Sherlock 1. Lose Yourself

**Title:** Lose Yourself

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock is owned by Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC and other associated parties. Original story belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not make any profit from this story and the plot is purely fiction.

**Summary:** slash/het, pre ASIP, J/OMC/OFC, John's first time.

**Rating:** R

**Warnings:** slash/het, D/s, BDSM, bondage, some whipping, Sub!John, threesome/moresome, voyeurism.

**Pairings:** OMCxJohn, OFCxJohn

**Word Count:** 3,924

**Author's Note:** …no idea where this idea came from. It just happened. Anyways, this is my first attempt at D/s, BDSM. As I am not an expert in this area, something might be wrong, just go with the flow.

xXx

The first time he learned of it was soon after coming home from Afghanistan. In his therapist's waiting room, he met up with a fellow soldier back on permanent leave, like him, wounded in action. They had spent the last thirty minutes reminiscing about the army, the war, where they were stationed, comparing what they had seen, the difference between infantry and medical soldiers.

It had been so long since he had last seen a soldier, let alone talked with one, that it was like some release valve had been hit, some tension in his body letting go. To this day, he didn't know what prompted it, something in his face, his stance, he didn't know, but then the man, Gordon was his name, started talking, low and fast.

At first it didn't make any sense, but as it dawned on him what he was saying, the man stood, sliding a business card into his hand before he shuffled away, his therapist beckoning him to his office, leaving a stunned John Watson to stare at the card in his hand, mind still trying to come to terms with what the man had offered.

He didn't have any time to contemplate it as his own therapist called out to him. Stuffing it into his jacket pocket, he stood and grabbing his cane, limping over to her door, pushing the card to the back of his mind so he could concentrate on his session.

He'd forgotten all about the card by the end of the session, body stiff and on edge from his session as he took a taxi home, not wanting to deal with the hustle and bustle of the Tube during the rush of people returning home. At his flat, paid for by the government until he got back on his feet, he paid the taxi driver, mind elsewhere as he slowly limped his way up the three flights of stairs.

Inside, he shed his jacket and shoes, lining the footwear up with the rest of his shoes in a neat row. Chucking his jacket onto his bed to go through the pockets later, he limped through his tiny, bare flat to an even tinier bathroom, the shower a stand-in only, a small metal handle in the wall so he didn't slip and fall in the limited space of the three by three stall.

He showered quickly, water as hot as he could stand, washing away the nervous sweat that had collected on his body during his session. He hated going, but in order to keep his flat, for now, he was required to go and since he had no job and only the little money the army gave him weekly, he did what he needed to stay warm, dry and fed.

Changing into a slightly baggy t-shirt, he'd lost weight while away and none of his clothes fit like they used to, and an old pair of sweatpants, he limped back into the room, falling heavily to sit with a bounce on the bed, mattress dipping with his weight.

His jacket is next to him so he drags it closer, digging in his pockets, pulling out random receipts and some change. In his other pocket, his fingers close around something papery, but thicker then what the receipts are made of. Pulling it out, he stares down at the business card, replaying the hurried conversation.

He hadn't noticed before, but on the back are Gordon's name and a number scrawled messily over the pure white back of the card. The front is simple, just an address, number, and someone else's name. It feels surreal at the moment.

He'd never thought of it before, never known that there were people out there who might like something like that, though he'd been trained, by his teachers in medical school and the army, that he must always have it: control.

It had proved true during surgery in both a hospital and on the battlefield. People looked to him as an officer and a doctor for guidance, for reassurance that everything would be alright. Patients wanted to know that they were in the hands of a doctor who was sure of himself, who knew what he was doing.

He sat there, staring at the plain card as his mind turns the idea over and over in his head, trying to imagine what it would be like. He can…see the appeal of it. To relinquish all control, to let someone else decide for him, to be free of the burden, if only for a brief time. It strikes him then, that this is a part of himself that he never knew about and yet a relative stranger saw a side of him he had never considered.

Had it been obvious, or had Gordon had practice looking for the sign, some spark in a person's eyes that made them stand out among the rest of the people. For the first time in weeks, months, he feels…not alive, but awake maybe, more alert to his surroundings, the fog on his life lifting somewhat to let him see more clearly.

He doesn't realize that his phone is in his hand until it's at his ear, the ring of a connection trying to be made jolting him back into the present. It's too late, the connection going through and Gordon's voice is on the other end and in that one moment, he doesn't hang up, decides to at least see what it is that has for the moment, alleviated the deaden existence his life has become. "H-hello." His voice hitches in nervousness, anticipation, he can't tell. "It's John."

Two days later, he's in a taxi next to Gordon, stomach in knots and hands fisted and clammy as the taxi speeds towards some unknown destination. He knows he willingly agreed to this, but for a second, his doubt wars with his curiosity, his craving for the small relief from what his life is that he is sure this will give him.

For his part, Gordon says nothing, realizing that John needs to think, remain in control for the moment or else he will bolt like a startled horse. So he is silent, occasionally throwing a small smile in his direction, trying to be reassuring to his nervous companion.

The house they pull up in front of is large, four stories of a sort of modernized Victorian era architecture. A wall surrounds it, vines and hedges peeking over the top of the very tall wall, affording privacy to the occupants in the building and their doings. A wrought iron gate, twisted into swirling vines with sharp thorns welded on blocks the only entrance.

Gordon rings the doorbell hidden among some vines and they wait as someone walks over from the other side of the wall. They are in shadow and hard to make out, besides the black three quarter coat, crisp white shirt, and pressed pants. The man seems to recognize Gordon, nodding in his direction, but watching John as he stands there, shifting his weight from his good leg to his cane and back.

