mugenmine | The Doctor in the Boot

Title: The Doctor in the Boot
Author:

mugenmine

Betas:

duh_i_read,

lady_t_220 &

thisprettywren

Fandom: Sherlock BBC

Pairing: John/Sherlock

Rating: NC-17/Explicit

Word Count: 2.4 K (10.5K total)

Contains: Dub-con, Bondage, Edging & Angst (for good measure)

Summary: “What are you doing?" John asked.
"I've been thinking about you." Sherlock said.

LJ: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Read on AO3

John curled up on his side and shivered against the cold tile, his head resting on Sherlock’s lap. When he had been told that he would be punished, John had resigned himself to the fact that he would be tormented and denied until he became wrecked. But instead, Sherlock had just stopped and looked at him and said, “It’s enough.”

The bit lay discarded by Sherlock’s knee and John stared at it through half-closed eyes. After what seemed like hours of digging his teeth into the thing, there wasn’t a single mark on the silicone. A part of him wished that it was still in his mouth because the last thing he wanted to do was have to speak, or string sentences together, or answer Sherlock’s questions.

John’s wrists were still bound behind his back, though his upper arms had mercifully been released. The cock ring was no longer around him, but Sherlock had kept the plug in place. It still filled him and sent shivers of pleasure through his aching body when he shifted and moved. John wasn’t sure how long they’d been there, it seemed a bit like forever, like he was in some in-between place with Sherlock, and he wondered when the time would come when they would have to step back into reality.

Sherlock was on his third cigarette. John kept his eyes closed and counted each time he heard a match being struck. He listened as Sherlock inhaled deep, trapping the smoke inside his chest, then exhaled for what seemed like forever. In the drawn out spaces between cigarettes, Sherlock’s fingers explored the lines of John’s face and traced patterns through his hair. When the tears sometimes came, Sherlock collected them on his fingers and painted them across John’s lips.

Half-asleep, John startled when Sherlock shifted from underneath him. He didn’t have the strength to struggle when Sherlock pushed him onto his back and climbed on top of him. Sherlock straddled John’s thighs, pinning him against the ground. John writhed beneath him, coming to his senses once more, his arms trapped behind his back and his chest presented in reluctant offering. With Sherlock’s full weight on his thighs, John could no longer shift his hips or move his legs. He was trapped, more vulnerable now than he’d ever been.

“What are you doing?” John asked.

“I’ve been thinking about you.” Sherlock said.

John stared up at Sherlock, still a bit dizzy, his heart starting to race again. He averted his eyes, not ready to be back under Sherlock’s scrutiny. He wanted Sherlock to be the one to look away, to stop staring and dissecting for once, to stop taking every part of him in. Every twitch and moan and blush and intake of breath that he made was being noted and catalogued and remembered. John imagined a version of himself, tied up and locked away in Sherlock’s mind palace, perpetually teased and tortured, and the thought of it sent a shudder through his body, this time stirring his cock and edging the plug deeper inside. John shut his eyes, aroused and conflicted and strangely jealous of his other incarnation.

“We’ll have to explore this complete movement restriction more thoroughly next time. It affects you quite profoundly. I think if I put the bit back in your mouth, it might send you over the edge.”

John frowned, frustrated that Sherlock spoke the truth and that just the thought of that scenario started to arouse him. He hoped that would be the end of Sherlock’s observations. The last thing he wanted was to be reduced to theory and speculation right now. He didn’t want to have to think about all of the strange things that turned him on so desperately. He didn’t want to think about any of it. So instead of shutting up like he knew he should, he challenged. “You think you have everything about me figured out, don’t you?”

Sherlock nodded. He looked certain, as though John were an open book.

“Is that right? After one time? You have me sorted out?” John pushed again.

“After tonight, yes.” Sherlock nodded and gazed up at the low ceiling. John could almost see the connections sparking and firing up behind Sherlock’s eyes. It was at that moment John realised that perhaps this line of inquiry would not end well. Then the words came.

