Baker Street Boys

29

"Shut up"

John isn't shouting anymore.

But there is a timbre to his voice that tolerates no talk-back. That is his Captain Watson voice. And Sherlock's belly does a flip.

And it takes a moment for him to realize that John is actually training his gun at his head.

Sherlock raises his hands in surrender, but he doesn't dare open his mouth any time soon.

For goodness' sake, he is in the middle of a woodland alone, between an enraged, homicidal, gun-wielding flatmate who is pointing his military -issue, therefore no longer legal firearm at him, and the corpse of a copy-cat Jack-the-Ripper serial-killer who had been pointing a gun at him moments ago.

Humph. A wonderful day, isn't it? Fancy a stroll in the forest? Preferably holding hands, discussing how brilliantly he has deduced the identity of the murderer of five prostitutes, by the smear of lipstick on the latest victim's bra and/or how everybody seems to have a death-wish over him this fine early autumn eve?

"If you ever want to be killed, Sherlock, keep it stored in that bloody hard-drive of yours that I will be the one to put that bullet through your head. "

Sherlock swallows.

John Watson often makes good of his words. True knight of the Round Table as he is.

"I have had enough of your blatant disregard to your own life, Sherlock. Because if you imagine that you could again put me through what you have put me through by playing dead for two years, especially now, after sharing my bed with you, after making love to you, then you are seriously mistaken. Your life is not yours to do what you please with it. It. Is. Mine. "

"John I'm sorry. I really am. "Sherlock responds in supplication but it falls upon deaf ears. John shakes his head.

"No, Sherlock. I have had enough. Today ,right here and right now, you are going to learn your lesson. The hard way. " John pauses. "Come here," he beckons.
Sherlock takes slow and cautious strides towards his flatmate slash his best friend slash his bed-mate slash his beloved slash his protector slash his conductor of light slash his everything.
And he notices with dread that John still hasn't put his gun-hand down. And in sharp contrast to the coolness that surrounds them, his whole body heats up, and perspiration appears from every pore of his skin.
"kneel"
Yes.
Yes to this.
John makes love to Sherlock everyday, at every possible hour, till he makes Sherlock feel cherished, pampered, protected, beloved, besotted till he renders the detective all soppy and waxing poetry, quoting Shakespeare and composing music for the love of his life.

But John is capable of this too.

He is capable of making Sherlock weak at his knees, craving domination, control, punishment, wanting to be fucked hard, beaten well and thorough, tortured and humiliated till he is reduced to a ruined mess begging for mercy.

Because he wants John to take him apart, with his bare hands, bit by bit, till he is broken into the smallest elements that he is made of, and fix him back together again. Restore him. Give him lease of fresh life encore. As only John can do.

He drops to the ground on his knees in front of John. He keeps his eyes lowered to the ground. This was more due to his need of hiding his obvious eagerness to his impending fate rather than as a sign of submission. But John doesn't have to know that. Not yet.

But John holds him by his chin and tilts his head up, and looks down at him. John loves being taller, and being able to look down at him. Not that he needs any illusion of power over Sherlock. Because John Watson is a five feet seven inches tall power house of toned muscles, compact body and iron will. And his fingers, which have had experienced so much action, and so much violence , are calloused and strong, and he is holding Sherlock's jaw in a rough grip.