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Chains and Whips	By : Whispers-of-a-Memory Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 2561 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I own nothing of SHERLOCK from the BBC and I make NO MONEY

Chapter List
- 1-Chains and Whips
- 1
Summary: Their latest case get's a little messy for John and Sherlock. Future fic. Established relationship
Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock.
Rating: M (Violence, Torture, and Sex)
Pairing: Sherlock/John.
CHAINS AND WHIPS:
Sherlock knew they were in trouble the moment he started to wake up. His shoulders screamed in pain that he would never vocalize as his arms were stretched above his head. Manacles cut into his wrists and he could feel the warm slickness of his blood. Sherlock tried craning his neck around to see if anyone else was in the cold barren room but he couldn't. John Watson was tethered to him. His arms were over his shoulders, hands cuffed behind Sherlock's neck. Cold air swirled around them as he noted that his short, and John's, were both missing. Sherlock tested his bonds hears chains clinking. He was suspended on a hook. "I knew this was going to be a bad day." He muttered feeling fatigue creep back in. Whatever he had been drugged with was kicking in again leaving Sherlock to rest his forehead against the top of John's head.
YESTERDAY:
Sherlock stood in front of his make shift murder board above the mantle studying photo's notes, and other assorted evidence for the latest case the Yard had asked him to consult on. Sherlock scrubbed his hands over his face and through his curly mass of dark hair that he had let grow since he had been forced from London after faking his death, with Mycroft's help, to mask his identity. Every time he thought to get it trimmed to a more manageable length someone would stare at him a little too long and a little too hard. Sherlock would walk off letting it grow longer until it was just apart of him now. He grabbed a pen, swept the top half of his hair back from his face, wound it around the pen and secured it to the back of his head.
Ever since returning he just hadn't had the heart to cut it off. It drew more stares, clever jibes, more attention, but the only attention he had come to care about, as shocked as he was, was the attention of John Watson. Several times John mentioned how he liked the way his hair fell around his face. So, that was that, Sherlock would keep his hair down to his shoulder's to please John. It was then he felt his lover's arms come around his waist, and lips kissed the side of his neck. "I know I missed something, but what?" Sherlock muttered taking the pen out of his hair and tossing it towards the papers tacked to the wall.
"Going over the crime scene in your head?" John asked resting his cheek against Sherlock's shoulder blade. He was angry months ago when Sherlock magically showed up alive and breathing almost as if he hadn't forced John to watch as he flung himself off a building, but then he explained, which was something Sherlock never did, and John listened calmly. Then he ranted and raved and screamed and raged at Sherlock for an hour. The genius sat on the sofa and let him yell wearing that annoyingly blank face he usually wore. Two days later they had fallen into Sherlock's bed, John finally unable to keep resisting him, and they hadn't been apart since. That was all six months ago. John knew he should be horrified that he was so deeply in love with a man, but this was Sherlock. He paled in comparison to all others; even woman. John didn't know when it had happened, just that it had.
"Trying to," Sherlock mumbled again. "There was something I missed. I know I saw it, but I can't recall what it is that I saw." Idly his rested his hands atop Johns and leaned his head so he was trying to soak up some of the inspirational aura John seemed to be surrounded with. Since Watson had come to be his flat mate Sherlock's work had soared. He had solved a number of cases in a matter of hours all with John around him, pushing him. "I need to return to the crime scene." He stepped away from John and went to retrieve his coat in a rush. His god-complex forced him to return to the scene sop he could prove that he was smarter than everyone around him. Sherlock had to solve this case.
ABANDONED WAREHOUSE:
Sherlock opened his eyes when a light flicked on above him. He could see they were in an abandoned warehouse or meat packing plant. They were in the Warehouse District. Besides a few private clubs, no one would hear them. Footsteps sounded around them. One person; a man, 220 lbs, and about 6'1. Sherlock couldn't see, but he could extrapolate with his hearing. "So, come to torture us for information?" Sherlock asked. "Boring," He goaded hearing the crack of a whip. It was more than likely used to torture the three victims that had been laid out in this very building. His heart started to beat faster. This was exciting a bit terrifying at the same time. Sherlock wanted what happened next.
"No," A Russian accent filled the air. "This is just fun."
