Archive of Our Own ^beta

I entered my bedroom to use the washbasin — I had spent the morning working with ashes, burning different papers, and my fingers were smudged with grey. Once I had sufficiently cleaned and dried my hands, even taking the time to scrub my nails, I turned to the bed to at last acknowledge the figure that lay there.

My Watson was face down, bound hand and foot to the corners of the bed with four lengths of thin silken rope. I had been meticulous in ensuring they were short enough that he could not bend his arms or legs. He was entirely naked, gagged, and blindfolded. As I moved around the bed, admiring his muscular body from every angle, I could just about see the base of the glass plug between his taut buttocks. 

He had not moved or made a sound since I had entered, though I knew he must be able to hear me. In arranging our little game he had requested I deprive him of sight, and the power of speech when I was not using his mouth, but he did love to listen to my voice when I was playing with him. I enjoyed speaking to him then, too; he always responded so beautifully, so quick to obey my commands.

I wanted to touch him. His tanned skin glowed with a slight sheen of perspiration. The room was a little warm, I reasoned. I had not opened the windows. Perhaps my sweet captive would like some relief. I fetched a cloth from a drawer, dipped it in the basin and wrung it out, then approached the bed to wipe it over John’s back. He flinched at the cold temperature and tried to arch into the contact. The ropes did not let him.

I leaned down to whisper in his ear. I noted that his face was flushed, his cheeks distended, his mouth stuffed full beneath the thick strip of cotton that was wrapped around his face. We had discussed other methods of gagging him — a bit, a ball, more of the rope — but the final decision had been to simply fill his mouth as much as possible, saving the mess of saliva and allowing him to give voice to pleasure or frustration with minimal noise escaping.

My mind flashed back briefly to the afternoon when we had tested this plan. With the living room door locked I had sucked John off right there in his armchair, bringing him to the brink four times until he was practically screaming at me to let him come. I had heard nothing but the faintest whimper. It had been perfect.

“Poor thing,” I murmured, petting his soft hair with my free hand. “Too cold?”

He huffed through his nose and shook his head.

“Good boy. I only thought to give you a slight reprieve. Are you grateful?” 

This time he nodded, and I caught a soft hum from his well-stuffed mouth. 

“Good boy. I’ll be back.” 

I stood up abruptly and smacked his right buttock, making him squeak. I tossed the cloth onto the dresser, and left the room. 

I intended to play my violin, picked it up and let it rest on my shoulder even, ready to sing for me. I could not focus. Damn it all, I was meant to be ignoring Watson as much as possible — that was the game we were playing today — but my imagination kept pushing a delectable vision of the doctor’s trussed and naked body, ripe for the taking, to the forefront of my mind. I lowered my violin, scowling at the empty fireplace. Usually my control was much better. My dear John was far too tempting, even in another room behind a closed door.

Hmm.

Perhaps a little indulgence would clear my head. 

It was a wonder, really, that I could think such a thing; that I might indulge in the body of the beautiful soldier waiting for me in the next room. All this time and I still marvelled at how much he trusted me. I had once confessed, in the heat of the moment, that I sometimes fantasised about keeping him bound to my bed to satisfy my whims as I felt them. I hadn't meant it to be anything but a pleasant dream. Yet he had offered himself up to me, at least for a day, and that dream was now coming true. 

How I burned for him. I returned to the bedroom, to his side, magnetised. John stirred when I entered and lifted his head. I did not speak but  allowed him to hear me undressing, exaggerating my movements. 

With Vaseline in hand I knelt on the bed between his splayed legs. This afforded me an excellent view of his arse, and I could not resist sucking a bruise into each of his buttocks. He shifted, but he could barely lift his hips.

“Alright, pet. Just a little reminder for you. Which I'm sure you don't need, hm? You're so good for me, aren't you? Be still.”

I reached for the gleaming glass plug inside him and wiggled it out slightly, then pushed it back in, deeper. This I repeated twice more while John’s entire body trembled with the effort of keeping still. His whines and moans were music to my ears. I opened the tin of Vaseline and smeared a generous amount over his hole, then lowered myself over him so I could slide my aching cock between his cheeks. Oh, it was bliss. The slick heat, the smooth drag, the way he writhed beneath me with each thrust that pressed the plug still deeper inside him. His fingers grasped at empty air, the muscles in his back flexing under my hands. 

My orgasm took me far quicker than expected. I stifled a surprised grunt by biting into John’s shoulder. He got no release of his own, not yet, but he groaned happily when my spend decorated his skin. I allowed myself a moment’s basking, breathing him in, before I pushed myself upright. 