"This is John. His first time." Simple sentences, but they say more than one would expect. The man nods and even smiles in his direction.

"Welcome. I hope you enjoy yourself." He opens the gate, stepping aside and its only then that he notices the gun in a side holster and the way the man holds himself. He is another military man, though probably not for some time since he seems more relaxed the he and Gordon.

He disappears back into a small building set to the side of the gate, the door shutting firmly behind his retreating form. John doesn't have long to contemplate the guard and what it could mean because they're at the front door and its opening, a woman standing there with a smile on her face. "Gordon." She steps forward, enfolding the man into a warm embrace. She's tall, even without the four inch heels. Her skin is a soft tan color that is too natural to be anything but lucky genes. Waves of dark hair curl around her face and shoulders, accenting the curve of her cheeks and neck. She steps back, looking at John. "And you brought someone…another military man." She arches a brow at him.

"This is Doctor John Watson, of Her Majesties army until a few months ago." She smiles warmly at him. "He proclaimed some interest and I have agreed to be his guide tonight."

She held out her hand and he shook it, feeling the warmth seep into his skin and the supple strength in those graceful fingers. "A pleasure, John. I am Shera, the hostess of this little gathering. I hope you enjoy yourself and maybe we will see you again."

She waves them in and shuts the door behind them, leaving them in the semidarkness of the front hall. Walking after the woman, the hall opens up into a sort of parlor, easy chairs and sofas are scattered across the room, lamps giving off a warm glow. There are a few others, seated and talking, but they don't look up as they enter.

"Your coats, gentlemen." A man in a well cut suit stands behind them, hand held out for their coats. John shrugs out of his slowly, resting all his weight on his good leg, the cane resting against his side to free his hand and arm. Coats in hand, the man walks off to a side door and disappears inside the room.

"Since you are playing guide tonight, Gordon, I'll leave you to it, but come get me if you need anything." She turned to John. "It was nice meeting you, John." She walks away quickly, up a staircase he only just than noticed. It's large, with dark, polished wood, the stairs carpeted and making no sound as she ascends them and disappears around the curve they make.

Gordon turns to him, questioning eyebrow raised. "We can stay here for a little bit, let you relax, or…if you want we can head straight up, let you observe, see if anything catches your interest." A small smirk curves his lips at that and John can't help but smile in return remembering similar conversations in boot camp during weapons training as they went over different guns, seeing what 'caught their interest'.

"I…we can head up." The man nods and leads the way to the stairs and for a moment, he has no idea what he will see, what he should brace himself for.

"This floor consists of demonstration rooms. The one below is where you can go to catch your breath, talk with Andrew if you are hungry or thirsty and he will bring you something from the kitchen. The top two floors are private rooms, all equipped for use, though each varies in items." John nods, following slowly up the stairs, Gordon stopping every few steps to let him catch up. "Shera's office is on this floor." He points down the hall to a closed wooden door, a golden name plate inlaid in the wood.

"This way." He leads him down an intersecting hall, doors lining it. There is some noise, but the rooms must be sound proofed because he can't make anything out. "For now, we will start light with viewing. We happen to have a few other beginners at the moment besides you." He turns back, grin on his face. "Brace yourself; this won't be what you're used to."

It isn't. There's a man in the center of the room, arms bound in leather and chains which tie him to the floor. He is stripped down to nothing, sweat beading on his dark skin, long black hair hanging around his face in clumps.

There is a woman behind him dressed in lingerie that barely covers anything and shows almost everything. She's in stilettos, the heels like six inch spikes on her feet. She's wielding a ridding crop in her hand, held loosely at her side as she stalks, there's no other way to describe it, around her prey. There are others in the room, seated at the few tables, or standing. Some have someone kneeling at their feet, collars and leashes connecting them with chain and leather.

The man shifts on his feet, the chain links clicking together. There's no warning as she strikes out, whip connecting with the flesh on his back with a loud crack, nearly covering up the surprised gasp that escapes his lips. "I told you no moving." She warns him, running the crop back over the welt that is rising on his back, drawing out a hiss, but he remains still. "Good." She moves in front of him, his form towing over her even in the heels, and she stands on tiptoes, bestowing a kiss on his mouth. She pulls back, talking as she starts to unlatch his arms from the floor. "When one is in control, you must be firm in your orders. A sub will not follow if you lack the control they want held over them. You may have to prove you are dominant, using a little pain to drive the point home is good, don't be afraid to punish."

She stepped back and the man stepped forward, bending down to kiss her before he knelt on the floor next to her. As she runs a soft hand over his shoulder, he spoke. "A sub must always listen to their dom. They not only control you, but protect you from other doms. A little rebellion is nice in a sub, but most doms will go for the more submissive subs." The crowd starts to clap as he finishes and she starts to walk away, the man following on a leash, when had she put that on him?, and it's almost comical the way he towers over her small frame.

"Gordon, it's been a while." Someone calls out, spotting his guide. John stays back as the man talks with the friend, eyes roving over the rest of those gathered. The pairs, and sometimes groups, all vary. Some are hetero, some same sex couples, most have some sort of leash on their subs, and some don't though the sub sticks close to their side. He can understand the protection part, can feel the undercurrent of tension in the air.

He can't help but notice the few stares being sent his way, but tries not to look back in case he give some sort of signal he didn't mean to. It doesn't seem to be working as one man breaks off from a group and starts threading his way through the crowd towards him. His heart starts to flutter, panic starting to rise when he feels a hand at his elbow.