'Ok, Russian, sort of saw that coming.' Sherlock thought trying to twist in his bonds to get a look at their attacker. "I guess you're just choosing which one of us to beat on," Sherlock mused trying to misdirect him. He knew that was what the Russian was going to do. If Sherlock could keep the Russian's attention focused on him, then John would be spared. The whip cracked like a shot slicing into his back with a cold kiss of metal biting into his skin splitting his flesh, drawing first blood. His body reacting jolted John and nearly tore a cry from his mouth. But he would not scream. If Sherlock screamed the game would be over He would not lose.
"Sherlock…" John mumbled coming back to the waking world. He felt cold, his arms were strained and Sherlock's torso was pressed in tight against him rising and falling rapidly. "What…?" Strong leather encircled his neck yanking his head back cutting off his hair. John fought to breath, gasping and fighting against the cuffs.
"I think your friend wants to play." The Russian laughed.
"No!" Sherlock shouted fighting his bonds, cutting the manacles further into his skin. "Take me! I can last longer than he would." He had to protect John. "Hurt me, beat me, and you hurt him. Two for the price of one," The leather slackened and John gasped for breath turning pained eyes on him. John will figure out what he was doing, but he had to bide time for John. The footsteps thudded on the concrete ground; heavy work boots Sherlock surmised. Mentally he was preparing his body for yet another vicious kiss from the whip. His body bowed into John's, a growl rumbling in his chest. Sherlock refused to scream.
"You are brave one." The Russian sneered snapping the whip, biting into pale man's skin again. Blood blossomed, painting the white skin crimson. He arched his arm back sending the tail kiss the man's skin again and again.
Sherlock fought with everything he had not to scream, keeping his eyes on John's. He tried to convey a message to John with his eyes. The man stopped, for a moment he had a reprieve to regain his senses, his breath; he could prepare himself for the next assault. Tiredly his head lolled foreword resting once against John's. Sherlock chuckled lightly, a little maniacally. His body's natural endorphins were starting to kick in to take the edge of pain off. Again the whip cracked hard, biting into his flesh, but still he laughed, and finally John started to tangle his fingers into his hair. "Yes…" Soon John would find the lock pick.
John locked his fingers in Sherlock's hair feeling something poke his skin. He didn't react, didn't give away that he had found something. Instead John slowly, methodically, while calling on his military training, pulled free whatever it was and used it to pick the lock to his hand cuffs. He kept his eyes focused on Sherlock's pulse, used his training to make sure his lover wasn't in danger. Sherlock had the ability to control his body, to fool people. But he wasn't fooling John. His pulse jumped when he felt the fist lock of the cuffs give way. Under the guise of burying his face in Sherlock's neck, John worked a touch faster. The second click and the cuff sprang free. Keeping his face against Sherlock's skin John kissed his pulse; just a subtle sign that he was free. What he was about to do, he hadn't done in a long time. He had to call on his military training.
LAST NIGHT:
Sherlock moved about the murder scene seeing everything he had seen before, but this time he was looking for what was niggling at the back of his mind. There was something here he had seen but hadn't realized he had seen. "What is it?" He mumbled while being aware of John watching him while studying the crime scene with him. Though, he imagined John was seeing the bodies and studying them with a doctors trained eyes. "How did you say these people were killed again?" Sherlock asked knowing very well how they died. He just wanted to hear John speak to fill the void of the cold metal walls. If anything Sherlock could use the white noise.
"We know that each victim was killed from their necks being broken between C3 and C4 vertebrae making death instantaneous." John tried to recall the crime scene as he knew Sherlock could, but all he could picture was the M.E's report confirming what he knew at a glance. "But before death each victim was whipped and tortured." John cleared his throat standing up to look around the space. The least he could do was try and help Sherlock. Then he felt something prick the side of his neck. John pulled a tranq dart from his flesh and felt his head swim. He dropped to his knees, an unwilling victim to the darkness.
Sherlock looked at John as he collapsed to his knees. "John?" He asked feeling the sharp sting in the back of his neck. Pulling free a dart from his skin, Sherlock muttered, "Oh crap," He rolled his eyes falling back, his head hitting the concrete. Sherlock fought with all he had to get to John. He tried to get to his hands and knees, but what ever sedative was in him was working too fast. Sherlock was losing. The room was spinning and he could barely make out the sounds of heavy foot falls coming closer to them. He tried to remain conscious but he failed. All came to darkness.
