There was something tender in Sherlock's touch as he undid the ropes. John held perfectly still and allowed his client to position his limbs this way and that, restarting the blood flow and massaging his sore muscles. Eventually Sherlock gathered him up into his lap and John just melted into the comforting warmth of his dom's body. They stayed like that for a long time - John curled up like a sleepy kitten, Sherlock running a gentle hand through his hair and murmuring soothing sounds against his temple. John's arousal wasn't gone, but it was content to hover around the edges of his consciousness while he basked.

A loud gurgle surprised both of them. "Sorry," John murmured, still not willing to surface completely from his comfortable lassitude. "Ignore it."

"You haven't eaten since lunch," Sherlock answered. "And I've been demanding quite a bit from your body this evening. Come."

He led John by the hand to the kitchen. A series of commands and announcements (not actually dominating, just that ridiculous self-assurance that John would obey) resulted in John kneeling on a Union Jack pillow in the center of the room, head bowed, while Sherlock rummaged in the refrigerator for something to eat.

"No allergies, correct?"

"Mmmm."

Sherlock huffed and stepped close enough to draw John's chin up with his forefinger. "Need more than that - verbally, please."

John blinked away a bit more of the torpor. "No allergies. Don't much like mushrooms, though."

"Noted." Sherlock let go of his chin and went to transfer something from the fridge to a plate and then to the microwave. John kept his head exactly at the angle Sherlock had left it, allowing him to track his dom with his eyes as Sherlock moved around the kitchen. The pillow under his knees helped quite a bit with his bad leg - either that or a residual effect of subspace, John amended. He hadn't felt this floaty for so long in years, and it was absolutely fucking fantastic. It would have been better if Sherlock ever finally let him come, of course, but even his halfway-there erection resting against his thighs couldn't draw his attention from the sight of such a powerful dominant doing such a mundane thing as heating up leftovers. Sherlock noticed, of course, but ignored him until the food was done.

"John." Sherlock finally turned, leaning back against the counter with every sign of indolence. "Stand up. I want you on your back on my bed. Pick a position that's comfortable for you, because you'll be in it for quite a while. I'll be in shortly. Go."

John went. His old clothes (including the red pants) were still strewn over the floor, but he ignored them. The bed looked huge - acres of snowy white duvet dominating the room - and John had to swallow back a moan at the thought of Sherlock sleeping there every night, his dark hair in stark contrast to the white pillows, moonbeams highlighting those razor-sharp cheekbones-

Right. His fingers itched with the need to reach down and adjust his cock, but he refrained. Climbing onto the bed was like ascending onto a cloud, soft beneath his hands and knees, and best of all it smelled like Sherlock. John rolled onto his back and experimented with various angles for his limbs. Eventually he settled on his legs out straight and slightly apart and his arms comfortably at his sides. It wasn't a come-hither pose, nor was it a position he'd actually sleep in, but it was comfortable and he could hold it forever if his dom wanted him to.

Just a dom, not my dom, he reminded himself. The possession was the other way around, if anything. Only for this one evening, of course-

"Excellent." Sherlock's voice was nearly a purr as he entered the room, carrying the plate and some silverware and a tall glass of ice water. He deposited them on the bedside table, then sat on the edge of the bed and ran a confident hand over John's chest and abdomen. "You still enjoying yourself?"

John glanced pointedly down toward where his insistent erection made it very clear it was ready for more.

"I love seeing you like this," Sherlock murmured. "No restraints, no props, just me and you and all the delicious possibilities. Speaking of which . . ." He reached for the plate and scraped the contents onto John's stomach. "Ravioli. No mushrooms. I hope that's acceptable."

John let out a strangled sound as the slimy pasta hit his skin. Not hot enough to cause pain, but slightly too warm to be comfortable. It felt odd and wrong and he had to fight off the instinctive need to wipe it off, but he succeeded in keeping his body perfectly still.

"No need to be shy; I know you're hungry." Sherlock retrieved the fork and knife and delicately cut a square in half before popping the piece into his own mouth. The sensation of the butter knife drawing over John's abdomen had him sucking in a taut breath, but Sherlock was gentle and the knife wasn't actually sharp enough to pierce his skin even if he'd used more force. John's brain couldn't get past holy fucking Christ KNIFE, though, and it took several seconds for his lungs to catch up with the rest of him.

