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[personal profile] tristesses
Title: The Military Sort
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Word Count: ~3700
Prompt: Written for [community profile] kink_bingo, with the prompts "obedience, humiliation (situational), sensory deprivation, and temperature play"; the latter three, though, have everything to do with the first.
Warnings: None (full policy in profile)
Kinks: D/s, somewhat of a service kink (see prompts)
Summary: Afterward, John will joke that it all started because Sherlock is a lazy bastard.
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and places belong to their logical and respective owners. I make no profit from this.
Author's Notes: Is it fanon or canon that John was also wounded in his leg, but the pain is now (after healing) psychosomatic? I'm not sure, but I used the idea. This has also been podficced by [ profile] speccygeekgrrl here.

Sherlock is ignoring his requests for help, again, so John has to kick the barely-cracked door completely open by himself when he comes up the stairs, laden down with the shopping and silently fuming. He'd had a tiff with the self-checker at the supermarket, again, and maybe one day he'll just skip the thing altogether and go to the actual person behind the counter ("Problems with the self-checker again? You really should stop using it, but - doubtful, you're a creature of habit," Sherlock chimes in from the living room, as if he'd been listening to John's thoughts). He manages to make his way into the kitchen, and dumps all the produce on the counter; a lone potato rolls out of its bag, falls steadily off the table, thumps when it hits the ground, and comes to a halt at John's feet. He stares at it, considers kicking it across the room. His leg is sore for some bizarre reason, so's his shoulder (thought that, at least, makes sense), he'd worked overtime at the clinic while Sherlock moped around (as per usual when he doesn't have a case), the flat's an absolute wreck (more than usual, the sort of mess that makes him grit his teeth in an attempt to keep from barking out orders, blunt and military, which Sherlock would not follow), and now this fucking potato, on the floor, ratcheting his irritation level even higher - damn.

John shuts his eyes and breathes heavily, inhale, exhale, repeat twice, then says, eyes still squeezed shut, "I could use some help in here, you know."

"Mmm," says Sherlock. John very much doubts he even looks away from his book. "Clear some space on the counter, will you? I have an experiment arriving within the hour."

An experiment - probably a dead body, or some dangerously carcinogenic chemicals, or something else John generally doesn't want near the area where he prepares his food. Well, he's grown accustomed to that since moving in with Sherlock, severed heads in the fridge and all, but maybe his affection for his friend (or infatuation with the same, if he wants to be honest with himself, which he usually does) makes him too lenient -

"Clear the counter, John," says Sherlock's voice, and John hesitates a moment. "And pick up that potato, unless you're planning on using it as a projectile weapon."

"I'm considering it," John says, and bends down to pick it up, leaning on the counter for support. "How much damage do you think it could do to that machine?"

"It would depend on how you use it," Sherlock says. John grins down at the potato, and Sherlock repeats himself: "Clear the counter, John."

His voice is low and even, and John finds himself leaning into the counter with his eyes unfocussed, luxuriating in those words, said by that man - no, not this again, John thinks, and bites his lip hard to bring himself back to the moment, like he has done every time. No point in daydreams.

Clearing the counter, right. Something to do, something to focus on, something that will make Sherlock happy - and he won't ask himself why that's so important, why pleasing Sherlock is so damn important that it calms him down; why it causes his pain to fade from awareness, or why it makes the tremor in his hand dissipate like nothing but the chase has managed to do so far…

John knows he's too old for a sexual identity crisis, but that's not exactly the problem, anyway, is it? The problem is that he's military, through and through, and eight months of civilian life can't replace eight years of training, that instinctual response to spoken orders and how they're like permission to let himself go into another's command. And if he's honest with himself, which, again, he usually is, John has to admit that this - this need, really, it is a need - it goes far deeper than eight years back. It's been a part of him his entire life, made only noticeable by recent events. Clear the counter, John. Hand me my phone, John, it's in my pocket. Get milk at the market, John. Tell me what you think about this evidence, John. Follow me, John.

John looks down at the potato, the last thing to be put away. He rubs his thumb over the wrinkled brown skin; it smells dry, like dirt.

"It goes in the bag with the rest," Sherlock calls from the other room. John jumps, then curses silently.

"How did you - never mind." How did you know? is what he means to say, but instead, he murmurs fondly, "Brilliant," and dismisses it, mostly.

He wonders what else Sherlock knows, if he knows about - if he does it on purpose. The thought makes him grip the counter, hard, white-knuckled. But he should put the potato away. Yes. He moves to do so, and the the chirp of Sherlock's phone startles the silence; the order to answer it is half-expected, and he waits for it, tense. It doesn't come.

Then Sherlock is moving in a flurry, John can hear him, and he pokes his head in the kitchen, shrugging into his jacket and saying in a flood of words, "What are you doing, standing around? There's been a triple murder at a nightclub in Soho, possible occult involvement - finally! Something interesting! Are you coming, John? Put on your jacket."

