a bag of small toes, he picked up the plastic jug of milk: empty. He turned around and waved it pointedly at Sherlock, who ignored him in favor of the skull.
“You could always run out and get the milk.” At the mention of milk Sherlock shot him a glare of sheer disgust. John chuckled as he binned the jug.
“Don’t give me that face. It’ll get you out of the house. You can stop at the pub and go people-watching on the way there, I know you like that.” Sherlock dropped onto the sofa, sulking quietly. John folded his arms across his chest and stared him down. Being bored was one thing, but he’d not tolerate sulking, thank you very much.
“That’s no fun unless you’re with me.” John softened a bit at that.
“Sherlock, it’s about to rain.” Sherlock’s eyes flicked to John’s right shoulder quickly, where the scar would be, before checking outside to confirm that there were, indeed, ominous rainclouds gathering outside. He wasn’t sure what it was, but his shoulder often hurt badly with inclement weather, a fact with which Sherlock was very familiar; it had almost cost them the chase once or twice, when he’d been forced to choose between staying after the suspect and stopping to ascertain whether John was alright.
Once, when it had been particularly bad and had John sitting up all night trying not to scream, Sherlock had come up and sat with him; not saying anything, simply sitting on the bed reading his book, close enough for John to feel the heat emanating from him. That memory had gotten John through several lonely nights.
“Fine. I’ll get some milk.” Sherlock’s dash into his room broke John from his reverie. The detective emerged minutes later turned out in his usual, which was of course leagues better than John’s Sunday best, and walked out the door, muttering a goodbye to Mrs. Hudson as he left. John turned to check the table beside the door; sure enough, Sherlock had left his keys and would be locked out again. Sighing, he turned back to his blog, waiting for the inevitable flood of texts.
Ten minutes later, the bell went. John rolled his eyes and picked up Sherlock’s key ring.
“You’d leave your bloody arse behind if it wasn’t attached—“John stopped short as he pulled open the door to find himself face to face not with Sherlock’s silk scarf and overcoat, but a very decidedly female-shaped person. His eyes traveled upwards slowly from the wicked-looking heels (the ones with the red soles, from some designer whose name he couldn’t pronounce) and fitted, high-collared emerald overcoat to a blood-red smirk that made him weak in the knees, which took all of his military training to avoid showing.
“Hello, John.” He gave her a wan smile.
“Irene. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” She quirked an eyebrow at him and shrugged elegantly, cocking her head.
“Bored.”
God, he was so tired of that word.
~~~
“John? JOHN!” Sherlock hammered on the door again, impatient. John hadn’t responded to any of his texts, leading Sherlock to believe that his phone was either off or being ignored. That did not explain his refusal to come to the door, however. Perhaps he’d gone out. But that couldn’t have been it either; John would have left a note, fastidious as he was.
“Mrs. Hudson! Let me in!” She didn’t answer either; was her hearing really getting so bad? He’d have to have John find her another otologist, he’d told them that that first one was incompetent, you could tell just by the look of his lab coat pockets. Mrs. Hudson needed a proper professional so that she could hear him when he bloody well left his keys on the table and had to bang on the door to get her attention.
His phone suddenly moaned.
He whipped it out of his pocket in surprise; Irene hadn’t texted him in months. What could she possibly want now? He unlocked the screen and stared at the message.
Say please.
Confused, he backed up to watch the windows of the flat. They were empty, the curtains unmoving; nobody had been standing in them recently. He frowned and returned his attention to the door; there were no windows with which he could see inside. He strode forward and knelt to peer into the mail slot; the hallway was empty. His phone moaned again, earning him strange looks from several passers-by headed for the café.
I said, say please.
Standing back from the door, he narrowed his eyes in annoyance.
“Please.”
There were a few seconds of silence, and then the door’s handle clicked and opened an inch. He stepped inside cautiously, wary at the sound of stilettoed footsteps heading back towards the staircase. Irene mounted the stairs gracefully and looked back at him, one pale shoulder slipping out of her silk dress.
“Good manners can open many doors, Sherlock. Do come in.” Sherlock huffed; he did not need an invitation into his own flat. Following Irene up the stairs and through the door, he immediately circled the sitting room and kitchen.
“What have you done with John?” Irene grinned wickedly, her teeth perfectly white between her red lips.
“Oh, I was so hoping you’d ask. This way.” Irene led Sherlock into his own bedroom, where he stopped short in the doorway, not quite willing to believe his own eyes.