"Don't worry, we're sharing. Here." Sherlock speared the other half with the fork - the tines digging into John's abdominal muscles - and held it up in front of John's face. John opened his mouth, started to lean forward to accept the bite-

"Mmm, not quite yet. You may have a pillow, though." The forkful disappeared, and a moment later Sherlock was pushing a pillow under John's head. The slight angle was just enough to allow John to watch as Sherlock slowly and deliberately lowered the ravioli to drag along the inside of John's knee. The slick warmth made his leg twitch, but John forced himself to stay as still as he could. When Sherlock brought the morsel back to John's mouth, he merely opened his lips obediently and let the dom place it on his tongue.

The next bite went the same way - Sherlock cut it in half, one portion disappearing between his own agile lips, the other teasingly waved in John's face before being removed. This time Sherlock slid it along the crease where John's thigh met his torso before allowing John to taste. The ravioli was actually quite good - slightly spicy and tangy and just the right consistency - but there was something inescapably dirty about how Sherlock insisted that every bite John took was drawn over his skin first.

And as they went, that aspect began to overwhelm the actual eating. When Sherlock dragged a sticky trail up the underside of John's cock before slipping the pasta into his mouth, John could have sworn he tasted a hint of his own precome in amongst the familiar spices. And when the next bite was pressed gently to the underside of his bollocks before he was allowed to taste it, John couldn't hold back a moan.

"Yes, that's it," Sherlock murmured, slipping another (clean) bit of ravioli into his own mouth. "Filthier when it's your own body, isn't it? Here." He took a sip from the cup of water on the bedside table, then spat an ice cube back into his palm and let it rest against John's femoral artery for a moment before popping it into John's mouth. "You're so bloody hard already - how much ice would it take to make your erection go away completely, do you think?"

John whimpered.

"Just like this, I mean. You're halfway to subspace and I haven't given you a single command since the kitchen. No ropes or cuffs or floggers in sight. No shortcuts." Sherlock very deliberately used the next bite of ravioli to wipe off the leaking tip of John's cock before pressing it between his submissive's lips. "You're a complete mess now, you know - sauce everywhere. Might take a while to clean it all up one ice cube at a time."

He fished another one out of the cup and held it to the midpoint of John's scrotum, firm against the skin. The cold was intense, wilting John's erection somewhat, but there was also a surreal schism between the instinctive desire to pull away and the absolute fucking need to press closer, to embrace the pain. Sherlock held it there long enough for the ice to start melting, the cold water trailing down over John's perineum and tickling terribly. It took ages for it to register that the strange sounds filling the room were his own strangled breathing. Not that the dom was reacting - when the ice was half gone, Sherlock merely tipped it into John's mouth and cut another piece of ravioli in two as if nothing had happened.

There was more ice, and more food, and John kept absolutely, completely still for both. He couldn't entirely stop the trembling in his legs or the desperate whimpers coming from his throat, but for Sherlock's sake he locked his muscles and tried to breathe and just watched as his client ate what to all outward appearances was a perfectly normal supper. John's pubic hair was a sloppy mess of pasta sauce and smears of still-cool water and what was probably an unprecedented amount of precome. Although Sherlock was ignoring his erection completely, other than to drag ice or ravioli along it once in a while. John tried to gauge whether Sherlock was aroused - this had to be mutual, didn't it? - but the dominant was still fully-clothed in that impeccable suit and there was no way to tell whether he was affected or not. That made it even more humiliating to be laid out nude on that pristine white duvet, of course, but everything was coming together into one big feedback loop and it was all driving the submissive part of John's brain into a frantic overload.

The clank of the fork and knife against the empty plate roused John somewhat from his own brain. Sherlock was gazing down at him, impassive as ever. "Let me get a flannel. Stay."

Like a bloody dog. But John stayed in position until Sherlock came back, then let Sherlock manipulate his thighs and cock this way and that as he wiped up all the residue. He finished his ministrations with a delicious stroke over John's erection, base to tip, then sat back with a contented smirk and cocked his head to one side.

"It's still early and I've paid for the whole night. Do you want me to take you back now?"

John shook his head emphatically from side to side. "No." Fuck, he was so turned on . . .

"You want to keep going, then?"

"I -" John licked his lips and dragged in a steadying breath. "Please. Let me stay. Let me suck your cock."

Sherlock's entire body went perfectly still. "Say that again."

