Title: Scratching the Itch
Fandom: Sherlock (BCC)
Characters/Pairings: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes; Sherlock/John
Rating:NC-17
Summary:

John smiles. "You think you're getting off easy, don't you?”

Sherlock lifts a shoulder in a small shrug.

“You're not. Believe me when I say you're not."

Word Count: ~2,000
Spoilers: None
Warnings: BDSM
Additional Tags: Dom!John, Sub!Sherlock, Discipline, Bondage
Beta: The incomparable hobbit_trollop
A/N: For the fan_flashworks challenge: "Fight"

John ties off the final knot that binds Sherlock's wrists to the towel bar and then steps back to admire the view.  There is a lot to admire, the neatly-tied knots being just the beginning. John takes pride in his work, of course, but there is even more satisfaction to be had gazing at Sherlock himself, who is currently seated on their bathroom floor with has back against the wall, his arms stretched over his head and his legs splayed wide open. Naked.

Sherlock, who had maintained a haughty, bored look on his face throughout the entire binding process (quite a feat for a naked man, especially one who has one leg bound to the base of sink and the other to the radiator, stretched to the point of discomfort) lifts his chin and meet John's gaze. When he's sure he has John's full attention, he arches one thick eyebrow.

John recognises the look it for what it is—a challenge.  Even now, when Sherlock is supposed to be relinquishing control, he is still trying to goad John into acting. Though he is, surprisingly enough, following John's orders to “Shut up until I tell you you can talk.”

John refuses to be rushed. He folds his arms and gives Sherlock his mildest, most patient smile. Then he looks Sherlock over again, head-to-toe then toe-to-head, just because he can.

He lets his gaze linger on Sherlock's his muscled calves and his flat stomach. He admires the contrast between Sherlock's impressively-long cock and the jutting shoulder bones that give him an air of fragility. He notes that a bead of sweat has lodged in the tempting hollow of Sherlock's throat, and that one errant black curl has tumbled down over Sherlock's forehead. He realises that Sherlock's uninterested facade is just that, a facade. The bead of sweat, plus the slight flush across Sherlock's prominent cheekbones and the darker flush on his already half-hard cock, tell a different story.

As soon as John breaks eye contact, Sherlock tilts his head back to inspect his bonds. John had made him grab the bar from behind with both hands, and then wound the cord around his wrists several times before criss-crossing it back and forth over the bar and tying it off. It's decent enough work, John knows, but he doesn't fool himself into thinking it's Sherlock-proof. It will only be effective at keeping Sherlock in place as long as he's there to keep an eye on him. But that's OK—he isn't planning to go anywhere until they're done here.

Sherlock starts to test the knots, not bothering to hide the fact that he's doing it. He twists his wrists and flexes his arm muscles to see how much give there is. John lets him, enjoying the play of Sherlock's wiry muscles under his pale skin.

Sherlock shifts his weight from one skinny flank to the other and jerks his wrists forward. A calculating look crosses his face and John knows that Sherlock's just deduced that with a little applied force he could work the towel bar right out of the wall. After all, the tiny screws were only designed to hold a couple of bath towels, not 12 ½ stone of squirming detective.

Time to put a stop to this.

“Sherlock,” John says, mildly enough, but it's enough to make Sherlock's head snap down. He meets John's gaze again, and John notices that his eyes are unusually bright, and their colour is edging towards the deep golden-green that he only sees when Sherlock is aroused.

John raises an eyebrow of his own, and shakes his head "no".

Sherlock breaks the eye contact and heaves a sigh.

John crouches down in front of him, and takes Sherlock's chin in his hand, tilting it up.

“Do you know what I'm going to do now?”

Sherlock stares at John intently, his luminous eyes eyes drinking in every detail of John's face. John allows him to take his time, quashing the slight flutter of his stomach at being the object of such intense scrutiny.