John knelt, naked, on the bed, bound in lengths of scarlet rope (silk, by the look of it) tied in intricate, asymmetrical patterns (traditional Japanese rope bondage, known as Kinbaku, literally translated as ‘the beauty of tight binding) that covered him neck to ankle. John showed no signs of coercion or force; in fact he was visibly aroused, fully erect and breathing heavily. Sherlock stared, stunned, before leaning in to whisper to him.
“John, are you all right?” Sherlock heard Irene laugh behind him; he turned around angrily to find her dressed only in her stilettos and a miniscule thong, brandishing her riding crop. She strode towards him and traced his cheek with its tip.
“Don’t worry, Sherlock. It’s all consensual.” John nodded on the bed, his cock bobbing as he did so. Sherlock very determinedly kept his eyes on his flatmate’s face.
“It is. Thought we’d give you a new puzzle to solve, since there’s nothing else to do.” Irene’s riding crop whistled through the air, landing with a crack on the duvet between John’s legs. John yelped, almost tumbling over backwards in surprise.
“Silence. You will not speak unless spoken to.” John nodded quickly, chastened. Irene turned back to Sherlock, her smile predatory.
“Here are the rules, Sherlock. You have sixty seconds to figure out how to free John. If you manage it, you may tie us both up and do with us as you please. If not, I get to do with John as I please, while you watch.” Sherlock studied her; her face was the same unreadable mask it had been in her flat, her sanguine smirk never leaving her face as she waited expectantly for his answer. John was easier to read, even without his clothes. (Widened eyes and dilated pupils, sweating, flushed; tense but not from fear. Anticipation. Arousal. He wants it.) He took another second to consider before making his decision.
“Alright.” Irene prodded him towards the bed with her riding crop before dragging the wooden chair from the corner of the room to the side of the bed. Sitting down, she crossed her long legs and nodded at him.
“Your sixty seconds begin now.”
Sherlock began working immediately. The ropes crisscrossed John’s chest and hips; Sherlock was happy to note that Irene had taken care not to have any of them pulling on or touching the scar on John’s shoulder, something that would have enraged Sherlock beyond belief. The bonds continued down John’s legs; his thighs were tied in such a way that they were forced open by a line connecting to the knotted harness around his chest, and another set of ropes hobbled him so that he had no choice but to kneel.
Sherlock ran his hands over the ropes, his heart racing as his fingers occasionally brushed against John’s overheated skin; he was trying to trace the lines of the harness back to the knot that they originated from, the one that held the whole thing together, but every sudden gasp from John would break his train of thought and he’d have to start all over again.
One set of ropes in particular fascinated him; both of John’s arms were securely anchored to it, with his right arm crossed over his chest and his left twisted up behind his back, where the ropes came over his shoulders and twisted down his spine. Sherlock slid his fingers underneath the coil and tugged gently, eliciting a loud moan from John. Following the ropes down to where they slid between the cheeks of John’s arse Sherlock found a small square knot tied into the rope, settled snugly against John’s already-slick hole. Sherlock shivered; every time John moved the knot would rub against him like a cock preparing to penetrate. He couldn’t imagine the torment it must be causing John.
“Well?” Irene’s voice cut through the various scenarios running through his head (all of them involving John, tied to the headboard and blindfolded, while Sherlock slowly and scientifically catalogues all the places that make him moan-), impatient and demanding.
Sherlock followed the ropes the rest of the way around John’s body to the V-shaped pair that framed his cock perfectly. A particularly intricate knot sat on John’s belly, connected to the rest of the ropes by various loops and ties.
“It’s this knot. Pull that and he should come free.” Irene nods, and Sherlock can almost detect a touch of pride in her voice.
“Excellent. However, your time is well up. Sixty-four seconds. And here John assured me you’d be able to do it.” She stood and steered him toward the chair with a strong hand, producing a length of rope with the other.
“Sit down, Sherlock.” Irene tied Sherlock’s wrists together behind the chair, anchoring them to the legs to ensure he couldn’t escape. Straddling him, she leaned close, her lips a hair’s breadth away from his.
“I think you deserve some punishment for failing, don’t you?” He laughed, raising a pointed eyebrow.
“You’re the dominatrix.” She smirked at him, rolling her hips. He couldn’t help but let out a groan, feeling the first signs of an erection coming on.