“Good boy,” I whispered, wiping him clean, “good pet. You’re doing wonderfully. Relax, now.”

Standing in the middle of the room, I debated whether it would be worth my getting dressed again. Perhaps not. I pulled on my softest dressing gown to cover my bare body instead, and returned to the sitting room.

Ah. Much better. My head was clear, my passion — for now — sated. I raised my violin to my shoulder once again. For a time I played my way up and down scales and arpeggios, then through a few favourite arias, and one or two of my own pieces for which I knew Watson held a particular fondness. My fingers flew, my bow soared in graceful arcs, and with my eyes closed I almost completely lost myself to the music. 

Then the mantelpiece clock struck two, and my stomach made an answering growl. I was hungry for once. Our landlady was away, so I would have to fend for myself rather than ring for her. I descended to the kitchen, pulling the belt of my dressing gown tighter around my waist as I went, and set about putting together some sandwiches and a pot of tea.

After eating a small meal back at the dining table, I poured tea with just the right amount of milk and a dash of sugar, then carried that and a plate of sandwiches in for John to refresh himself. 

His reaction to my sudden presence was stronger this time; he thrashed and kicked, and only when my hands were free and I laid one firmly on the back of his neck did he go still.

“That’s it, my sweet. I am going to free you now. You will sit on the edge of the bed, arms by your sides, and I will remove your gag so you may eat and drink. You are not permitted to speak or to otherwise move. Do you understand?”

He nodded silently. I untied him and helped him to sit up slowly, rubbing his arms and legs to soothe the stiffness. He sighed in relief when I removed the gag at last, and ran his tongue around his dry mouth. To his credit, he did not say a word. I sat beside him and fed him by hand, bit by bit. He ate eagerly, licking at my fingertips whenever he could. It was only a couple of sandwiches, but by the end of it he was almost panting, and his own hands were twitching beside him. I could see that he was incredibly aroused, his prick straining upward between his strong thighs. He loved my hands, loved to caress and play with them. I imagined the blindfold made everything more potent; not being able to see me, his mind could run wild. 

I had to admit, feeding him this way was having a profound effect on me too. My cock was hot and hard once again, peeking between the folds of my dressing gown where they fell open across my lap. 

I set the plate aside and wiped my hands. “Have you finished? Yes? No, my boy, I don’t believe you have.” I got up and encouraged John to open his legs so I could stand between them. Sat on the bed he was the perfect height to let me in. I gave myself a few strokes before pushing into his open, waiting mouth with no warning. He did not seem to mind. Though he clutched the blankets to keep himself still, he took me as though he had not eaten at all and my prick was the first meal he’d had in days. He curled his tongue around my head, suckled me, teased me, and as my thrusting grew more frantic he only hummed in pleasure.

“You like this, don’t you, my boy?” I was gasping, my words broken. “You take me so well in your pretty mouth. I ought to use it more often. I could keep you by my chair, to warm my cock on a cold winter night.” 

John hummed again. I pictured his eyes behind the blindfold, lids closed in blissful surrender. He adored being told all the ways I could degrade him if I so desired. For a man so disciplined in many other aspects of his life, he took immense pleasure in being treated like my plaything. Perhaps he found it freeing.

I was so close now. I pushed my hands into his hair to hold his head in place and started to fuck his mouth in earnest. I shuddered and could not hold back a cry of pleasure. He answered me with a muffled, debauched groan. I was struck by the volume of it. God, how I loved that sound. 

“Jesus –”

I pinned his face to my crotch, my hips shaking, curled forward over his head as I came with a shout. I might have said actual words, I don’t know what. There may have been multiple languages involved. John took everything I gave him, working every last drop from me with his lips and tongue. I had not let him use his hands, but apparently he didn’t need them. 

Once I had my breath back I drew my softened prick from his mouth and dropped to my knees. For a moment I simply looked at him. His hair was mussed, damp and curling at the ends, his lips pink and swollen and glistening wet. His chest heaved. He was stunning, a golden Adonis in the lamplight, desperately hard yet equally desperate to please me. 

“Darling boy. You may speak.” I parted his thighs and pressed against him. As I leaned it to give him a soft kiss, I noticed the blindfold had a touch of dampness along the bottom edge. “You want to come, don’t you?”

It wasn’t really fair to ask; not when I curled my fingers around his cock before he could answer. He threw back his head and clenched his teeth. “God, yes!”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, sir! Sir, please, please let me –”

“But that isn’t what we agreed, is it?” I twisted my hand and he nearly sobbed.