He nearly jumps out of his skin, turning quickly to see Shera standing next to him, a few inches taller than his average height. He gulps at the steely look she is sending the man who had started to come over, but doesn't look to see what the man is doing.

Gordon finally seems to figure out what is going on, walking quickly back over with a guilty look on his face. "Shera, I'm…"

She cuts him off. "A guide should never leave their charge unattended." She snaps at him.

His whole demeanor changes seeming to shift and give under her ire. "You're right. I'm sorry for leaving you alone, John."

She guides John out of the room, Gordon following silently behind and shutting the door, cutting them off from the room. "What did you think?" She asks quietly, leading them down the hall.

It takes John a second to catch up and realize she was talking to him. "Um…" He can't stop the heat rising to his cheeks as he admits this. "It was…nice." It had been nice, seeming to tug on something inside him.

They stop in front of her office and she opens the door, beckoning them in. It is nice, well furnished with book shelves, the wood paneling on the wall contrasting with the burgundy of the painted walls. "Sit." He jumps as steel creeps into her voice, directed at both of them and for a moment his mind rebels. But his body has other ideas, taking him over to the chair and lowering him to the cushion, cane leaned against the side.

Gordon has done likewise; grin fit to split his face in half. She is also smiling, though it is more subdued and she pulls her chair back, lowering herself into it. It's only then that he notices the leather and silk getup she's wearing and for the life of him, he can't remember if she was wearing it when they first met.

"Now John, before we go any further, there are some things to know about this sort of establishment." He nods, letting her know he is following. "We have rules set up, for your safety and others and should you break them knowingly, you will be escorted off the premises and never allowed back on. Is that under stood?" He feels a moment of Déjà vu as the voice of his old drill sergeant overlays hers and it is distorting, but his body has been trained to respond to the command in that voice.

"Yes, Ma'am, it is perfectly clear."

"Good. Now the first rule you must know, is that every person has a safety word. Ignoring this word will not be tolerated. It is something personal to you that will tell the person you are with that you wish to stop. With each new person you are with, you must ask, or they must ask what each other's word is. These are games and not everything that is said has the same meaning, thus the safe word is needed. If you wish to continue here, you must think about what your word will be. Be sure it is not something you say in the heat of the moment." She smiled indulgently at him as he nodded.

"Rule two: respect peoples boundaries. I will not tolerate you forcing yourself on someone…unless it is in the parameters of your game, of course." He felt heat washing over his face again.

"And rule three: you have the right to refuse anyone if you are uncomfortable with them. Other than that, any other rules are made between you and the other party. As you become more accustomed and adept at this, things may change, but for the moment, no one will do more than you are comfortable with unless you say so. Now, do you wish to continue?" He nodded.

He jumped as a thin strip of leather slipped around his neck securely, but not so tight that is hurt or cut off air. He tensed, out of his depth as Gordon stood behind him, when had he gotten up?, and Shera came around her desk, heels clicking against her hardwood floor. "Relax, John." Gordon whispered in his ear and he shivered at the sensation. "Just let it all go. Let us take care of you." She was standing in front of him, waiting silently to see if he gave willingly to them.

As she stood there, he let the thoughts in his mind slip away, any resistance or scruples against this fade. As his mind cleared, and the fog lifted, he felt his body relax as he submitted himself to these two. It was going to be a long night.

He woke the next morning groggily, shifting slightly on the soft bed, sandwiched between two warm bodies. He could feel the simple leather collar, warmed from his body heat, supple and strong, reminding him of what he had let go of last night.

His shoulder ached a little, though mostly from the slight workout it had gotten and not from the injury. Shera and Gordon had made sure he didn't hurt his shoulder anew. Parts elsewhere did ache though, reminding him what exactly it was he had done last night. Someone shifted behind him, he couldn't tell who with his eyes still shut, and curled closer. Flat chest met his back and he knew it was Gordon, the man spooning behind him even as he himself curled around Shera.

For the first time in a long time, even before he had gotten shot, he felt…safe. Sheltered. Hidden from the reality of the real world outside these walls and he didn't want to rise, to get up and leave. But he had to, his mind wouldn't let him give up his control forever and already it was at work, waking the rest of his body up.

With a sigh, he realized he was fighting a losing battle. With a soft groan, he opened his eyes, soft morning light filtering through the crack in the curtains of the third story private room that they had commandeered last night. Another sigh escaped his lips and he forced himself to sit up, disentangling himself from their lose limbs.

Reaching up, he undid the collar, feeling his old self settle back into place as the leather left his skin. He was looking for a place to put it when a tan hand settled on his own. "Keep it." Shera said softly, sitting up next to him. She was devoid of any of the leather and silk she had worn last night, her skin still soft looking, and her breasts perky and well rounded, shifting with each breath. "You will need it for when you come back." She smiled up at him and then kissed him softly before sliding off the bed and walking naked from the room, unashamed of her nudity.

A work roughened hand slid along his thigh, squeezing gently. "It was fun. Maybe next time." Gordon asked unabashed by his request. John couldn't help but smile and nodded. He slid from the bed, looking for his cane. It was leaned up against the wall nearest to the bed, his clothes neatly folded next to it.

Forcing himself up, he limped towards them, picking up his clothes and grabbing his cane. Another door led to a simple, but lavish bathroom. He took a quick shower, washing away last night as he braced himself to face the day.