ABANDONED BUILDING:
Sherlock was losing; the urge he had to scream crept up on him in ever increasing intensity. He made a deal with his mind to endure one more hit, one more deep cut so John could have his time to make the right move. One more hit. One more whipping. 'John make your move.' Sherlock thought sharply. John flexed his fingers signaling to him that he was getting ready to move. Sherlock listened for the man to turn his back, but another wicked kiss of the whip greeted him. He growled loudly. He was still not going to scream. Then he heard it. The man picked his feet up and turned. Sherlock whispered, "Go now…"
John did as he was told; he slid down Sherlock's body, using him as a shield for the fraction of a second. John let the chains fall from the soldier inside of him, the man who had been in brutal combat, in war. He used that side of himself that he had buried to get them out of this. Side stepping Sherlock's suspended body, John moved quickly to the folding table that had been set up. He had no time to think, only to grab the nearest object he could and use it as a weapon. Luck was on his side. John's hands closed over the whip. Using his combat training, his soldier's skill of killing, John quickly looped the leather around the bald mans neck and pulled. The man fought, bucking and thrusting his elbows back into John's ribs. John just had to hold on, pull the whip a little tighter around the man's neck. Just. A. Little. More. John, in one last shred of sanity yanked the whip where he heard something break. The man fell limply to the ground.
Sherlock tried to twist, tried to see is John was alright. His wounds protested greatly wringing a hiss of pain from his lips. "John!" He shouted fighting his bounds in desperation. Pain rippled down his arms forcing him to still his body. Then, machines kicked on and he was being lowered back to the ground. His shoulders twitched from the sudden change in position. Sherlock bit his bottom lip as he slowly brought his arms down in front of him. He was taking stock of his aches, of his pains, when he heard foot falls behind him. Quickly, he turned; only breathe a sigh of great relief seeing Watson bear chested holding their shirts and jackets. Smirking, Sherlock held up his hands asking, "Could you?" John just smiled as he used the lock pick to open the manacles. They clattered to the floor reveling Sherlock's bloodied wrists. There would be bruises later.
John's heard seized at the sight of Sherlock's wrists. It had killed him to even look at his back, but he was a doctor, an army doctor; he had seen worse. He just never thought to see worse on the body of a man he loved so much. "Let's go home." John helped Sherlock on with his shirt and then carefully drew the man's arm across his shoulders. Sherlock would have protested, but John wasn't giving him a choice. Carefully John right arm around Sherlock's waist guiding him away from the form of the man who had whipped him.
"What about the Russian?" Sherlock leaned his head against John biting back the small gasps of pain as the fabric of his shirt brushed along his lacerated back. He hadn't heard movement from the man and for a second he wondered it John had killed their attacker. It would be the first time John committed murder on his behalf. Their first case in fact ended with John pulling the trigger which killed the cabbie who had been murdering people via suicide.
"Oh, you know, he's going to be out… for a while." John answered ambiguously. He wasn't so sure that the man would wake up, but he still drew breath, much to John's chagrin. "We'll phone Lestrade as soon as we get back to the flat." They walked slowly to the rusted steel door and then out into the night. John made sure that he had Sherlock's coat; that man loved his coat.
221B BAKER STREET:
John had managed to get Sherlock up the steps and into the flat. His body was slumping against him leaving John to half drag his lover back into the bedroom off the living room. Using his doctor's intuition, John could tell that Sherlock was going to pass out soon. It was the body's natural defense to trauma. Sherlock couldn't fight it. Somehow he managed to get his lover in the bed, lying face down where Sherlock promptly fell into a deep sleep. "At least that's a small mercy." John mumbled. For what he would have to do next, he wouldn't want Sherlock awake for it. In the kitchen he boiled some water to sterilize the thread and a needle he would use to close the deeper wounds on Sherlock's back. As the water boiled john sent off a text to Lestrade letting him know the brute killer they were looking for was in the warehouse district, but there was no hurry. The man was dead.