Sherlock's gaze sweeps down John's body, stopping briefly at his hips to check what's in his pockets (at least John's pretty sure that's what Sherlock's doing, though John has no doubt that he's also noticed that John too is aroused); then dropping further to glance around the floor. Sherlock's head swivels slowly as he takes in the entire room, then his gaze flicks back up to John's face.

Sherlock shakes his head.

It's an admission bordering on a revelation: John Watson has stumped Sherlock Holmes. Pride blooms in John's chest until he quashes that as well. It wouldn't do to appear anything but calm, collected, and in control at this moment.

“Two nights ago, we went to an abandoned warehouse. Remember?”

Sherlock's brows narrow, just a fraction, at this apparent non-sequitur. Puzzlement? Annoyance? John doesn't care. He's got Sherlock right where he wants him. He's going to make his point in his own time. And then he's going to make sure that Sherlock doesn't forget it.

“Sherlock?” he prompts, when Sherlock merely stares at him.

Sherlock inclines his head down and up in the briefest of nods

“When we got there, the plan was to split up, circle around the building to make sure the coast was clear, and meet by the back door to go in together. Together, Sherlock. Remember that? You should. It was your plan, after all.”

Sherlock's eyes widen—so slightly John would have missed it if he wasn't watching so closely—and John knows a piece of the puzzle has just fallen into place.

Sherlock nods again, slowly.

“Is that what happened Sherlock?”

Sherlock shakes his head from side to side. Good. One side of Sherlock's mouth twitches up as if he's trying not to smile. Not so good.

“No, that's not what happened,” John snaps. He squeezes Sherlock's chin, then pushes it down and stands abruptly, leaving Sherlock to stare at his jeans-clad knees.

John puts his hands on his hips and glowers down at the top of Sherlock's head. “Look at me.”

Sherlock has to tilt his head all the way back to see John's face. He does.

“What happened was that you got there first and went in by yourself, without bothering to text me the code word indicating that the plan had changed. By yourself. And do you remember what happened then?”

Sherlock nods again. The almost-smile has disappeared, replaced by a downward twist of his full lips. Regret? Irritation that John is making an issue out of this? Again, John doesn't care. He is going to make an issue out of this.

“So do I. I'll never forget it as long as I live. The weapons smugglers were there, Sherlock. The ones you thought would be out. I glanced in the window and saw you being held at gunpoint by five armed men who didn't look very happy to see you. If I hadn't...”

John's breath catches in his throat, and he has to glance away for a moment to regain his composure.

“If I hadn't created a diversion by shooting into a cache of explosives out back, allowing you to take out two and me the other three, they would have killed you, Sherlock. Like they killed every other person that got close to their operation, no questions asked. You knew they were trigger-happy. And yet you waltzed in there, alone. But that's not even the worst part. Do you know what the worst part is?”

Sherlock opens his mouth, as if to reply. John holds up his hand.

“When I asked you later that night why you didn't tell me you were going in, you said you forgot. You forgot. Which, frankly, I'm having a little trouble believing because you never forget anything. What I think is, you came up with what you thought was a better plan, and couldn't be bothered to keep me in the loop. And you almost got yourself killed as a result of it. Am I getting close?"

Sherlock snaps his mouth shut so abruptly John is surprised it isn't audible.

“And it's not the first time that's happened, either, is it? It's not the first time that you quote unquote forgot.”

Sherlock's facade slips and for a moment he looks like he's been physically struck. (Come to think of it, John's seen Sherlock get actually physically struck without reacting as much as this.) Sherlock flushes and looks away, and John realises he looks guilty. John supposes he could be faking it; replacing one facade with another to give John what he wants and get himself out of trouble, but John doesn't think so. For one thing, Sherlock Holmes doesn't give in when he thinks he's right. Ever. No matter what the consequences for himself are. For another, Sherlock's erection has wilted under John's tirade, and even Sherlock doesn't have that much control.

John's getting through, then. Good.

He crouches back down and ghosts his fingers over Sherlock's thigh.