By the time he stepped out, Gordon too had left, the room empty, the only evidence of what had gone on last night was the rucked up sheets and blankets. Sighing again, he pulled out his phone. No new messages or texts, the understatement of his life. The fact that this was his sister's phone, a gift from her wife, was irony unto itself. He glanced at the time before pocketing it again.

Six AM. It was going to be a long day of nothing to do. It did seem a little brighter though. If he wanted, he could come back here again. That alone made this place a sanctuary for his battered body and mind. Maybe he would come back tonight, or maybe tomorrow would be better…he'd figure it out later. He needed to get back to his empty flat to change. Maybe later, he would go out. His therapist was always saying he needed to get out more.

Squaring his shoulders, he made his way out, nodding to others just emerging from other rooms. He waved farewell to the guard at the gate, a different man from last night, and started to limp his way up the road, looking for a taxi to hail down.

**End.**


	2. Subtlety is the Name of the Game

**Title:** Subtlety is the Name of the Game

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock was owned by Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC and other associated parties. Original story belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not make any profit from this story and the plot was purely fiction.

**Summary:** slash, J/OMC, He thought Sherlock knew from the first moment they met. Obviously, there are some things even Sherlock needs a clue on.

**Rating:** R

**Warnings:** spoilers, slash, D/s, BDSM, whipping, Sub!John, voyeurism, orgasm denial.

**Pairings:** OMCxJohn

**Word Count:** 2,939

**Author's Note:** So at first, I hadn't decided on it, but this has now turned into a miniseries, lol. It will have maybe one or two more to it. This could probably stand alone, but it would make a little more sense if you read the first story 'Lose Yourself.' Again, not versed in BDSM/D/s so don't hate me if I do something wrong. Enjoy.

xXx

Four months since that fateful night. He'd made a schedule about it, only going every couple of days, seeing it as the metaphorical crutch he had made of it. He already had to rely on this cane; he doesn't need something else to rely on to stay sane, though it does help.

When he bumped into Mike Stamford in the park, He was surprised that someone from before the military still recognized him. He felt like it'd been decades instead of only years, like he should have changed beyond all recognition.

"I'm not the John Watson you knew." He meant it. Compared to the bright young med student he'd been back in uni, he was a total one eighty now. In the back of his mind, he wondered what Mike would think of him, if he knew what John did to remain sane. It would certainly offend his very British ideals.

He kept it to himself though. Instead he allowed himself to be led, intrigued a little about this man that Mike talked about with such regard. His first impression of Sherlock as he laid eyes on him was that of a large bird, hunched over the microscope.

The incredulous feeling that welled up inside him as Sherlock spoke started to overwhelm him. The man was a genius, a tactless one, but a genius all the same. He was like a whirlwind in human form, blowing through everyone, destroying everything in his path to get to the grains of hidden truth and then putting it back together, all in a glance.

He doesn't realize that he had already decided to share a flat with the man until he was gone, his parting words still ringing in his ears as Mike just shrugged in a _'what can I say'_ sort of way. He was half way home before he realized that, for the first time in a while, the fog on his life had been lifted outside of Shera's place. It was a shock to his system and he mulled it over for the rest of the evening, eating takeout and staring blankly at his computer, his blog still empty.

He listened to Sherlock dissect his entire life, his relationships, his careers, or ex-careers at the moment, and the irony of it hit him like a bag of hammers to the gut. Sherlock, the man who saw everything about him, missed the biggest secret he had ever had. He felt like he had huge blazing neon sign proclaiming what he did. That this genius of a man could miss something so obvious showed how much his intelligence lacked.

Sherlock noticed things that were not obvious to most people, constantly living in amazement when people, ordinary, _dull_ as he put it, didn't live up to his standards. But what would be most obvious to John, was a mystery to the man. This knowledge left him feeling incredulous and staggered.

Of course what Sherlock lacked in common sense, he made up with that mind of his. John was blown away by his deductions, unable to stop his mouth as he complemented the man. "Brilliant." That Sherlock was shocked by his praise showed how much had happened to him and John wondered how many people have scorned the man, dubbed him as strange, a 'Freak' as Donovan put so sweetly and he felt heat in his chest. That no one but Lestrade and a few others have recognized the greatness in this tall slip of humanity was a crime.

Then of course, Sherlock left him at the crime scene, no cab or any idea of where he was and the amazement turned to annoyance and made him want to wring the bloody idiot's neck. Instead he figured out where he was, ignored Donovan's final warnings and limped off…only to be politely, but unavoidably kidnapped by a voice on the telephone.

Mycroft Homes, though he doesn't know it at the time, was an intimidating man, for those easily intimidated. To John, he was about as scary as his drill sergeant from boot camp, minus the yelling, a looming presence, but easily gotten over after the first meeting.

But he saw knowledge in his eyes, knowledge of him in every aspect, and he knew, in the marrow of his bones, knew that Mycroft had seen through him to his core and had seen more than even Sherlock could have seen. Nothing was hidden from that piercing gaze.

He wasn't afraid of him knowing though. It would take enough money, power handed over, or life or death of himself or Sherlock to get him to reveal anything about John. Even to Sherlock. The fact that he understood him on so fundamental a level, that he knew about the dreams he had and the longing in his heart to return to that large expanse of sand and sun and rivers of blood, made him shiver.

But he put on his mask of indifference, stopping only to grab his gun on the way home and directing the driver back to 221b Baker St. The flat seemed surreal after the warehouse and he was snappish due to his unbalanced emotions. He forced himself to focus and pull himself together.

He had never felt this alive except in Shera's place. His heart was pumping a mile a minute, adrenalin slipping like silver mercury through his body, heightening everything around him as they chase the cab. The awkward situation at Angelo's was long forgotten, blown away in the rush of wind through his lungs and hair.