In the bedroom Sherlock was still passed out much to John's relief. Carefully, breathing out the breath he had held on top since opening the door, John sat next to his enigmatic, his sometimes clueless lover, and began to clean the laceration on Sherlock's left shoulder. Diluted in the water was peroxide and saline to aide in the disinfection. John gently dribbled some of the water into the wound watching it bubble and clean out the dried blood. He switched rags to wipe away foam so he could inspect the wound. This one would only need a bandage. He moved on to the next whip mark, this one was deeper and it required stitches. John set aside the rag and grabbed his needle and suture thread.
Calling on his medical training, John methodically put stitches in to close the deeper of the wounds. He let his mind get drawn in be the work, convincing himself that this was just a body, that it wasn't Sherlock's skin that had been ravaged in a beating he had willing took to spare John. He focused on the work, focused on cleaning and bandaging Sherlock's wounds as quickly as he could. Before he knew it, his work was complete. Sherlock had remained blissfully asleep through it all. John was still thankful for that as he might not have been able to stand it had he been awake. Lastly he took great care to bandage Sherlock's wrists where the cold metal of the manacles had cut into his skin leaving it raw and red. Rising from his spot on the bed, John grasped the fleece blanket and drew it up over Sherlock's sleeping form. John left the room and went to wash up and clean his medical supplies.
John stole himself away into the bathroom to check himself over. First and foremost he saw the old bullet wound from his last tour Afghanistan, the bullet that damaged his career and brought him home where he met Sherlock. Then he raised his left arm up to see his ribs painted purple and blue and black. Deep tissue bruises from the fight the Russian man had managed before John snapped his neck with the leather whip. He hadn't meant to kill; at least he thought he hadn't. His survival training just kicked in before he knew it. The one saving grace of all of this was that his ribs weren't broken. John shook his head and scoffed. Then he put on a white t-shirt, shed his jeans in favor of putting on a fresh pair of flannel sleep pants. To chase away the harrowing violence of the day, John ambled back to the bed and curled up next to Sherlock so he, to, could sleep.
THE NEXT MORNING:
Sherlock woke with his back aching. When he moved to sit up the distinct pull of stitches made him growl in annoyance. His wounds must have been deeper than he thought for Watson to feel the need to use stitches. He would have objected had he been conscious, but he wasn't going to argue, or chide, John for the medical attention he had rendered him. That made him smile lightly looking down at the still sleeping Watson. Sherlock reached out and lifted the hem of John's shirt up to see deep bruises along his ribs. He was hurt and he had chosen to help him first. In a show of great affection Sherlock leaned over John and kissed the exposed nape of his lover's neck. Lightly he ruffled John's hair before climbing out of the bed to make some tea.
John was roused out of the sleep by the shrill whine of the kettle. He sat up too quickly and the muscles along his ribs screamed in agony. "Damn…" John gasped feeling like he had been punched again and again. His chest seized; it was a fight to draw in air for a few precious seconds. John had to get up, to move, to push past the pain. It would dissipate soon; he just had to hold out. Pulling on his soldiers mask, John walked calmly out to the kitchen where Sherlock was muttering to himself over a cup of tea. It made John smile. "How's your back?" His left hand clenched, an involuntary spasm in reaction to the twinge in his left side. Sherlock had taken more of a beating than he had. He could push his pain away. He could pretend that it didn't exist.
Sherlock didn't turn to John, "When were you going to tell me that you were hurt?" He asked moving from the counter to walk into the living room. John followed him, lowering himself into the his habitual chair where Sherlock felt the penetrating gaze of his lover trying to see past the shirt, the dressing gown he wore to assess the damage to his still raw and ravaged back. John was dissecting him with his Doctor's gaze. It should have been annoying, but it was oddly endearing. "John, I'm alright." He said and turned. "Tell me how bad you're hurt." Sherlock set his tea cup aside and went to John to crouch down in front of him. Gently his hands flew to John's ribs and his lover flinched. "Tell me."
"I'm fine, Sherlock, really." He tried to shrug off his pain, off the look of concern in Sherlock's eyes. "You were hurt worse than I was." John cupped his lovers face, rubbing his right thumb over Sherlock's lower lip. "My pain, it means nothing to me, if you're hurt." John leaned his forehead to Sherlock's, "I would have endured the beating. You didn't have to go through that."
"But you got hurt trying to save me." Sherlock said; wonderment in his voice. The last time John had done something like that he had shot the Cabbie on their first case together. "I took that beating so your marvelous back wouldn't get another wound." He answered. Some night when they were working a case and John couldn't stay awake any longer, Sherlock would watch John sleep, toss and turn, and marvel at the strong clean lines of his well muscled back and the marring bullet wound from his military days. In the right light he could make out fine, ten year old scars; whip scars.