"I want to," John admitted. "I know you don't 'do' this with your subs, but I can't think of anything in the world I want more right now than for you to make me suck you off. Pull my hair and use my mouth and dom me and put me under until you come all over my face and down my throat. I want to give you that, please."

Sherlock hesitated so long John was on the verge of tears. It was all too much - the whirlwind evening, the riding crop and the flogger, the almost-orgasm on the sofa, the mind-bendingly erotic supper-

"On the floor. Kneel." Sherlock stepped away from the bed with a strange quiver in his limbs and started undoing the belt of his trousers. His gaze was fixed on the crown molding in the corner of the ceiling, not paying attention to John at all, but John practically fell off the mattress in his haste to collapse at his client's feet. His own arousal was shockingly easy to brush aside when faced with the prospect of finally getting to see Sherlock's cock. Sherlock hadn't given permission to touch, not yet, but John was going to look his fill unless his dom commanded otherwise.

And the sight, when it came, was better than John could have possibly imagined. Sherlock didn't bother unbuttoning his shirt, didn't even shrug off the jacket. The only concessions to necessity were the loss of his belt and the way his flies hung open and there it was, jutting out from the slit in his boxers, proud and heavy and full. All for me, all on my behalf. John figured he was probably drooling, but it didn't fucking matter because the whole day had been building up to this.

They both moaned when they finally made contact. Sherlock had one hand on the bedside table, bracing himself or just trying to keep his balance, John couldn't tell which. His cock was warm and silky under John's lips. John stuck to gentle kisses - just mouthing it, really - but there was something more erotic about this than the rest of the evening put together. Sherlock was preparing to lose control, just this once, and he'd chosen John as the instrument of his abandon . . .

"Suck me," Sherlock commanded quietly. "Show me your best. I'm going to fuck your mouth and you're going to enjoy it, aren't you?"

John whimpered, his jaw dropping open completely. Use me, fuck me, do it-

Sherlock planted a hand in John's hair and leaned forward to slide his cock into John's mouth. He tasted fantastic- sweat and soap and musky precome all against the backdrop of velvety-smooth skin. John groaned aloud and sucked in his cheeks, letting Sherlock take the lead but trying to present the best target possible. He may not have had a great deal of experience with male doms, but the mechanics were all rather obvious, weren't they? Instinctive, at the very least - pressure and lubrication and movement. Penises were a hell of a lot easier to decode than whatever the fuck women had going on down there, anyway, some sort of carnal Simon Says with ever-moving goalposts you couldn't actually see in the heat of the moment and fuck, Sherlock was bucking up into his mouth and he couldn't even raise his tongue from where it was pinned down inside his lower jaw and it was glorious.

"That's it," Sherlock groaned. "Take it, take it all. I want to see you gag on my cock. You don't get to bloody breathe unless I let you. I want to feel you fighting for air, and then fighting that because you are still trying to be good, so good for me, John."

His hips pistoned forward and back, his grip in John's hair so tight it made John's eyes water, but John dropped his jaw further and abandoned all semblance of control. This wasn't going to last as long as either of them might have wanted, but the extended foreplay obviously hadn't left Sherlock completely unaffected. He was panting too, now, needy little gulps of air as he fucked himself with John's mouth. The only sounds in the room were the wet slap of flesh on flesh and the staccato gasps as one or the other of them succombed to the need for oxygen.

John felt the final signs before Sherlock did. Even without using his hands, he was able to sense the tensing in Sherlock's thighs, the fractured rhythm of his thrusts. Sherlock groaned loudly and withdrew until just the tip of his cock was brushing John's lips. "Open."

John let his jaw drop once again, eyes on Sherlock's. The I'm yours was silent but implied. The dom let go of the bedside table to pump himself vigorously, less than half a dozen thrusts, then he was coming all over John's face and lips and tongue and John absolutely basked in it.

Eventually Sherlock stopped quivering and drew himself back up to his full height. John stayed right where he was, kneeling naked on the floor next to the bed, face and neck covered in warm stripes of ejaculate. Sherlock couldn't seem to stop staring, couldn't tear his eyes from the sight. "You look incredible," he murmured.

John closed his mouth and silently returned Sherlock's intent gaze. The dom's hand in his hair gentled, morphing into soothing strokes instead of the punishing grip he'd used earlier. The sensation sent a shiver down John's spine and directly to his cock, which was once again pushing itself to the forefront of his awareness-

"Back on the bed," Sherlock ordered.