The fact that the man in the cab was not their killer doesn't even dampen his mood. The fog was gone completely, all thanks to this insane, idiot of a man. He felt laughter bubbling in his chest the whole sprint back to Baker St., let out at random moments. As they stand there, giggling in the hallway, for one absurd moment, he wants to kiss Sherlock, thank him for everything and nothing. He doesn't though.

The fact that Sherlock had his own dirty secrets doesn't surprise him, or not as much as he watched the officers ruffle through Sherlock's things. Sherlock's frustration was palpable as he thought, the cogs and wheels of his mind whirring as fast as possible as tried to keep one step ahead of their killer. He could almost hear the click of the metaphorical light flipping on his mind as he figured it out, put all the pieces in the right order.

None of them suspect a thing as he stepped out until John looked out of the window, seeing him slide into the back of an indistinguishable cab. As the locator program finally came back on, the pieces finally come together. Except, he's too slow, could feel the clock running out even as he hailed his own cab, chasing an idiotic genius through London to who knew where.

His blood was pumping again, adrenalin slippery as an eel in his veins, but instead of a feeling of freedom, he felt dread, dread that he would be too late, that after he'd finally found someone who could lift the fog, he would be forced to lose it all over again.

Sherlock was wrong about one thing. It wasn't a sense of morals that led him to pulling the trigger. It was selfishness. He did it for himself, to keep what he had so desperately sought since his return from the war and if he's being honest with himself, since he joined the army. Mycroft was right, he missed the war, but not because it made him feel useful, it was the thrill of it all, the adrenalin that was always coursing through his veins and he realized he just was bad as Sherlock.

But he hid it behind his usual mask, lets people think what they will. Sherlock was safe and he had what he was after, both of them do, to a point. Even the revelation that Mycroft was Sherlock's brother does not bother him. He alive and life was clear and for now, He'd going to enjoy it.

It's three weeks before he returns to Shera's place. He'd fought it as long as he could, but the fog had returned. None of the cases that followed were enough to make his blood sing like it did that first night, Sherlock solving them quickly and easily, not needing to chase after someone with the New Scotland Yard so close at hand. Lestrade wanted to keep an eye on Sherlock and have him on as short a leash as he could, which wasn't very short compared to others.

So finally, he gave up. It's a Friday afternoon; Sherlock had some experiment or other on the kitchen table that had kept him busy all day. It was easy really. He grabbed his coat, saying he's going out to the pub and told him not to stay up for him. Sherlock just gave a dismissive wave, too focused to notice any falsehood.

He does stop at the pub for about an hour, letting the fumes and the noise sooth him some as he drank a couple of pints. Might as well be thorough when it comes to Sherlock. The sun was still up, but closing in on the horizon, lengthening shadows as he leaves, hailing a taxi and giving the memorized address.

It's a bit further from his new address then from his old flat, but it was still light out as the cab pulled over. He paid the fare and watched it drive off before crossing the street. He hesitated momentarily when he looked up and saw the CCTV trained on the street and he could tell Mycroft already knows he's here. Giving a mental shrug, he continued on, ringing the bell and nodding in a polite hello to Hale, the guard on duty for the evening and made his way in.

Andrew answered at his knock, always impeccable in his suit. "Ah, Doctor Watson, it's been awhile." He held the door open for him and let him through.

"Hello Andrew." He handed him his coat. "It has been a while. Been busy getting settled into my new flat and finding work. Everything is well here I hope?"

"As it ever is." The butler's dry humor always seemed to come out only around him and he smiled at the man as he made his way into the main room. "Would you like anything?" He asked as he reemerged from the coat room.

"No, thank you." There are a few others in the room; he knows their faces but not their names. He nods in hello.

The sound of heels on wood drew his eyes and he smiled as Shera made her way down the grand staircase that took up one side of the room. "John." She smiled warmly, enveloping him in a warm hug. In her heels, she's almost as tall as Sherlock and has to bend down. Her clothes billow around him, red silk and brown lace, and a floral scent wafting from her skin. "It's good to see you."

He shuddered as the thin strip of leather came down across the back of his shoulders. The night had barely begun and already he was sweating, muscles alternating between cramping up and trembling as all that kept him up was the edge of a bed. His mind was deliciously blank, the fog that he'd been fighting against gone. He felt sweat collecting underneath the collar around his throat. Since he had started coming here, it had come to represent this place. When he put it on, he was able to become this, submissive, bending under the will of those who chose to dominate over him, but when it came off, his other side reasserted itself. It was his switch and he guarded it closely.

Another crack and he felt a welt rise red across his arse and around his hip. Punishment for letting his mind wander. He was supposed to be counting each snap. "Eight." He breathed out and could feel eyes on him. His first demonstration and the feeling of being watched, being judged by the others has something hot and dirty unfurling in his abdomen, making him pant harder.

His hands are unbound and they jerk, wanting to clutch the smooth sheets underneath his palms, but he had his orders. No movement, he must remain still. Another crack, this time around his ribs, flicking across his chest to land with a stinging blow on a sensitive nipple. He gritted his teeth, keeping his body in place. "Nine." He choked out as his cock throbbed, the leather strap wrapped around it making it ache bitter sweetly.

The last one landed crosswise from the one before, curling around him again over his shoulder and struck the puckered scar tissue there. He couldn't hold back a gasp as the shock rocketed through him, his body trying to take the final step into bliss and being denied again, his whole body quivering with pent up need and want. He could barely speak around the sensation as he locked his jaw to keep from making any more noise than necessary. "T-ten."

