This story continues directly on from where 'a choice' left off... 'a choice' was originally going to be a stand alone story but I liked the concept too much and wanted to develop it further, so think of that story as chapter one to the events here. This is all silly kinky fluffy fun - nothing serious, but fun to write.

I don't think I've got the 'voices' of the two of them quite right against the divine BBC adaptation they are based on, and I definitely don't think the characters would ever end up in this kind of situation, but I'm having fun with my version and I hope you will too. Enjoy!

Warnings: Light D/s power games, m/m

Disclaimer: I own nothing, and make no gains from this work

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Sherlock was bored. There had been no cases for days now, and his interest in everything around him had ground to a halt. No cases meant no deductions, and no fun chases through London with John. No cases meant John went off to the clinic every day to take of other people, and not Sherlock. Not that Sherlock was jealous, or possessive, or anything, but he liked it when John was there, with him. Even when John too was boring.

John was definitely not bored. He'd done 4 very long days in a row at the clinic and was tired and looking forward to getting home, eating leftovers out of the fridge and watching crap TV. Preferably without interruption from Sherlock, who insisted on predicting the outcome of any drama he was watching within the first 5 minutes, making it hardly worth the bother of actually viewing it. He almost hoped that the detective had some hideously gruesome experiment going on in the kitchen to occupy his time and give the doctor a couple of hours of peace.

As John made his way to the front door he sighed, feeling instinctively that this was going to be a long night. He put his key in the lock, opened the door, and steeled himself to the potential onslaught. To his amazement Mrs Hudson didn't come racing out of her flat to complain about Sherlock shooting the walls again, and he couldn't hear sounds of discordant violin torture from upstairs either. Crossing his fingers, he headed up the stairs. Would this be the night - the one and only night - that he found Sherlock doing something normal like cooking dinner, or tidying his chemicals away? He opened the door to the flat and surveyed the scene in front of him. "I guess that remains a pipe dream" he said to himself as he looked around at the detritus Sherlock had left, and the detective slumped on the sofa, looking at the floor, violin in one hand.

With a quick, unanswered "hi" to Sherlock, John took himself off to his room and then to the bathroom for a long hot shower. Once he was clean and with fresh clothes on he felt more human, more able to deal with his difficult flatmate. He went back to the living room, started to try and organise the chaos, gave it up as a lost cause, and made a cup of tea instead. He made Sherlock one too, out of habit, and because he was a little worried the detective would ignore the basics of keeping hydrated without prompting. Sherlock's body might be little more than 'transport' to him, but he kicked up a heck of a lot of fuss if it broke down on him and he hated being forced to concede that he needed to take better care of himself.

John plonked the mugs down on the edge of the table, pushing something that looked like a petri dish of purple fur out of the way. Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes narrowing. John sat back and waited for the ranting to begin. He could read Sherlock like a book some days, and today his flatmate's expression was clearly the one of someone who had something to say, and wasn't going to stop until it was said.

"I've been thinking," started Sherlock. John tried to refrain from rolling his eyes - when exactly did Sherlock not think? He was rewarded with a frown from the detective. Clearly John hadn't been as good as he thought at keeping an exasperated expression from crossing his face.

"I've been thinking" repeated Sherlock, continuing to scowl at the doctor, "about the other evening. In your room." John looked at Sherlock, interested as to where this was heading. They hadn't spoken about it since the little banter in the taxi the day after the night before, and John had been expecting an interrogation ever since.

"Yes, Sherlock?" responded the doctor mildly.

"I need more data," came the unexpected reply. John took his time, thinking about what Sherlock was asking, all the subtle levels within those simple words. Finally, reaching out for his tea and taking a cautionary sip, he responded,

"Ask away Sherlock. I'll try and answer all of your questions."

"You thought that the best way of stopping me from hurting myself was for you to do it for me? Why?"

John paused for a moment before responding. He wanted to be completely honest with his friend and give him a proper answer. "I thought that I would be better at gauging when to stop than you are yourself" he said, "and I thought that it would help you if someone else took charge, physically and mentally."

"It wasn't the first time you'd done that." More of a statement than a question, but Sherlock still looked at John for a response, his hands steepled under his chin as he stared intently at his friend.