"I am," says John, unable to sound even remotely irritated, and, banishing his thoughts (at least temporarily), follows at Sherlock's heels, racing to catch a cab.

The game, as Sherlock says, is on.

. . .

And that's how it continues; it's somewhat of an unspoken understanding between them, that Sherlock will give orders and John will obey, and by now Sherlock must know what it does to John - has to know, how could he not? Sherlock may be oblivious to most social niceties, but he's excellent at reading people, has to be, in his line of work.

So why the silence? They've never talked about it, or taken it further than what it is now. It's perplexing; John half thinks he should bring it up, but then, if Sherlock had wanted to, he would have by now. But he hasn't, and that's that, so John won't press the matter. Instead, he'll wank off in his bed and bite his arm or his pillow to keep himself quiet, and, afterward, practice telling Harry that yes, she's right, and he does in fact have it bad for his flatmate (a conversation he is not looking forward to - she gloats). It's not an ideal situation, but he's resigned himself to it.

He should have realized that Sherlock is not the sort to allow him to be resigned about anything.

This is how it starts: they've finished a case, criminal's locked up, all that's left is for Lestrade and the rest of the Yard to do the paperwork. They come home, Sherlock with his ubiquitous popped collar and long jacket mostly protecting him from the rain, while John's not so lucky, cold and sopping, with rainwater trickling down his neck. He's freezing, and the first thing he does when they get in is to head upstairs, thinking longingly of a hot shower and fresh clothes.

"Tea," Sherlock says musingly, as he hooks his jacket on the stand and unwinds his scarf. His hair is wet and clinging to his forehead, one curl plastered to his cheek by the wind. John glances at him, looks a little too long.

"Sounds nice," he comments, and waits on the third step. Sherlock's eyes slide to him, and John does his best to keep his face neutral, although it's hard when faced with that level, cool gaze. Sherlock is halfway between hanging up his scarf and turning to leave, but hasn't done either; instead, he stands there and watches, grey eyes calculating, measuring John up, deducing, thinking - God knows what he's thinking. He is so very pale. A droplet of rain has run from his hair down his jawline, trickling down the slope of his neck, right where the blue of his vein can be seen if he turns his head in the right light, where John must press his fingers to catch the pulse of his carotid; John's mouth is slightly open, he's thinking about putting his lips there instead.

"You should make it," Sherlock says eventually. His voice is low and quiet, husky, almost. John looks up, looks him in the eye. There's a hint of a question there.

"Yes," John says simply. Sherlock blinks. "The tea. I should make it."

Sherlock watches him as he makes his way into the kitchen, dripping water as he goes. He feels very clear-headed; his hands and feet are freezing, nearly numb, but his body is flushed with nervous heat. It's good to have something to do, something familiar, unlike what's happening to him now. They're veering off the path their friendship should take, in a normal world (but then, this is Sherlock's world, and John's a part of it now; normal does not do business here). But here, here is tea to make. Put the kettle on, rinse out the teapot - Sherlock is upstairs, in John's room; what is he doing? - blot the teapot dry, add tea - no matter, John will find out later - the water's boiling; give it a moment, and pour it. Sherlock is downstairs again, in the other room, probably perched in his chair - doing what? Reading? No, can't be, not now.

"Come in here while it's steeping," Sherlock says, voice very, very level, devoid of emotion, except for the tiniest of hitches when he continues, "Earl Grey, if I'm correct? You have four - no, three and a half minutes."

It's not as difficult as it should be to turn and go to Sherlock, though John should definitely have some compunctions about this. Try as he might, none spring to mind.

"You're right," he says conversationally as he enters the room. "It is Earl Grey. Although I usually let it steep for four minutes." There are clothes spread out on the sofa, a shirt, trousers, and underwear, and mismatched socks. "Are those my clothes?"

"You poured the water fifteen seconds before I asked you to come in here, and it took you a little longer to actually make it in. Now it's three minutes and two seconds. Yes, those are your clothes; change into them now."

John gapes for a moment, then snaps his mouth shut with a click. He didn't - hadn't been expecting this, not so soon, and the thought of taking his clothes off in front of Sherlock (letting him see how broken he is, surgery scars on his shoulder, bullet wounds slashing his leg) - he doesn't want to, it makes his stomach clench, but deep down he knows he needs to, to satisfy his urges. He thinks his ears may be on fire.

"Two minutes, forty seconds," Sherlock says. His hands are steepled and he's watching John, the slightest hint of a smile on his face. He's enjoying this. "Go on; I don't like my tea to be bitter. You must be cold."

"I need a towel," John mutters, and just as quickly Sherlock says, "No, you don't."

"Don't I?"


John looks at his hands. No shake, no tremor. He raises them to his shirtfront, unfastens the first button.