The light pattering of clapping announces that it was over and he collapsed onto the bed, breathing hard only to jump back up as the whip cracked above his head, but not landing. He'd already asked for no marks to be made where they would show, that included his face and neck. "I did not tell you to move yet." He bowed his head, returning to his previous position.

Gordon walked up, steps easy and casual. He's panting heavily, unable to catch his breath through the waves of pleasure that wash through him still, but he could still hear him kneel behind him. "Do you have any idea what you look like, John? The fact that no one has ever noticed this side of you is a shame. You are amazing."

Strong, calloused hands slide around his neck, tilting his head back and he lost control of his body, melding his back against his chest, head lying on his shoulder limply, and breath hot against his tanned neck. "You did so well, John. Performed just as I wanted you to." More warmth spread through him from those words and he can't stop the needy whine that escaped his throat.

Gordon's arms snaked around his body, one hand traveling up to tweak his abused nipple, the other sliding down, skirting around his engorged erection, the blood pooled in it turning it from red to near purple as he strained against the cock strap.

His back arched as a warm hand curled around him, stroking once, twice. "Come for me, John." There was a snap as the clasp was undone and then everything whites out, a gasp escaping his lips as his body rushed like a freight train for completion and hits him with the force of the impact of one. He could only hold on to the strong arms around him as he rode out his orgasm to the end.

He came to in Gordon's lap, head resting against his chest as he ran soothing fingers through his sweat dampened hair. His heart rate and breath are still fast, but he'd come to enough to notice that the room was empty save for the two of them. He stirred languidly, his joints so loose only after such a mind blowing orgasm. Someone must have brought something for them, because he was clean of any semen, though there are still traces of it on the floor and bed he had been bent over.

"Easy, John." Gordon's voice was a low rumble in his chest that vibrated more through him than was heard. He rubbed against soft chest hair, high enough on endorphins and adrenalin to let himself go like this. "Ready to get up?" He asked him.

"Yes." They rose slowly, Gordon supporting him until he could get his knees to cooperate enough to stop going out on him. His limp was gone, though it hadn't bothered him for weeks, his shoulder only remembered the sharp clean pain of the whip, not the old ache from the bullet that had pierced him. They make their way out of the room. The night was still young for the two of them.

The flat was dark as he entered it. Nothing appeared to have been blown up by Sherlock's experiment. No cops going through their things. No brothers who are secretly trying to take over the world are inside, or sisters wanting to embarrass him. No Sherlock in the living room, kitchen or bathroom. He may be in his room, but John was too tired and his back was a dull, but pleasurable ache, so he just shrugged and continued up the steps to his own room.

He stripped down to his boxers, pulling a loose but soft t-shirt from his drawer and pulled it on gently so as not to aggravate the welts on his back. Gordon had rubbed a soothing crème over them to bring the swelling down, but they were still tender.

Sliding into bed, he wondered, offhandedly, when Sherlock would notice. The fact that he wasn't in was just luck on his part. Eventually, he would notice and he wondered how the man would take it. Shrugging mentally, he sank into the soft sheets and mattress on his stomach. Maybe he'd start leaving hints, something subtle, that even Sherlock could see. It would certainly make things interesting. He sighed, eyes growing heavy and his last thought was that he hoped they get a case soon, for his and Sherlock's sake.

**End.**


	3. The Game is On

**Title:** The Game is On

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock is owned by Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC and other associated parties. Original story belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not make any profit from this story and the plot is purely fiction.

**Summary:** pre-slash/slash, S/J, J/OMC, Sherlock notices something odd about John and decides to find out what it is.

**Rating:** R

**Warnings:** spoilers from episode 2, slash, D/s, BDSM, Sub!John, rope bondage, knots, annoyed!Sherlock.

**Pairings:** OMCxJohn, SherlockxJohn (pre-slash)

**Word Count:** 2,858

**Author's Note:** The third in my little series. I've become obsessed with this series. I bet many of the things you learn in these kinds of games could come in use, if you just knew how to apply them. Lols. Been awhile, hope you enjoy.

xXx

Sherlock kept his eyes glued to the computer screen, John's laptop of course it was closest, and ignored the sound of his flat mate coming down the stairs. Except something sounded off. He paused, letting his hearing make the deductions even as he continued to look over the screen. John's gait wasn't like it usually was, somewhat loud and clumsy as he stumbled, still half asleep down the stairs. His steps were more coordinated, as if trying not to jolt something.

Not his leg, or else his right step would be off from his psychosomatic limp. As he reached the last stair, he turned his head slightly, watching the man out of the corner of his eye. There were rings under his eyes, testament of his late night. Stubble shaded his jaw subtly since he hadn't shaved yet. As he passed, he got a whiff of smell off of him: sweat, beer, semen, and perfume. Conclusion: he went to the pub, as he said he was, and met a woman for a one-nighter.

Conclusion reached, he turned back to the computer, ignoring John as he rummaged through the fridge for food, and the sound of the kettle being filled gave evidence to his morning ritual of tea with breakfast. He heard a sigh from the kitchen. "We're out of beans and almost out of milk. I guess I'll go shopping. Anything you want?" He called to Sherlock. Finished typing with a flourish, he shut the computer.

"Nothing really, maybe those biscuits that you got last time." He said aloud and doesn't need to be there to know John is rolling his eyes, but he doesn't say anything.