Sherlock starts, so much so that he nearly bumps his head on the towel bar. It's a bit of an over-reaction, and John takes some time to work out what it means. Is Sherlock expecting John to hurt him? Is that what he thinks this is about? Physical pain for emotional pain, an even exchange? Probably, if his taut shoulders and his averted gaze are anything to go by. Interesting.

“Sherlock, look at me," John says. Sherlock turns his head back, though his gaze lands somewhere around John's chin.

“Look, I know that you're used to working on your own," John says, in a softer tone. "I also know that sometimes plans change, and that you have to act on your hunches, and all that. But you need to keep me informed if I'm going to help you. It's important.”

John sighs, and allows a bit of the mingled fear and disappointment he felt that night, and is still feeling, to creep into his tone. “You scared the hell out of me that night, Sherlock. You risked your life unnecessarily. You risked my life unnecessarily. We could have avoided all that if you'd just 'remembered' that I'm there to help you. We've talked about this before and you said you would try. But have you?"

Sherlock shakes his head. He looks miserable.

“Well, I'm going to help you remember. Starting right now."

John allows his hand to slide to the inside of Sherlock's thigh, the back of it just brushing against Sherlock's cock. Sherlock's cock twitches. Maybe from the contact; maybe from snap of decisiveness in John's voice. It doesn't much matter. The important thing is John's got Sherlock's attention now, in a way no amount of shouting, arguing, or storming out of the flat ever could.

John rises and opens the medicine cabinet above Sherlock's head. He removes a razor and a can of shaving gel and crouches back down in front of Sherlock.

"I'll ask again. Do you know what I'm going to do now? You may speak.”

Sherlock's gaze flicks from the can to the razor to his exposed privates.

"You... you're going to shave me?”

Sherlock's tone is one of disbelief, and John smiles inwardly at having stumped Sherlock Holmes yet again. Sherlock knows what John is going to do—the evidence is literally right in front of his eyes--but not why.

“Disappointed?”

“After that speech? A little. It hardly seems a fitting punishment for risking both our lives, not to mention 'scaring the hell out of you'."

John puts the can on the floor, pinches a tuft of neatly-trimmed black pubic hair between his thumb and index finger and tugs, hard. Sherlock flinches, his lips parting in surprise. John smiles and tugs again.

“You think you're getting off easy, don't you?”

Sherlock lifts a shoulder in a small shrug.

“You're not. Believe me when I say you're not." John leans forward and murmurs against Sherlock's ear. "Just wait until it grows back.”

“I don't understand."

Oh, this is a day of firsts, to be sure. John is happy to enlighten him.

“It's going to itch, Sherlock. Itch like hell. Not at first. But after a couple of days, the itching will be so persistent even you will have a hard time tuning it out. I'm not going to allow you to wear pants either, so that will make it even worse. Every time you move, every time those snug trousers of yours rub against your crotch, you're going to think about it. And about who did it to you. You're not going to be able to forget about me, not for one second of one day, until that hair grows out enough to be soft again."

John can just picture it. Sherlock at a crime scene, desperately fighting the urge to scratch in public; trying appear like everything is normal. Sherlock at home, staring blindly at some experiment while he fights against the same urge, lest he give John the satisfaction of knowing how much it's bothering him. Both of them knowing, regardless, that it is bothering him. Both of them knowing that John has that much control over Sherlock. (The fact that Sherlock has willingly given John that control still floors him sometimes, when he stops to think about it.) It's delicious.

Plus, he has in inkling that Sherlock's denuded cock and balls will look delightfully obscene. Oh, the pleasurable things he'll do to them--after Sherlock has suffered properly for a few days first, of course.

Sherlock, perhaps entertaining similar thoughts, swallows hard several times, his Adam's apple bobbing. Then he nods once, leans his head back against the wall, and closes his eyes.

John's own throat goes thick with emotion at Sherlock's acquiescence; made all the more profound because it was silent. He picks up the can of shaving gel.

“Now you're going to want to hold still, Sherlock. Very still.”

Sherlock does.