John drew in a breath and then he said, "You probably know this already from your fabulous mind, but I'm going to tell you anyway." John stood up with Sherlock mirroring him. Turning he lifted his shirt to let the faded whip makes be shone in the light of day. "During one of my military tours, I was captured and tortured for three days." John cleared his throat. "They used the whip on me morning, noon, and night until they realized I wouldn't tell them anything." Sherlock's hands were on him lifting his shirt up and off carefully. It was then he felt the brush of Sherlock's long locks brushing his back before he felt his lips kiss the first, the closest scar. "Sherlock…." John mumbled feeling his body heat; endorphins flooded his system to chase away the pain in his ribs, taking away the shame of his scars.
"Shh…" Sherlock whispered and then drew the tip of his tongue up the soft texture of the scar, moaning at the feeling. "Now, we'll have matching scars." He said between each kiss, each lick. In this moment, his body wanted to be with Watson, inside of him. The pain was at the back of his mind, but he knew, he could feel, that John's ribs were protesting. He reigned himself in long enough to pull back, to calm his raging lust. "I don't want to hurt you." Sherlock kissed the edge of John's ear.
John turned slowly in Sherlock's arms, "Then how do we do this?" he asked bringing his hands up to cup Sherlock's face. He had lines on his face, he was fighting back his pain. "I don't want to hurt you either." John mumbled against Sherlock's trembling lips. "But I want you, I want you so bad." He kissed him quickly, feeling desperate to be consumed by Sherlock. For a second he hadn't thought that they would get out of this alive. He thought they were going to be tortured, tortured some more, and then killed. John feared that more than anything, but he would have been with Sherlock in those final moments. It made up for the fear he had felt.
Sherlock kissed him thoroughly, careful to keep it gentle. Pulling back he breathed heavily. "We'll take this slow." He took John's hand leading him back to their bedroom. John's hand clutched his as they once again stood inside the room, then when he came closer his hands trembled even more as he began to undress Sherlock, to slide the dressing gown down off his arms, and let it pool on the floor. Sherlock just stood there, let John remove the dressing gown. Next came the grey t-shirt he had donned. John's hands shook terribly as he pulled the hem of the shirt up, but winced when his ribs protested lifting his own arms above his head. Sherlock smiled lightly, removing the shirt so he could drop it on the floor.
Sherlock kept is gaze firmly on John; tried not to see the angry bruises marring his man's sides. He went to his knees and laid light butterfly kisses to the bruises. There were things with Watson that he had done, that he never had considered doing before with anyone. He knew there was no way that a kiss to a wound would make it better; it was the sentiment that counted. Sherlock lovingly, lightly, kissed the expanse of the bruise feeling John quivering; not from pain. Resting is chin on John's abdomen and rolling his gaze up the line of his body, Sherlock brought is fingers to curl into the waist band of John's sleep pants slowing lowering them like he was turning the pages of a fresh new murder case. John's hands went immediately to his hair, tangling, gripping out of habit.
John thought his skin couldn't get any hotter, but he was wrong. Looking down, seeing Sherlock on his knees in front of him was highly erotic. The proud detective who bowed to no man or woman was before him, undressing him with great care. That cut into John's heart making him love Sherlock all the more, and he didn't think that was possible. The flannel fabric of his pants slid down farther over his straining erection. He knew what was to come, Sherlock's wet, hot mouth on him. John's body tensed, his member pulsed against Sherlock's cheek, against his silky soft skin. Transfixed, John watched Sherlock grasp him and kiss the head of him before opening his mouth.
Sherlock closed his lips over the helmet of John's flushed head tasting the salty pre-cum dotting his tongue as he went down on him. He used his tongue to massage the hard velvety shaft in his mouth, adding just a little bit of his teeth to the mix. Sherlock had found that john liked teeth, liked biting. He made sure, that for now, his teeth only scraped teasingly along John's shaft. By the way he was tugging at his hair, Sherlock knew that he was could bring John soon. John tugged lightly on Sherlock's hair, but he only took it at encouragement. Sherlock muscled passed the body's natural gag reflex to go all the way down on John where he froze for half a second. Then he eased up, scraping his upper and lower teeth along as he moved.