John glared at the Chip 'n Pin machine in front of him, his anxiety rising from nowhere. These moments seem to crop up from nowhere and that coupled with his still sore back, leaves him testy and spitting fire at the thing of metal and plastic. Growling obscenities under his breath, he leaves the shopping there and backs away before he takes a swing at it.

Walking back to 221b Baker, he finds him seated where he was this morning, reading a book. "You took your time." He says smoothly, not even looking up at him.

"I didn't get the shopping."

"What?" This time he does look, setting his book down to look in confusion at John. "Why not?"

His temper flares at the question, putting him on the defensive. "Because I had a row in the shop with a Chip 'n Pin machine."

"You had a row with a machine?" he can see the small smirk that curled his lips up, seeing the humor in it and his defensive anger fades.

"Sort of, it sat there and I shouted abuse at it. Have you got cash?" He tried not to smile.

"Take my card." He goes and grabs it, heading back to the front line to face the Chip 'n Pin machine.

By the time John gets back, he can see he's tired and cross, his voice clipped as he carries the bags up the stairs. He doesn't think it was the machine that caused John's bad mood, so it was something else. He watched him (NOT pouting!) as John sits down in his chair after taking his computer back. He's sitting stiffly, as if something is troubling him.

Maybe his shoulder acting up. He had done some research for another case about discharged veterans and their battle wounds. He'd deleted most of it since it wasn't important for the case, but he had kept the small grains of knowledge. He knew that the muscle healed from such a traumatic experience often slightly off from, causing pain such as cramping and spasms.

"We should go to the bank." Sherlock finally declared, talking over John's stumbling attempt to ask to borrow money. The next few hours are full of information gathering and snide comments to Sebastian. By the end, John appears to be fine so he ignores the impulse to inquire about his wellbeing. He has a case now and work to do. John would understand.

Once they are gone from Van Coon's apartment, things seem to go by faster. Sebastian's none to please to hear about it, but he just learned about one of his employees dying, though he seems to not care if it was suicide or murder only the fact that he's one man short.

If John hadn't met him before and seen first-hand what he was like, he would have hated him there on the spot. The man is an arrogant prick who needs a good beating to show he's not as important as he thinks he is.

He would hit him just for Sherlock's sake, though he'd never admit it to Sherlock. Instead, he hides his urges behind his usual expression and follows Sherlock's lead. Even if Sebastian's uncaring, doesn't mean Sherlock isn't, though his caring isn't necessarily what most expects.

By the time he emerges from the interview into the afternoon sunlight, he is feeling much better. His back had stopped throbbing sometime during their look around the bank. The aspirin he had taken may have had something to do with that.

He's still mad at Sherlock for the stunt he pulled on him in the alley with his informant, he intends to bring it up with him when he gets back. He will not have a mark on his record just because Sherlock's a git on a case. Well, he's almost always a git, but on a case he's worse.

As he calls the taxi, he feels eyes on him, but when he looks, no one is there. Shrugging it off, he goes to collect the journalist's diary from Scotland Yard.

The night is cold as they hunt for more of the markings. And of course, the great idiot isn't answering his phone. Forced to run to go look for him, he works up a sweat, the salt in it making his still somewhat fresh welts sting.

As Sherlock grabs his arms and starts to spin him, he has to bite back a curse when he lands on a welt, making it throb. He wrenches out of his hold as quickly as he can once Sherlock stops spinning him and pulls out his phone to show him the photo he'd taken. His arm throbs with each pulse of his heart while his body settles and the world stops spinning.

He's exhausted and can barely keep his eyes open. Sherlock's voice is all that keeps him awake, startling him whenever he starts to doze off. He starts again when Sherlock's voice raises even louder, snatching papers off the wall and striding out. John stumbles to his feet and follows, wishing desperately for sleep.

It's another long night as they wait for Soo Lin Yao to appear in the museum. Even then, they are too slow to save her from the assassin sent for her. John feels something clench inside, a fleeting memory from his past surfacing. Over her body appears another, someone else he could have saved, if only he could have been faster.

It starts to take over, the memories sweeping him up. He can smell the scent of sand and dust, hot bodies and rotting flesh, the smell of hot blood mixing with sand, sinking into his clothes and hair, breathed into his throat and nose. The smell never leaves, is never forgotten. He can feel himself shaking and with a wrench, he pulls himself together as the sound of Sherlock running into the room shakes him free of the memories. He doesn't say anything about John's shaken expression. He doesn't have to. It would be obvious to anyone that this has affected him.

Of course it all comes to a head after Sherlock has left. They've been through every book from their apartments, hunted down all obscure clues. Even been assaulted on a date with Sarah that Sherlock purposefully invited himself on. It's not even all that surprising, that somehow or another, they have mistaken him for Sherlock.

They even bring up good points: he's still got Sherlock's card in his pocket; Sebastian's check to Sherlock; the tickets from the ruined date were under Sherlock's name; even his mocking of Sherlock as he searched Soo Lin Yao's flat. It is a simple mistake, if you were watching from afar. And yet it is so blatantly obvious that he is not Sherlock that he wants to laugh if his head weren't hurting so much.

The knots tying his hands and feet to the chairs are complex, not what he's seen at Shera's house, though he's only been doing this for so long and hasn't had much exposure to rope knots and the ways to get free of them. Obviously, he's lacking in that area and should he survive this, he will certainly get his knowledge up to date.

Sherlock, of course, shows up at the last minute to save the day. He somehow gets free enough to save Sarah and he still feels shakes at how close that was. He's joking when he tells Sarah about the next date. He knows that him trying to start a normal, safe relationship with her won't work. He's not normal, not in the sense that she believes. And he's not friends with normal people. Sherlock for example and those he knows at Shera's place. It would have never worked out.