“Please,” he begged, “please.”

“Say it. Tell me what you want.”

“I – I want to come, sir, I want to come so badly. I want to – no, please –” 

I released him. “Not yet. You will not come yet. Say it.”

He hung his head. His knuckles were white, gripping the blankets so tightly. “I will not come yet.” 

“Good boy. I’m going to give you a drink, and then I will tie you up however I like. I can do that, can’t I? Why?”

“Because – because I’m yours.”

“What was that?”

“I am yours,” he repeated, a little louder. “I’m yours, sir. You can do what you like with me.”

“That’s right, pet. Silence, now.”

The tea was lukewarm, but I made sure he drank his cup anyway before I gagged him again. As I stuffed his mouth full, tucking the rolled-up bundle of handkerchiefs deep as I could without choking him, he didn’t make even the slightest noise of complaint. I knotted the longer cloth tightly at the back of his head, smoothed it down over his cheeks, then dropped a small kiss in the middle just under his nose. 

My mind was whirring with possibilities. I wanted John to move very little, if not to be completely immobile. There were many complex positions and predicaments I could employ to achieve this, but I did not want to make him too uncomfortable, or to worsen any pain in his bad shoulder. 

Something simple yet effective, then.

I fetched more rope and began by wrapping it around his torso, criss-crossed over his chest to form a sort of harness that framed his rather delightful pectorals. I was careful of his scar, and ran my fingers under each line of the ropes to ensure they were not too tight. Satisfied, I pinched his nipples, toyed with them until they were hard and peaked. He twitched and shivered, but remained silent. 

I guided him to lie down on his back. “Comfortable?” A nod. I commenced the full execution of my plan; I bound his arms at his sides, his wrists to his thighs, then his legs above and below the knee, and around his ankles. With each knot his breathing grew shallower. He could hardly move a muscle. I grinned, admiring the contrast of the pale white rope and John’s glistening pink skin. 

“You look wonderful, my boy,” I said. “I almost wish you could see yourself. I am proud of you. Just the finishing touch left, can you be very still for me? Good.”

This would require a delicate touch; fortunately, as the good doctor has written, I am possessed of that very thing. I picked up a silk cravat I was willing to sacrifice to the cause. I wrapped it in a snug figure-eight around my John’s cock and balls, knotting it underneath so the whole package was pushed up and forward, standing tall. He whined in dismay, knowing that he would not reach a climax even accidentally now. 

I teased him with feather-light strokes. “Look at that. Just look at that, you’re perfect, my beautiful boy. So completely mine, at my mercy. I could keep you like this forever. I would fill you with my seed morning and night, then plug you back up so you don’t lose a single drop. You would always be wet, always be ready for me to take you. How long could you go without coming, do you think? Fucked and filled day in, day out, with no relief of your own. Only for my pleasure. A tool to be used.”

John was struggling now, fighting the ropes with no success. He was clearly disobeying my instructions to stay quiet and still, but I did not truly mind. I was the one driving him to the edge with deliciously torturous imaginings, after all — I knew what it did to him to hear me say such things. I took the drooling head of his cock into my mouth and teased his slit with the tip of my tongue, lapping up droplets of salt and bitterness. He wailed and sobbed. 

“Oh, my boy.” That may have been a step too far. I laid my head on his heaving chest to let him feel me as I listened to his pounding heart. “Hush, hush, it’s alright. I am going to leave you now, but I will return soon, and then this will all be over. You’ve been so good for me today. Hold on a little longer. Do you think you can do that?”

His cries soon faded, and he nodded again, his body relaxing in its tight bonds. My heart warmed. I reminded myself that if he really wanted it to stop, all he had to do was snap his fingers. He was in some distress, yet he turned to me, even as I was the one responsible for it. I wondered if I would ever be worthy of the trust he placed in me, the privilege it was to have control over him. Sometimes I could not believe it.

I did not want him alone too long in that state, but after further reassurances I felt comfortable enough to leave the room and make my final preparations. When my Watson’s ordeal came to an end, there would be comforts waiting for him. I built up a fire in the hearth, fetched his favourite dressing gown and a clean nightshirt. I fetched a glass of water for immediate consumption, and got out the bottle of best brandy for later. He kept his bag under his desk; after a couple of false starts rummaging inside I managed to find a soothing cream for his skin. He liked the rope marks, because they reminded him of who he belonged to, but it would not do for him to be in pain. 

I think perhaps half an hour had passed when I went back to him. He lay perfectly still, breathing slow and steady through his nose. He often did that when trying to remain calm. The sight of him made my cock throb. God, I’d already climaxed twice today and I still needed more. What he did to me. Seeing him like this was the most effective aphrodisiac in the world, I was drawn to him. 