John let his head fall back and his toes curl under the wicked slide of Sherlock's mouth on him, the tantalizing scrape of teeth. If is lover kept this pace then John wasn't going to last, he was going to come. Though he knew Sherlock wouldn't mind as he sank down on him again, fast this time. Then he drew back slow using his tongue this time, swirling I around his head. He bit out a curse, not interested in how long he could. Another tongue swirl, a hollowing of Sherlock's cheek's had John coming with a shout of bliss. His spine bowed, the pain in his ribs suddenly drowned out by the orgasm. By sheer force of will John was remaining on his feet.
Sherlock rose from the floor, making a grand show of licking his lips, and it made John shudder. Pulling the tie of his pants, he let them fall to the floor freeing his own starving member, and he stepped out of them. Sherlock moved back to the bed, and sat back on his haunches ready and wanting John more and more as the second ticked by. John took a moment to regain his senses enough that he could crawl to him on the bed. Inside, Sherlock was ravenous, needing John's body, needing the security that they were both alright, while outside he projected calm and patience.
John, before going to Sherlock, reached into the drawer on the nightstand to retrieve the bottle of lube. He slide on to the bed towards the man he had come to love so dearly and then took a deep breath. What came next was expected, yet still so new and exciting. Sherlock took the bottle from him, flipped the cap and squirted some of the faint blue gel into his hand. His heart beat faster as he watched his lover spread the gel on his rock hard manhood, stroking generously. John went to his knees, crawled to Sherlock sitting astride him, and jumped in delight when Sherlock's gel coated fingers touched him, slid between his cheeks, and inside of him. John moaned touching his forehead to Sherlock's. "Oh sweet god," He moaned once again threading his fingers into his lover's hair.
Sherlock spread John's cheeks as he kissed the underside of his chin. Gently he urged him to lower, to take him into his body. The head of his throbbing, aching shaft slipped inside where John's inner muscle clenched in automatic response, but loosened. John gasped, his foot slipping on the sheets. Sherlock bit back a deep throated moan as John's hands instinctively touched his back to keep his balance. The pain from his back mingled with the pleasure through rest of his body sending mixed signals to his mind. In the heat of the moment, his hips arched up driving him harder into John than he intended. John yelped, tightening his fingers in his hair. "Sorry…" Sherlock mumbled forcing his body to remain still.
John felt agony in his ribs and pleasure racing through his brain, the endorphins killing the pain. Belatedly, he realized that he had gripped Sherlock's back, his whip mangled back where he had spent time with a suture needle closing the worst of the wounds. "I hope I didn't hurt you." He gasped, though he could see in his beloved's face that he liked the pain. Finding his feet, John rose up nearly letting Sherlock fall free of him, and then he sank back down finally able to breathe, to push past the tensing, screaming pain in his rib muscles. Sherlock put his hands to John's hips to subtly guide his movements; a small twist here and there.
Sherlock kept one hand on John's hip while wrapping the other around his second erection of the day. He was letting John move, to bring them. This was the only position they could be in so neither one of them would hurt more. Each time John thrust down Sherlock would stroke his hand up. He made sure to keep counterpoint for as long as he could. Normally, Sherlock prided himself on being able to stay aroused, but he wasn't at peek form and John was doing his level best to bring his orgasm. His rhythm soon faltered, the grip of his hand flexed harder driving John down on him harder. Sherlock cupped the back of John's thigh, rising up to his knees to give John better traction.
John planted his feet on either side of Sherlock's legs giving him the right angle he needed to finish this. He worked his waning muscles feeling his body break in a sweat in response to the heat he shared with Sherlock. John moved in short, sharp movements rotating his hips. Up and down. Up and down. He was tying to keep that in his mind, trying to make it last for Sherlock. Then he felt Sherlock's long, strong fingers flex on his hips; digging in. John ground down on Sherlock feeling the last shred of his loves control snap. Deep inside, he felt the first hot sorts of Sherlock's cum fill him. Sherlock's teeth locked into his shoulder right above the bullet wound as John's held tight to his hair. They shuddered together.