“You have no idea what your limits are and you need to test them. You want me to test them, to see how much you can mentally and physically endure, even if it hurts you. You have a profound need to experience situations in which you feel fear and danger and completely out of control. You need to lose control, and yet that scares you, so you also need to be reigned in. Thus your desire, your need, to be restrained. But you’re not one to go down without a fight, because you’re not just a man, you’re a soldier. In order to submit, you need for your control to be physically ripped from you and you need to fight for it. It’s the fighting and being overwhelmed that stimulates you, because you think that if you just gave yourself over to be dominated that it would emasculate you.”

“Enough.” John whispered.

“You crave complete and total restraint. You have to understand, to know that you can not escape your bondage, and that both calms and arouses you; being forced to resign yourself, having to accept that you can not stop what comes next. You desire to be forcefully gagged, it arouses you more than being bound, though you will never admit it. The moment you saw the bit, your pupils dilated and your heart began to race. Your breath quickened, and you felt embarrassed because you wanted to have something pushed between your teeth to take away your ability to speak, to protest; to tell me “no, I won’t do this anymore,” because ultimately you don’t want me to stop. Because you fear that I’m all that you have and you think that if you tell me to stop then you will never find anyone else to fill that need. And everything you waited so long to finally experience will end.”

“Stop it, Sherlock.” John’s voice shook as he spoke.

“You need to be taken to a point where you think that you will break and then pushed past it. A session won’t be complete for you unless you are reduced to tears. And I’ve done that for you tonight. Twice. Because ultimately you feel like you should be punished for wanting to submit, and that you have to suffer for it-”

“Christ! Just stop it!” John finally screamed, unable to take anymore of it in, trying to drown out Sherlock’s words with his own.

And there it was. My God. All of the things that John didn’t want to admit about himself strung together like a bloody laundry list. It was like standing in front of a fucking supernova, being mentally taken apart by Sherlock and John hated him for putting voice to all of the things he didn’t want exposed to the light. And so he began to doubt, everything. Why the hell am I doing this?

John writhed beneath Sherlock, frustrated and tired and trying to push down all of the words that Sherlock had shoved into his head. He thrashed until his shoulders ached and his arms were scraped and bruised. He yelled at Sherlock to stop it now, to just let him up, to untie him, to end this. He struggled until Sherlock leaned forward and pushed his shoulders back against the floor.

“You can’t just do that!” John raged. “You can’t just put it all out there like that.” He slammed his head back and regretted it the moment his head cracked hard against the floor and the pinpoints of light strobed across his vision. “Christ-”

“Stop talking, John.”

Sherlock’s hand closed over John’s mouth, not rough this time, but forceful enough to silence him and, despite his anger and frustration, John shuddered. The wave of arousal started deep in his chest and rushed down to his cock. I shouldn’t want this so badly.

“Fighting is good John, thrash against me all you want. But this-” John gave a muffled cry as Sherlock thumped him in the forehead, “this mental unravelling that you’re doing is pointless because you’re wrong,” Sherlock said, “about so many things. This is innate with you, it’s instinct. You’ve been waiting half your life for what we’ve started. And I, I don’t want it to stop either.”

Sherlock reached into his back pocket and produced the remote. John whimpered against Sherlock’s hand. He tried to shake his head, not ready to start this all again. God, I shouldn’t want this. It was harder, though, to listen to all of the words in his head with the weight of Sherlock’s hand over his mouth and his body bound so tightly, everything wound up with the arousal that it caused in him. The warmth spread through his stomach and down into his cock and, beneath Sherlock’s hand, the colour rose in John’s face once more.

“I’m going to take my hand away and you will not speak. Not one word. Do you understand? You need something to keep your mind busy. You’re exhausted right now, rightfully so as I’ve been tormenting you all night. So all you need to focus on is doing what I tell you to do. If you close your eyes, or if I see you thinking too much, I will distract you until you are out of your mind. Nod if you understand.”

