Guilty Pleasures

BY : Cody_Thomas
Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC)
Dragon prints: 6645
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or content associated with BBC Sherlock, I am merely playing with them for my own amusement and make no money from this fic

So, sometimes John gets a bit frustrated. Sometimes, Sherlock just pushes one too many buttons and John can't quite handle it. Sometimes, he loses his temper. And...well, sometimes John maybe takes that frustration out on Sherlock when they have sex.

Sometimes, there are deep, dark bruises left on Sherlock's hips and thighs and shoulders and arms, ones that linger for far too long. Sometimes, Sherlock walks with a bit of a limp for a day or two afterwards and winces a bit when he sits. Sometimes there's a bubble of guilt that swells in John's chest, growing larger and larger each time it happens, each time Sherlock forgives him, and each time John swears he'll never do anything so horrid again.

But the thing is, Sherlock likes it. Not the bruises or the pain - both of which are inconsequential and highly exaggerated on Sherlock's part. No, what Sherlock likes is the after-effect. The way John dotes on him in his guilt, how tenderly John treats him, as if he'd break at the slightest touch, and how loving John is with him in every action, every word - it's all so splendid.

A prompt fill from the SherlockBBC LJ kink meme.


A/N: So I'm basically cleaning up and polishing the fill I started on LJ and also continuing it here since that post is very near full. I will be finishing this fic no matter HOW much writers block tries to get in my way! *stocks up on dynamite.* Updates will be sporadic, I am warning you now, and the POV changes each chapter, because that's how it happened, deal with it. ^_^


He doesn't even remember when it started happening, when things had... shifted so greatly. John had never thought he would be like this. He was a doctor for chrissakes he helps people, heals them, and yet somehow, he has no idea when, this great dark beast started rising up inside of him, a beast that willingly and intentionally hurts someone he cares about so deeply.


There's never really a warning of what will set it off, but Sherlock is extremely proficient at provoking it sometimes. All it can take is a small phrase, or a look, something in the eyes that makes the pressure start in his chest, the anger start to well up inside of his gut, until with one more word from those lips, or one last glance of disinterest or uncaring dismissal from those ice blue eyes, and the next thing he knows he's pinning Sherlock to the closest available surface. Walls, table, floor, bent over the sharp angle of the couch, it doesn't matter. He claws at the man, tearing away those perfectly tailored clothes, biting at his neck and lips instead of kissing them, digging in with fingers and nails and refusing to stop until that look has shifted, until there is feeling in those depths, until Sherlock's impenetrable and unaffected mask is completely shattered, flushed and panting, and is biting his lips so hard that he's bleeding, and even then he doesn't stop.


John never stops until this proud, cold, brilliant man is impaled on his shaft, writhing and whimpering as John slams his hips home and bites harshly into the junction of his shoulder or arm, anything he can reach, hard enough to taste blood. He doesn't stop until he knows that Sherlock has been made to feel it, him, something, anything... until Sherlock screams. That's when he cums. He ALWAYS cums when Sherlock screams like that, when his body is covered in marks, his wrists or hips or throat bruised from John gripping them, clothes disheveled or ripped and still uselessly clinging to those impossibly long limbs, and his eyes, if he can see them, filled with pain. Gods what kind of monster is he?


John winces at the deep reddish-purple marks around Sherlock's waist, his thumbs had been digging hard into Sherlocks' kidneys near the end of this latest encounter, and feels bile rise in his throat right as the guilt comes crashing down on him. Face first over the coffee table this time, there's blood on Sherlock's shoulder, along with a perfect oval of teeth indents, each one vividly visible. He hadn't used enough preparation or lube either, the bottle hidden between the couch cushions had been near empty, and he hadn't bothered with wasting time to find more. He doesn't want to know how much damage he's caused this time.


Sherlock is quiet and doesn't make eye contact as he pushes himself up after John has backed away and begins to straighten his clothes as best he can.


John had been slamming Sherlock's hips into the harsh edge of the table without care, there was a red indented mark there that he sees before it's covered by fine tailored trousers.


Sherlock's cheek had struck against the edge of a mug in John's careless haste to push him over the table. Sherlock hadn't been fully able to brace or protect himself at first because John had wrenched his arm up behind his back before he did it. There is a deep crescent-shaped mark on Sherlock's cheek, it will bruise, John can tell already. A mark that can't be hidden, or covered up so that no one will notice, a reminder of the beast that John can't deny or forget about when Sherlock is completely covered in several layers of clothing even in the heat of summer. John feels sick.


"I'm sorry." He murmurs, and the words feel so completely inadequate to describe the feeling of utter regret he has, no matter how much he means it. Sherlock says nothing, doesn't even look at him or pretend he heard as he haltingly stands up with a slight hiss of pain as he holds his shoulder and slowly walks to the bathroom, trying to hide the slight limp in his step as he makes his way, before quietly shutting himself inside. John feels like his heart has been ripped out of his chest.


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