Sherlock slowly unclenched his jaw, letting John's flesh free from between his teeth. Gently he kissed the deep indentation he had made rather than cry out in shear ecstasy. With what little strength he had, he lowered John to the mattress so that his lover could slip into sleep easily. Sherlock pulled out of John's body to note that he was delightfully limp, satiated. He climbed out of the bed and walked naked into the bathroom to get a wet cloth so he could clean himself up. Rinsing out the rag, Sherlock heated it again with hot water and took it back to the bedroom with him. John, as expected was sound asleep. He quickly, with great care, cleaned John so he wouldn't be sticky when he got up. Being suddenly lazy Sherlock chucked the cloth to the floor and climbed back into bed. He would have slept on his back, but the sudden reminder of his stitches made him lay face first and follow John into sleep.
LATER EVENING:
John sat in one of the arm chairs watching the news run on the telly where he saw news strip saying that the killer responsible for the recent Whip/Strangulation killings was found dead at the sight of his first crime scene. John couldn't help the small smile that worked over his lips. "Kill or be killed." He muttered hearing a small creak in the wooden flooring. Sherlock was awake, watching him. John cut the news off and got up, mindful of his ribs, to see the man he loved as he expected; watching him. Before Sherlock could question him, John pulled on his Doctor's mask and asked, "How's your back?"
Sherlock lied easily and would lie first when suited. "I'm fine." He didn't want John to worry about him when he liked the tug of pain that reminded him that he was human. Never would he admit it, but Sherlock needed the reminders that he wasn't a god; just a man with a god-complex. At least he could keep John from worrying.
John shook his head and smiled, "Liar." Pointing to the chair he had vacated, he ordered, "Sit." Sherlock did as he was told, rare as it was. That warmed John's heart.
"How do you know I'm lying?" Sherlock let surprise fill his system. John was showing some higher signs of intellect.
"Easy," John teased once again pulled Sherlock's shirt over his head, but this time he went one by one to inspect the multitude of whip marks. He was making sure there weren't any signs of infection setting in.
"Tell me how." Sherlock prodded hissing when tape tore a thin layer of his skin off.
John kissed the top of Sherlock's head and then answered, "You do this thing with your face when you're lying." He pulled free another bandage seeing the wound had a healthy flush to it. The skin would be hot to the touch, but it was healing with no signs of infection.
Sherlock felt his face contort into confusion. "What thing with my face?" He stopped John from checking the rest of his wounds. Going to his knees in the chair he looked John in the eyes.
John just shook his head, his chest rumbling with light laughter. "If I tell you, then you'll stop, and that would leave me to figure out a new way of telling when you were lying to me." John rambled, "I'd rather not." Then, teasingly, he kissed Sherlock's lips.
Sherlock sat down to let John finish what was doing feeling his bottom lip jut out. He was pouting; at least John would accuse him of pouting. "Don't you want to help me be a better man?" Sherlock snipped.
"Oh, I'll help you be a better man," John said fisting his hand playing into Sherlock's hair to pull his head back to look at him, "but not a man who continues to lie to the point where I have no way of telling the difference." Once more John kissed Sherlock and then set to work cleaning and re-bandaging the wounds. "Besides if I told you what you did, you would stop doing it and I would have to figure out another way of telling that you were lying to me." John chuckled.
Sherlock let it go, grabbed the remote, and turned the telly on to the news. The face of the man who had tied them up splashed on to the screen behind Lestrade doing a press conference. He could have turned up the volume, but he didn't need to hear what was being said. Sherlock could read lips well enough. "What happened to the Russian?"
John froze for a split second. He could either lie, get caught in it, play dumb, and then have Sherlock point it out to him. "I told Lestrade where he could find the killer and the man who beat you." John started saying and opted for the truth, "I just didn't tell him that the man would be dead when they went to pick him up."
Sherlock turned around, again, and saw the agony in John's eyes. Killing may have been an easy choice for him to make, but John had morals. "You had to, or he would have killed us." It was a default rationale, but it worked.
"I know and I could say I didn't know what I was doing, but that would be a lie." John confessed, "I knew the moment his hyoid bone cracked. He suffocated and I am… relieved." Sherlock kissed him this time, gently, sweetly. It was his way of telling John that it was ok. In his life time he would never love another as he loved Sherlock Holmes. "Now, sit down, and let me tend to your wounds." John ordered with Sherlock smirking at him before complying.
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Chains and Whips