John nodded once, inhaling quickly through his nose. Sherlock’s words pushed into him even as they drove him mad with arousal. The slow and steady command, the calm force behind the words. John focused on those words, he closed his eyes and listened.

A sharp thump on his forehead forced John’s eyes open again. He frowned, and cursed himself for failing within ten seconds of Sherlock’s first command. Don’t close your eyes.

“I punished you tonight, John. I brought you to tears, and I made you suffer. But it was never because I thought you deserved it. You do know that, don’t you?”

As Sherlock pulled his hand away, John’s head strained up, following it to place a kiss on Sherlock’s palm. Sherlock let his hand linger for a moment, allowing the connection. The small act overwhelmed John, suddenly self-conscious of what he had done. Bound so tightly, it was the only gesture that he could possibly give. It had just seemed right in that moment; that in this cold, dark space, he could give himself over to Sherlock and feel safe. Perhaps he had kissed Sherlock’s hand simply for that reason.

“Not one sound.” Sherlock said and pressed the remote.

John wished it had been any other command. This one was impossible, Sherlock knew it was. John had never thought of himself as being loud during sex, but then no one had ever tortured him quite the way Sherlock did. John clenched his teeth as the vibration set in again, slight at first, distracting and not quite touching the sweet spot deep inside of him. He held his breath. If he could just hold himself still, if he could somehow ignore the growing pleasure and throbbing in his cock, maybe he could keep quiet.

“Ah, this isn’t nearly difficult enough for you.” Sherlock jammed his thumb on the remote a few more times and the plug buzzed hard and fast inside John. The sudden shift in speed pushed the plug against his prostate and John screamed.

“Holy fuck!” John bit his lip and shut his eyes until the hard tap against his forehead reminded him once again. Shut your mouth, open your eyes. Two simple commands and he couldn’t seem to follow either of them successfully.

“For a soldier you’re terrible at following orders.”

John stared up at Sherlock, gasping. He was trying, he was trying as hard as he could. But it was like being asked to breathe underwater. Keep your mouth shut, open your eyes.

“Can you do this for me? If you can stay quiet a little longer then I’ll let you come. But if you moan, if you scream, if one word comes out of that mouth of yours…”

Oh God, I’m trying. John bit down on his lip again, this time tasting blood.

Sherlock closed his hand around John’s cock and John struggled in vain to raise his hips to meet the touch. He seemed to have lost all concept of shame or dignity. None of those things mattered anymore. All that mattered, and all that he knew, was want.

John strained and gasped as Sherlock played him so deftly. One hand stroked his cock, the other cupped and kneaded his balls. Then Sherlock’s long fingers moved down, stroking John beneath his scrotum and then daring even lower and Jesus Christ, he’d never been touched quite like that before, and John just gave up trying to be silent and screamed Sherlock’s name. With the plug raging inside of him and Sherlock molesting him so beautifully, John didn’t care if he lasted two minutes or twelve seconds, he’d take whatever punishment Sherlock could think of for screaming out of turn. He could learn silence and obedience another fucking time because he couldn’t… he just couldn’t.

Then Sherlock’s mouth was against John’s neck, teeth scraping across his throat even as John ached for Sherlock’s mouth covering his own. He could be quiet for that, he could force himself silent, somehow, just for that. But there wasn’t time.

When John’s climax finally quaked through his bound body, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and buried his face against his neck. It was as if the weight of Sherlock was the only thing that held him to this earth, and the only thing that anchored him to this place. John was almost certain that without Sherlock’s arms around him he would simply shatter and be lost entirely to the world.

After a time, and with Sherlock’s embrace to ground him and guide him home, John drifted back down and inhabited his skin again. He didn’t know if he was even still here, or still alive, or if this was some sort of fever dream until he shuddered and Sherlock drew him in closer.

“Breathe, John.”