"Good," Sherlock says, almost sighs, and he sinks lower in his chair. "Good, John."

John shudders a little at the encouragement - good, yes, it's so good, Sherlock's voice - and he peels off his shirt, folds it (a little messily, can't be helped) and sets it at his feet. He feels Sherlock's eyes at the mass of scar tissue on his shoulder; he wishes he could hide it, somehow, but there's no way, Sherlock would see right through him.

He kicks off his shoes, nudges them under the sofa so he won't trip on them. Next, his jeans; he hesitates a moment, then pulls his pants down with them. Why the hell not? He's semi-erect, his arousal dampened only by the chill, but Sherlock must know that, and why, and if not, then John has been giving him far too much credit.

"Stand up straight." John snaps at attention, his posture instinctively military. It shows all of his scars, shows off his cock. His jeans are around his ankles; it's incredibly humiliating. He must look ridiculous.

Sherlock doesn't appear to think so; he sits back and folds his hands and just stares, eyes flicking all over John's body, mouth open and thoughtful. John has the distinct sense of being autopsied, examined, but then Sherlock catches his gaze and that - that is not the look of a scientist, no, that look is hot and demanding and John is nodding, yes, yes, you can have me - he'd give Sherlock anything if he'd just keep looking at him like that. Sherlock's mouth twitches into a real smile, cocky and pleased.

"The tea's ready," he says. "Go and get it."

John wonders if he's ever going to stop blushing. It's stupid, feeling like this; he's an adult, hardly a virgin, he shouldn't feel so - bare. (He shouldn't like it so much.) "Naked?"

"You dawdled," answers Sherlock, still with that maddening quirk of his lips. "It's your own fault you don't have clothes on. Use the red mugs, the others I still haven't washed from keeping the fingers in."

"How pleasant. But - all right." A pause, a deep breath, and John steps out of his jeans, entirely naked, and walks to the kitchen. He's suddenly conscious of how he looks, the muscles that must be visible in his back, his arse, as he walks; Sherlock is watching, he's sure of it. John glances over his shoulder before he enters the kitchen; Sherlock has his fingers pressed against his mouth, his eyes over-wide, unblinking. God.

He pours the tea with steady hands, but somehow manages to splash a little anyway; the water's not hot enough to burn, now, though it leaves a red mark on his wrist that fades after he rubs it.

John carries the mugs back to Sherlock, hands him one, then stands there, awkwardly. He hasn't been told to sit - he shouldn't sit - should he?

"Sit down," Sherlock says, and John nearly staggers to the sofa, his knees fairly giving out under him. Insane, what happens to him when he allows it, how his body fights to make him obey before his brain really catches up to it. "Shut your eyes."

"Why?" He does anyway, squeezing them closed; after a moment, his hearing seems to intensify, his nostril flare though he doesn't realize it, and he leans toward Sherlock's voice, unconsciously.

"Pupils dilated, skin flushed, a sheen of sweat on the forehead. An erection," Sherlock notes, his voice carrying clearly from across the room. "John, you are incredibly aroused. Is it the fact that you stripped in front of me, or is it the way I ordered you to do it? I rather think it's the latter; I've noticed these symptoms before. Drink your tea."

John gulps at it, bumping his teeth on the rim of the mug, misjudging the distance with his eyes shut; it's scalding, and the heat burns down his esophagus and curls warmly in his stomach. It's an contented feeling, at odds with his nervousness. "If you're just going to sit here and tease me, Sherlock - "

He means it as a joke, but Sherlock doesn't take it that way.

"I'm not, John. Teasing." Sherlock shifts in his chair, John can hear it, then suddenly the sofa moves as Sherlock settles himself beside John. "No, don't open your eyes." His voice has gone hoarse, his breath warm against John's ear; John can feel him looming, close, and then a sudden touch, the tips of fingers and the slightest drag of nails along the back of John's neck, into his hair; Sherlock strokes against the grain and John leans into his hand, unthinking, until Sherlock wraps the short strands around his fingers and tugs once, twice, this time harder, thrice and John yelps at the shock of pain that rockets straight to his groin and brings tears to his eyes (but he'll keep them shut, damn it, he will keep them shut) and Sherlock leans close, John can smell the scent of his hair, the faint sweetness of his conditioner and the mixed tang of sweat and rainwater. Without sight, every other sense seems enhanced a thousand times; it's exquisite.

"John," he murmurs, and his lips are against John's throat. "Will you open your eyes?"