I laid his clothes on the nearby chair, let my dressing gown fall in a heap on the floor, and climbed onto the bed to kiss him all over. He tasted hot and salty and mine. 

“John, my boy,” I growled in his ear, “I’m going to fuck you. I’m going to take that plug out and fill your arse with my cock. Is that what you want?” 

He squirmed and nodded frantically. Gratified, I placed a pillow under his hips and freed his legs, bending them toward his chest with one arm under his knees. There was his perfect arse, the plug nestled within, opening him up for me so beautifully. I eased it out slowly, to be careful, but wasted no further time in slicking John’s hole with more Vaseline and pushing inside. Christ, he was tight, even after wearing the plug for hours. And the heat of him! I couldn’t help myself — I drove into him with his legs tight around my waist, one hand in his hair, the other clutching his hip. His prick bounced between us, bright red at the tip and leaking profusely. 

My orgasm was building rapidly in my core. I loosened the cravat and slid it free, squeezing John’s bollocks between my fingers in time with the rolling of my hips. They were so full and heavy. I knew his climax would be spectacular. 

I pushed forward so he was practically bent double with his knees by his ears, pinned beneath me, taking me hard and deep because that was all he could do. He tossed his head against the pillows, keeping a muffled litany of frantic, panting cries. What bliss to hear them. 

I wanted to see it. I wanted to see his face, I realised; I slowed right down to fumble behind his head and untie the blindfold. There he was, those endless ocean-blue eyes I knew so well, now bloodshot and watery. He blinked in the sudden light. His face was streaked with tears. 

“John.” I stroked his cheek. “John, my sweet boy, look at you. You've done so well, wonderfully well.” Somehow my voice was almost steady, only the slightest tremor to give me away. “I'm going to make you come now, pet.”

He shook his sweat-soaked hair out of his face, nodding and saying something I couldn't understand. Perhaps it was my name. His legs shook, and his eyes implored me, begging me to finally allow him release. 

“I'm so proud of you,” I breathed, clutching him tighter to me, impossibly close. I was filling every inch of him, my hips flush with his arse, my cock engulfed in his heat, his muscles clenching around me with each thrust against his prostate. I continued to murmur an endless stream of praise, though my breathing grew ragged and my words were punctuated by our wordless gasps and stifled moans as we neared the peak together. 

“You take me so well, you feel so good, John all day you've been – ah – you've been incredible, you've been – fuck – oh, come for me, John, come, pet, that's it –”

His back arched as his prick began to spill between us, staining our stomachs without even a hand on him. All it had taken was my word. I fucked him harder, faster, deeper still — through the haze of my own urgent need I managed to catalogue the look on his face, knowing I would want to remember this later, exactly this. His whole body shook around me, swept away on seemingly endless waves of ecstacy, hours of teasing and denial catching up at once, and soon I was caught in the tide as well. 

“You – oh, John, you beautiful –”

I lost the end of my sentence when my own orgasm crashed over me. Somehow, in that moment, the world became crystal clear. I saw a bead of sweat slip from John's left eyebrow down his cheek; I saw the golden lashes of his right eye, every single one, some them clumped together; I saw the minute shivers rushing over his skin, the goose pimples; I saw my own pale hands holding him, almost as if I were outside my own body. I wondered what on earth I had done to earn the right to hold John Watson like this, to have him surrender to me so completely.

Then my arms gave way and I collapsed on top of him, near-feverish with pleasure. His spend smeared across our stomachs. I did not care. 

“Oh, John.” I scrabbled to free his mouth at last, tossed the gag and handkerchiefs aside with the rest. The mess did not matter. Anything outside the little island of our bed had ceased to exist. “John, my dear –”

“Sherlock,” he croaked, and then he could say nothing else because I was kissing him like he was my only source of oxygen. I had gone too long not being able to kiss him. How I loved his mouth, the way his moustache rubbed a sweet burn into my skin. 

“Darling boy,” I said once we broke apart. “You were incredible. Beyond comparison. Are you alright?”

His throat worked, then he smiled wearily. “Water?” 

“Yes, of course.” I reached for the glass on the bedside table and supported his head so he could drink. 

“Thank you.” He laid his head on my arm and kissed the soft skin near my elbow. “Thank you.” 

He was thanking me for more than water. “Tell me you're alright, pet. How do you feel? Any pain?”

“No, no – well, some aches here and there. I don't mind them.” His smile widened as he sank back into the pillow. “I may not be able to walk for some time.”