“Such a defiant boy. We’ll soon fix that. In the meantime…John, on your stomach.” John complied and was soon facedown on the mattress, arse spread and in the air. Irene climbed off Sherlock and walked over to the bed to run her nails down John’s back before tugging on the rope running down his spine, eliciting a high whine. She giggled and turned back to Sherlock.
“Look at him, all trussed up and spread open. We could do anything we wanted to him, couldn’t we?” Sherlock nodded breathlessly, unable to take his eyes from John’s heavy-lidded, lust-filled face. Irene had to redirect him with the end of her riding crop.
“How many licks do you think he deserves, Sherlock?” Sherlock groaned aloud at the thought, already able to imagine the slap of the leather against John’s backside. He’d never looked into BDSM, not as anything more than a corroboration for an alibi, but if it was this arousing-
“How many?” He shivered, trying to gauge how much John could take versus how much would be too little for optimum pleasure.
“Ten.” Irene took up her position on the opposite side of the bed, so that Sherlock had a complete view of the scene. Threading her fingers through John’s sandy hair, she pulled his head back and spoke into his ear, her voice low.
“What’s your safe word, John?” Sherlock could see the tremor in John’s body as he replied.
“Baker.”
“Say it again.”
“Baker, ma’am.” Irene released his head, letting him fall back to the bed, and picked up her crop again.
“Good boy.” She ran the tip of the crop down his spine, letting it rest lightly against the cheeks of his arse as she gave Sherlock a burning stare.
“Count them, Sherlock.”
The first blow landed suddenly with a sharp smack. John let out a yelp, his face reddening as his entire body jerked forward. Sherlock swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly very dry.
“One.”
Smack.
“ Two.”
Smack.
“Three.”
John’s cries quickly transitioned into moans as he buried his face in the duvet, trying to muffle them. Sherlock squirmed in his chair, his erection becoming uncomfortable in the confines of his trousers. He tugged on his bonds desperately, trying to free his hands and relieve himself, but they held fast. He kept counting all the while.
Smack.
“Ten.” Irene ran one hand over John’s trembling flanks, pressing gently on the reddened welts rising over his arse and thighs. She licked a particularly prominent stripe with a flick of her pink tongue to drag another whimper out of John before stalking back towards Sherlock.
“How was that, Sherlock? Did you enjoy it?” Irene threaded her fingers through Sherlock’s hair, her thumb gently stroking his scalp. Sherlock leaned into the touch, sighing. He breathed in her perfume as he closed his eyes to fully appreciate the rhythmic sensation.
“He…took it well.” Irene’s voice sounded in his ear, her lips close enough to brush against his temple.
“Yes, I believe he did. That deserves a reward.” The hand in his hair drew away, and Irene’s voice rang out sharp and commanding.
“On your back, John.” Sherlock opened his eyes in time to see John flip himself over, his cock lying hard and heavy against his belly. Irene climbed onto the bed and straddled him, grinding her hips gently into his.
“Don’t come until I tell you to, John.”
Bending down, she nipped at John’s throat with her teeth to leave a rapidly reddening mark. She worked her way down his body slowly, biting and licking, grinning when a pinch to his left nipple dragged a tortured moan from his lips. She continued to tease it lightly with her fingertips as another hand slipped down between her thighs, hidden from Sherlock’s view. He nearly broke his own neck trying to bend to an angle that would allow him to see what was going on; whatever it was, it had both Irene and John groaning breathlessly.
Irene rolled off suddenly, leaving John whimpering at the loss of contact. Grinning at John’s flushed face, she crawled towards the headboard and threw a leg over his head, pulling the thong aside and positioning herself just so; Sherlock’s heart began to pound as he realized what was about to happen, and the room seemed to grow hotter as Irene gripped the headboard before giving John a single command.
“Eat my cunt, boy.”
John whimpered again and Irene began rolling her hips, the bed swaying with her rhythm. Sherlock found himself matching the tempo with several thrusts of his own, desperately seeking any kind of friction he could get. His need was growing unbearable.
Irene sped up, her breath coming in short gasps. The headboard knocked hard against the wall, sending paint chips flying to the carpet; Mrs. Hudson would have fits. Sherlock watched, mesmerized, as Irene took her hands from the board and ran them over her pale skin, massaging her breasts, her dark nails digging into John’s scalp to direct his tongue. When she finally came, mouth slack and head thrown back, Sherlock was on the edge himself.