"Anything," John gasps, and does what he's told, his eyes too wide; he stares at the ceiling, ducks his head enough to mouth Sherlock's dark curls; he cups the nape of Sherlock's neck, a grip that will leave bruises, as the other man bites him, hard, and moves to cover his body with his own, skin rasping against fabric for Sherlock's still fully clothed; and now he's straddling John, all long limbs and pale stretches of skin exposed by his open collar, the unbuttoned cuffs on his shirt. He's staring again, pupils blown black, a flush along his cheekbones - John remembers what he'd said earlier (you're incredibly aroused) and a wave of heat overtakes him. It's all too much, Sherlock's weight, his warmth against John's clammy skin, the crotch of his finely-made trousers rubbing against John's cock, exquisite, almost painful (he bucks his hips, not much room with Sherlock on his lap but he tries, searching for that sweet friction) - and then Sherlock moves, shifting so John has to take more of his weight, and puts his hand around John, squeezes almost experimentally - John moans, his head falls back against the sofa, and Sherlock does it again, god, rubbing his thumb along the tip, smearing pre-come along the shaft - John trembles, panting.

"Yes," he says, or thinks he's saying, it could be in his head, "yes, yes, fuck, Sherlock - "

"Look, John," growls Sherlock, "look down - "

He's unzipped his trousers, he's not wearing anything under them, he's pulled out his own cock, rigid and red and longer than John's, thinner, and John thinks it's magnificent, he wants to suck it in his mouth, wants it to smack him in the face, wants it to come in his mouth and be forced to swallow, and he tells Sherlock that, the words a tumble. In response, Sherlock wraps his long fingers around the both of them and grinds his hips forward, frotting against him, and John makes a high-pitched noise and grabs Sherlock's shoulders, slides his hands under his suit jacket, whether to steady him or to steady himself he's not sure; he can't take his eyes off Sherlock's fingers, slippery and sticky, or of their cocks pressed against each other, John's hips are stuttering and he's - god, he's so close - he wraps an arm around Sherlock's neck, pulls him closer, burying his face in John's bad shoulder - Sherlock lips and bites at the scar, fuck, and it's good, and John doesn't tell him to stop - he reaches down blindly, transfixed by the movement of Sherlock's hand, and, fumbling, entwines his fingers with Sherlock's, and that - that makes Sherlock squeeze just that much harder - and - fuck - John's face contorts in a rictus of pleasure and he spills white and messy over their fingers and he is groaning "Sherlock, oh god, Sherlock - "

Sherlock lets go, takes his hand away from John's, and instead grabs John's wrist, and John takes Sherlock's cock in his hand and lets Sherlock show him how he likes to be touched, rough and violent, tugging on his balls, and when Sherlock comes he cries out, a fervent shout from between gritted teeth that sounds like it's been dragged out of him, muffled by John's bare shoulder.

Dazed, John lies there, and lets Sherlock slump on top of him for a moment; he doesn't stay there long, though, and in a minute or so the detective's on his feet, plucking John's wet shirt from its spot next to his jeans, and wiping John's come off his hands. John's going to remember this tableau every time he wears that shirt, now; the thought makes him chuckle. He sounds absolutely knackered.

"Well," Sherlock says, after a moment, and turns to face John. He's zipped himself up, adjusted himself, although there's a telltale stain on his leg and splatters on his shirt. Again, his voice is even, his expression controlled, but there's a small tremor in his cheek; he's clenching his jaw.

"Well," says John in reply. He hasn't moved; he's waiting for an order. "Now what?"

"You should shower," says Sherlock; John has the distinct impression he had to cast around for an idea. A moue of disdain ripples across his face. "You smell terrible."

"You, on the other hand, smell like roses," John says dryly, and moves to stand up. "What about after that?"

"Go to bed." And this time, there is the barest hint of concern in Sherlock's eyes as he surveys him. "It's been - " a pause for calculation " - twenty-eight hours since you last slept, and you know how insufferable you get when you're tired."

"Me, insufferable?" John grins at him, but Sherlock only gives him an inscrutable look in reply, and starts to brush past him, as if there's something urgent going on in the kitchen. "Wait - " He catches Sherlock's arm, and the man stops, surprising in and of itself, but even more so when he turns to hear John out without delivering any snide comments or telling him what he's going to say before he's said it.

"You know," John says after a moment, choosing his words carefully, "that we don't need to talk about this, or change anything, or - everything's fine this way. I'm fine with us."

"I'm possessive," Sherlock says, nearly inaudibly, turned away, then looks John full in the eye. "Very - most people would say too possessive."

"Most people would've told you to piss off when they first met you," John points out. "I'm not most people, remember?"

"True." They stare at each other for a long moment, the gaze almost too intense to hold; then, abruptly, they both burst into laughter.

"Right," says John, wheezing, grinning, "I'm going to go shower now."

"Good," says Sherlock, and he is smiling too. He grips John's elbow, and squeezes once before releasing - a reminder, as if the bruises and suck marks all over John's neck and torso weren't enough of one.

And, John thinks as he makes his way up the stairs, steady and content and (for the first time in a while) not on edge, it is good. It really is.
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January 2019


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