“What a tragedy. I'll have to share my bed.” I kissed him again. “Do you want these on a bit longer?”

He shook his head. “Let me hold you, darling, please.”

He could call me darling, now, and my name — the title of Sir was no longer necessary. I devoted the next twenty minutes to my own form of servitude. When I pulled out of him he winced, and we both felt the warmth of my seed oozing down his thighs. I cleaned us both and promised to change the sheets. John's skin was marked by narrow red lines, and I rubbed them all with the lotion from his bag to ease any discomfort. He insisted his shoulder was fine, no worse than usual. I massaged it anyway. 

It turned out he was indeed able to stand, once he had recovered, and so we dressed in our nightclothes and moved to the sitting room. I left the bedroom door open to air it out. My Watson curled up on the settee while I lit the fire and poured us  both a drink. 

He took the proffered brandy, sipped it appreciatively, and then clasped my wrist with his other hand. I let him tug me down beside him and wrap his arm around my shoulders.

“Now, love,” he said. “Was it everything you wanted?”

I nodded at once. “Indeed it was, my dear. Beyond my imaginings. You were incredible.”

“So you've said,” he teased. “I am glad I could please you.”

“You did far more than that.” I pushed him against the back of the settee and kissed him deeply. He tasted like brandy and was equally intoxicating. “Have I ever told you how utterly mad it is that you obey me like you do?”

He moved back to stare at me. “Why should it be mad? We have an agreement. This is how we are when we are alone.” He chuckled. “I count myself lucky to have you at all. Tell me what you'd have of me, and I will do it, if I can. Or at the very least I shall try.”

“But why?” I couldn't help but ask.

“My dear Holmes.” He set down his brandy glass and took both my hands in his. “I adore you. I want no other, and I want to make you happy. That our sexual inclinations align as they do is a marvellous thing, and I am grateful for it every day – but I would do whatever you asked of me without any of that. If we never had any form of intercourse again –”

“Oh, don't say that, John.”

“Ssh.” He squeezed my hands. “I am glad to be at your side. Always. I trust you. I have given myself to you in every possible way, and the simple reason is that I love you. That's about it, really.”

For once in my life I had no idea what to say. My mouth opened and closed of its own accord, with no sound coming out, and in the silence Watson began to frown.

“Holmes?”

I wrangled my tongue. “One moment.” I wasn't entirely sure what I was doing, but my hands seemed to, so I let them take the lead. One removed the belt from my dressing gown and wrapped it around the other, where it was entwined with John's.

“What are you doing?” he asked, bemused.

“I believe it is referred to as a handfasting; you may know of it, given your heritage. Of course we do not have a properly knotted rope, and you and I cannot have a traditional ceremony of any kind really, and we certainly cannot wear any rings –”

“Sherlock.” John cupped my cheek. I knew he would feel the heat under my skin. His eyes were a summer sky. “I do.”

“You –”

“I do. I take thee, to my wedded husband, till death us depart, and thereto I plight thee my troth.” 

My heart was thundering. I wondered if my ribcage wouldn't shatter and set it free, to show the world that the Great Detective was nowhere near as impenetrable as he was written. 

“I take thee,” I spoke the precious words slowly, copying Watson's inflection, “to my wedded husband, till death us depart, and thereto in plight thee my troth.”

“‘S tu smior de mo chnàimh, anns mo chuislean ‘s tu ‘n fhuil.” Watson’s voice was rich and warm. I so rarely got to hear him speak like this; I was enraptured. “Bheir mi dhut-sa mo chorp, gum bith ‘n dithis mar aon. Bheir mi dhut-sa slàn m’ anam, gus an crìochnaich ar saoghal.”

“I –” I blushed. “I'm afraid I don't know what that means.”

“Ye are blood of my blood, and bone of my bone. I give ye my body, that we two might be one. I give ye my spirit, ‘til our life shall be done.” His grip on my hand tightened. “I think that will suit us. I gave you my body a long time ago. It is yours. I am yours, body and soul.”

“John.”

His name felt holy on my tongue. I surged forward again to claim his mouth so he might feel it for himself, how much I loved and admired and cherished him. He was a wonder, and he was mine. Mine to hold, to kiss, to tease, to bind, to make love to and to fuck, to argue with and reconcile, everything. My doctor. My partner. My husband, as of five minutes ago. My Watson. 

I would gladly spend the rest of my days using him as I needed, if that was what he desired of me. I only hoped I could prove worthy of such devotion, and he never forgot that beneath my cold analytical exterior my heart beat only for him.