Sherlock S Holmes

Sherlock turns around.  He’d been avoiding John’s gaze all day, perhaps conscious of John’s contempt, and whenever he did look John was sure to face the other direction.  They’ve been nearly sixty-one centimetres apart since this morning and they’ve barely even glanced at each other.  But now Sherlock is looking, and John is looking back, and they’re seeing eye to eye for once.

Sherlock turns around, and John smashes him across the face with his fist. The impact surprises Sherlock, he falls off of the couch, landing with a thud on the floor, and John is on top of him almost instantly, reflexes not as sharp as they used to be but sharp enough, pinning Sherlock down before he can retaliate.

It was just one punch, not that hard but hard enough, hard enough to make Sherlock realise he’d gone too far again. ‘Why can I never learn, why do I always push him too far? Because you like the physical contact. Because you’re a freak,  because you don’t know how to love someone properly, normally.’

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t do that,” Sherlock says, voice slightly muffled by the hand rubbing the pain out of his face.  He doesn’t sound nearly as put out as any reasonable person should. “I suppose you want me to unlock the handcuffs?”

Sherlock huffs, but he doesn’t try to push John off of him. “We’re not done yet, John.  A few more hours and I’ll have my answers.”

Oh John is angry now, really angry, he expected the punch to be enough. The cuff’s are attached to their non-dominant hands: John’s right, Sherlock’s left.  John peels Sherlock’s right hand away from his face and brings the chain up to slowly, carefully wrap it around Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock stills, swallowing against the chain, but doesn’t look nearly as alarmed as he should.  “So this is the precipice you’re willing to go over.”  He manages a smile of his own.  “Now you’re certainly exceeding my expectations.  Your tolerance is incredible, John, it really is.  It’s worth throwing away a whole day to study, even if it’s during a case.  Slow though it may be.”

Sherlock stops with a gasp as John tightens the chain.  Just a little, not enough.  He’s not going to do any harm. This is a warning.  His hands are steady under pressure; he won’t slip.  Sherlock’s not struggling, anyhow, and even Sherlock isn’t so suicidal as to willingly be choked to death.

 John pulls on the chain again. His own breathing is laboured for some reason, strained.  “You need to tell me where the key is, Sherlock.”  Every word is low and even. 

 ”I’m going to let go of the chain and you are going to tell me…”

He trails off when Sherlock shuts his eyes.  There’s a surge of panic in John, heat and worry—he’s afraid he’s overdone it, but no, he was gauging the pressure—and then a sound from Sherlock, something halfway between a moan and a sigh, as he grabs onto John’s cuffed wrist.  John releases the chain and unwraps it carefully, and Sherlock’s neck is red, but he’s breathing, and he’s still holding John’s wrist, and John doesn’t know what’s wrong until he leans back to put some space between them.

Sherlock’s head rolls to the side, away from John, but John can see now that he’s looking up from under his eyelashes as he pants.  His face is flushed and he’s aroused and it’s painfully obvious.