John scrambled up from the floor and slid backwards onto the mattress.

"Now watch." Sherlock slid one hand firmly against the nape of John's neck under the collar (fuck, I'm still wearing his collar!) and let his opposite forefinger drift across John's cheek. It came away shiny with semen.

Sherlock's eyes never left John's face, even as he reached down to palm John's cock. The hand at his neck kept him angled perfectly to watch his dom wrap those long fingers around his length and tease the length of his shaft away from his stomach, little light tugs which were barely more than a caress, but they had John burning.

"Please." The world had narrowed down to those two points of contact, Sherlock's hands on his skin, and the flood of heat infusing John's whole body. "Please, I need - I need-"

"Come for me."

And John came, an EMP of neurotransmitters shorting out his brain and his body in one glorious wash of sensation. Even in the midst of an orgasm, his body seemed to instinctively accept his dom's will, his muscles shaking in relief but still locking up so he stayed exactly in the position Sherlock had requested of him. Sherlock supported him through the entirety of it, holding his head up so he could see how his own semen painted his chest and abdomen, some of it mixing with Sherlock's in the vicinity of his collarbone. It was beautiful.

When it was done John was exhausted. There might have been protocol for this sort of thing - it's not like he'd never had sex with someone before - but neither of them made a move for the still-damp flannel. Sherlock was lying next to him on the bed, still fully clothed (although he did tuck his cock back away), watching intently. The force of his scrutiny should have made John feel self-conscious, but it took several long minutes until anything except fuck it I don't care built up any real momentum in John's brain.

"There's a second bedroom upstairs," Sherlock suddenly announced.

Shit. John sucked in a breath and tried not to show how much he really just wanted to cling to his dom like a baby howler monkey climbing on its mother. At least Sherlock wasn't kicking him out and making him find his own way back to Madame Adler's alone. "You want me to spend the whole night, then?"

Sherlock blinked and frowned. "Of course - we already established that. Don't be tedious."

"Oh. Okay."

John started to sit up, to retreat upstairs, but Sherlock stopped him with a hand on his thigh. "Where are you going?"

"Didn't you want me to . . ."

"Not now, John." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "For later. I'll probably stay up all night sometimes, especially when I'm on a case, and you'd be more comfortable having your own room when you want it. Although obviously I would prefer you here, in my bed, as often as possible."

It may have been the sex, but John was having a hard time processing everything. "Sorry," he said automatically. "How often?"

"Every night in which I actually sleep, would be my preference," Sherlock said.

"You're . . . you want me for more than one night?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and threw his head back dramatically against the pillows. "Dear Lord, how do you ever get anything at all done with such an ordinary brain? Yes, John, I want you to move in with me. I plan to buy out your contract from Madame Adler in the morning. He opened his mouth, paused, and closed it again. "I don't mean to - that is, I'm not buying your contract. When I pay her off you'll be out of debt free and clear. Not indentured to me, if that's what you were afraid of, just . . ." He suddenly sat up and fixed John with a piercing stare. "You don't have to contribute to rent if you don't want. Or you can, if it's important to you, although heaven knows my brother has enough cash to cover the both of us and he damn well owes me that much. We don't even have to be around each other all that often if you'd rather-"

"Sherlock."

Sherlock's rambling cut off abruptly, and John couldn't resist leaning forward and pressing a quick kiss to those gorgeous lips. "What you're asking is, will I move in with you?"

Sherlock's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "I suppose that's accurate."

"And you're offering this without intending to take over my debt. As an equal."

"I'm not a fan of actual slavery, thank you."

"Then yes." John grinned at the confused look on Sherlock's face. "What, you're surprised?"

"I don't . . . people don't tend to voluntarily spend time in my presence," Sherlock said in a small voice.

"They must not get to see your brilliant deductions and your incredible wit and the way you wield a flogger," John said. "I've known you for less than a day and already I know that I want to see more. Of all of you," he added with an unabashed glance at Sherlock's cock, now tucked back into his pants but with the button of his trousers still undone. "Flatmates, then? Partners? And we can work our way into the dom/sub thing at our own pace, yeah?"

"John." And Sherlock pounced, knocking him back to the bed with an overly enthusiastic kiss. "Yes. Can I give you one more command?"

"Fire away."

"Stay here with me tonight."