He helps her home, feeling a little depressed. He had been hoping that it could have worked out for them. Life used to be much simpler before Sherlock, before the war. The fact this was all for a little jade hair pin, and that it was worth so much, still boggles his mind.

It is some days later and John seems distracted. The last case had taken its toll on both of them and even Sherlock had crashed onto his bed to sleep for a few hours. Still, he seems to still be thinking of it. He knows it's not his blog. John had already typed it up since he'd had a free day yesterday.

He watches as John surfs the internet, looking preoccupied, his gaze flicking occasionally to the door and windows. Finally, he seems to come to some decision, shutting his laptop down and tucking it away onto the little table next to his chair.

He stands with a groan, stretching. "I'm off for a drink." He mumbles, pulling on his coat. The sun has gone down and it is getting darker as time goes on. "Don't wait up for me." He calls as he descends the stair case and shuts the front door behind him.

Sherlock is up and has his coat on the second John shuts the door. Following his flat mate, he waits until John is in his cab and has pulled away before stepping out the door. Another cab is just behind John's and pulls up at Sherlock's signal.

The man doesn't even look fazed at Sherlock's request to follow John's taxi. They pass John's usual hang out and keep going, the cab getting further and further away from Baker St., Sherlock's cab right on his tail, but keeping some distance.

As John's cab pulls up and over, Sherlock orders his to do the same. They wait there as John gets out and pays the man. As the cab pulls away, he walks across the street, looking both ways for traffic. He hesitates, glancing briefly at the CCTV camera on the wall that surrounds the refurbished Victorian mansion. The walls are tall and thick, covered in heavy vines with some wicked looking thorns on them. Too much work to try and scale.

John smiles and greets the man at the front gate and is let through instantly. Sliding out, he pays his own cabbie, giving extra to the man to keep his mouth shut. Walking across, he tries to figure out, from what he can see of the building, what goes on inside. Curtains are drawn on the first two floors, the other floors too high to make anything out.

The gate is a heavy iron contraption with an old lock on it. The guard would get to him before he even got his lock picks out. Fixing the location into his mind with the address of the building, he walks off to hail another cab.

Twenty minutes later, he gets a text back for the message he had sent with the places address. **If you want to know what John does, you shall have to ask him yourself. If he has said nothing, deduce it for yourself. Mycroft.** Scowling at the message, he wants to throw his phone, but holds the urge in check. Instead, he sets the phone down and begins to pace, mind whirling as he tries to figure out what John is hiding from him.

Deciding that the best thing to do now is to gather more data. Taking the steps two at a time, he goes into John's room. It is painfully neat and tidy, everything where it should be. It will be too easy to go through his things and put them back where they belong.

Half an hour later, he wants to throw the skull across the room. Instead he sets it down as he paces downstairs, finished going through John's room. There was nothing in there that Sherlock hadn't already deduced about the man, though he hadn't known John had kept the bullet that had brought him down. It had been stored in a little cardboard box stuffed in his duffle bag of army things under his bed.

Glaring at the wall, he flung himself down onto the couch to think. It would be some time before John returned. He needed to think and he needed data. He could do the first now, but the latter would have to wait until the man came back. Sighing in annoyance at Mycroft's stupid, dull principles, more like a way to annoy Sherlock, he wouldn't be here now and he would already know.

The look on Gordon's face as he expressed his idea had made him shake a little. The man looked way too happy to tie John up to be of comfort. Gordon hadn't known that many knots though. So they had called in the resident expert on knots and escaping them.

John had stared at the little woman in disbelief and then amazement when she showed her skills to him on a piece of handy rope. At first, they had just sat down and she had shown him a few knots and where to pull on them to get them to if not come undone, than loosen enough to slip your hand through.

With new knowledge came practical application. His wrists were now slightly chafed from his struggles against the rope. Gordon had done his best to distract John as he tried to get the knots to release. Let's just say that Gordon was good at being distracting. But by the time they had finished for the night, John was satisfied, physically and mentally, over his success. He could now get out of some of the more common knots. They had made a later date to continue his lessons. For now he was off to Baker St. and bed.

He was just about to open the gate when Hale steps forward from the shadowed guard house. "John, a moment." John turns to face him, nodding to the man behind him who is leaving before facing the guard. "You were followed tonight." He says, getting straight to the point.

"By who?" He asked, though he can probably guess who. Hale describes him and it fits his

image almost perfectly. "Sherlock." He tells the man.

"You know him?" He asked.

"My flat mate. Likes to know everything, no matter how personal." John stands there thinking for a second before deciding to take a risk. "The next time he comes by, let him in. Let him get an eyeful of what goes on behind closed doors." He joked with Hale and the man answered with a smile. "Thank you for informing me. Until next time." He leaves, walking down the street to hail a cab.

The flat is dark when he arrives. Not stopping to see if Sherlock is up, he climbs the stairs to his room. The moment he steps in, something feels off. He can't place it, but his once neat room, though still neat, has been disturbed somehow.

He already knows by whom. Shrugging, he gets ready for bed. If Sherlock wanted to know so badly, he could just ask, though if John would actually tell him, he's not sure. Lying down, he stares at the ceiling for a minute wondering if he made the right choice by giving Sherlock access to Shera's place.

He falls asleep easily, tired after his long night and sleeps deep and dreamlessly. He doesn't hear the door open or Sherlock's soft steps. By morning, Sherlock is gone and John is unaware of his late night visitor.

**End.**


End file.