“Irene, let me out.” She climbed off of John and kissed him, long and slow, ignoring Sherlock completely.
“God you’re good, John Watson. No wonder you’re swimming in cunt.” John grinned back at her as she ran a thumb along his lower lip before climbing off of him and lying next to him on the bed, running her nails down his chest. Sherlock slumped in his chair, his heart pounding.
“Irene-“ Irene interrupted him quickly.
“What should I do to him next, Sherlock? Should I fuck him?” Sherlock could only reply with a moan. Irene slid off the bed and stalked over to her large handbag, opening it and removing a large dildo attached to a harness. Sherlock strained at his bonds as John moaned at the sight.
Irene chuckled and stepped into the harness, fastening it securely around her waist and thighs and climbing back onto the bed to kneel between John’s open legs. Sherlock watched, wide-eyed, as she rolled a condom onto her fingers and poured lube over them, licking John up outside with a wet, obscene sound. John let lose a string of obscenities.
“Oh, fucking hell…” Sherlock shuddered with him as he watched one finger, and then two, disappear into John’s arse, gently stretching him wider and wider.
“Language, John.” Irene reached up with her free hand and placed her riding crop between John’s teeth. He answered with a whimper as she crooked her fingers inside him, fingers tapping a steady staccato against one particular spot. Sherlock closed his eyes, lost in fantasies of himself doing that to John, his own slender fingers bringing that broken look to John’s face-
He shook himself and swallowed, finding his voice.
“No, please. Let me…let me hear him.” Irene cocked her head at him for a moment, a smile on her lips.
“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll fuck him ‘til he comes and let you hear, but you don’t get to come tonight.” Sherlock didn’t hesitate.
“Yes.” Irene nodded and lid her fingers out of John, removing the riding crop with her other hand. Grasping John by the chin, she turned his head to his left, towards where Sherlock was sitting.
“Alright then. John, look at Sherlock.” Sherlock’s eyes connected with John’s for a second, and he felt a spark travel down his spine at how utterly raw John was. They’d have to do this again, perhaps when Irene would let him wield the crop…
John’s face changed as he screwed his eyes shut, moaning loudly.
“Oh Christ, fuck, yes…” Sherlock glanced back to Irene. She’d loosened the ropes holding John’s legs in place, and had begun penetrating him slowly. Sherlock heard a soft whine as she slid the thick dildo several inches into John’s arse before withdrawing. It took him several seconds to recognize that the sound had come from his own throat.
Irene finally managed to bury her cock in John to the hilt, grinning at him viciously. Sherlock was trembling as he watched John squirm, his body clenching around the dildo rhythmically. Digging her nails into John’s thighs, Irene leaned over him.
“How do you want it, John Watson?” John barely managed to get the words out between gasps.
“H-hard. Fast.” Pushing his knees apart to get a better angle, Irene withdrew and slammed into him again. John shouted, his back arching as Irene began to fuck him in earnest. She kept up a steady, punishing tempo that jolted the entire bed with each thrust, pushing John higher and higher every time Sherlock was mesmerized by the two of them moving together, John open and pliant beneath Irene’s hands. She was kneeling bolt upright, her breasts shaking with the rhythm, utterly lost in the moment.
He watched the orgasm build in John’s muscles, tension rippling up his abdomen into his shoulders and neck as he cried out, his head thrashing back and forth. Sherlock leaned forward as far as he could, sensing how close John was.
“John. John, please, look at me.” With incredible effort John managed to turn his head. It only took three more strokes from Irene before John’s entire body went stiff, thick white come splashing onto the scarlet ropes that held him in place. Irene withdrew slowly and stood, businesslike, removing the condom and stowing her harness away. That done, she perched next to John on the bed, stroking his hair.
“What do we say, John?” John’s body was twitching with aftershocks and he spoke without opening his eyes, thoroughly fucked out.
“Thank you.”
“That’s a good boy.” Irene undid various knots and ties, helping John unfold his limbs and sit up. He smiled at Sherlock as he rubbed at the imprints of the rope on his skin. Sherlock felt his face flushing; he’d examine the marks later, in exquisite detail, when they were alone. A pulling at his own wrists indicated that he was being unbound as well. Irene’s voice hissed in his ear, sending hot shivers down his spine.
“Don’t change your sheets. I want you to remember it when you go to bed.”
By the time he managed to regain his ability to stand, she was gone.