"No" John confirmed, "As you have undoubtably deduced, I've done similar things before in relationships. I met a girl when I was at University who introduced me to the pleasures of restraining someone, and I've always known I enjoy being in charge in the bedroom. You called me a sadist in the cab the other day, and I guess I am to an extent. The other night... I liked watching your reaction to me hurting you - and the knowledge I could do anything I wanted to you and you wouldn't be able to stop me. And I liked it when you finally gave in to the sensations." At this John grinned, enjoying the memory, "I liked that you were unable to control your reaction to me."

Sherlock assessed John, both his words and his demeanor. He could see the sincerity and truth in what John was saying, but there was also an edge his friend was deliberately avoiding. Sherlock wondered if John even knew himself that there was more to it? Storing it all away to process in more detail later, he asked another question.

"Do you think about it?"

A difficult one to answer as John had thought about it constantly. It had invaded his working day, his dreams, his everything. He had found the evening intoxicating and disturbingly arousing. He really didn't want Sherlock to know that. The detective already had enough trouble with personal interactions without thinking his flatmate was dreaming about him. Definitely didn't want him to have an inkling as to what those dreams looked like either - each more dangerously lewd than the last. Aware his own words would be his downfall, he kept himself to a simple answer, "Yes, I've thought about it", knowing that even those five words would tell Sherlock far more than he had intended to reveal.

Sherlock nodded, adding both the spoken and unspoken response to his internal file. He thought before phrasing the next question. He wanted to express something to John but it was complex and to do with feelings. He knew from other people's reactions to him that he didn't always get such things correct. Although John usually saw through what he said to what he meant; John was good at that. Sherlock took a breath then started cautiously, "I, uh, I've thought about it too, how good it felt. How did you know that was what I wanted? That I wouldn't reject your suggestion?"

John smiled at Sherlock's admission that it had felt good. He was pleased to hear the detective admit that. He had wondered sadly if the experience would be dismissed, and get deleted as non-essential information in that great mind of his. It had been a surprisingly intimate experience for John, and he was gratified that Sherlock had given it some thought. The doctor decided that instead of answering, a question of his own was reasonable at this point. So leant forward in his chair, looked directly at Sherlock and countered, "which bit felt good?"

"Uh," Sherlock frowned, trying to put into words what he had felt, "well the physical stimulus to the nociceptor neurons produced the expected stimulation of the opiate neurotransmitters. The endorphin and dynorphin response was quite impressive..." he trailed off, his frown deepening as he saw John grinning broadly at him.

"May I remind you I'm a doctor? I don't want the text book description of what pain does to the chemistry of your brain, Sherlock" chided John, "I want to know how the experience felt to you"

"Strange" came the frank reply, "It was... strange. And interesting. New. I haven't done anything like that before." Sherlock was privately amazed at how forthcoming these words were. He had intended to hold back, but for some reason felt compelled to tell John the truth.

"I'm a little surprised at that" John admitted, "I thought when you were younger you might have dabbled. I know how curious you are about everything so I assumed you had probably tried it at some point."

Sherlock huffed and immediately got defensive, "I don't know why you'd think that," his voice raising in indignation. "I don't go around voluntarily putting myself into a position where someone else can inflict harm on me."

"But you did with me." John responded, wondering if Sherlock was able to see the paradox in his denouncement. "You did what I told you to, and allowed me to restrain you, and hurt you. Why was that?"

Silence.

"I don't know" came the eventual reply.

Sherlock's mind was racing. He wasn't quite sure how he had ended up answering the questions. When he had initiated the conversation he had very clear on how it was meant to go, and now he had the feeling he'd lost the lead. This didn't happen to him - he was the cool, calm consulting detective - the one who didn't have feelings and dismissed emotions and his body as mere 'transport' for his brain. But he was starting to feel a little flustered. He surreptitiously moved his hands to check his pulse on one wrist - elevated. He could hear his breath quickening and he was pretty sure if he'd looked in a mirror his pupils would be enlarged. What was wrong with him? Why was just talking about this causing his body to respond?

John saw the distracted, slightly alarmed look on Sherlocks face and took pity on him. He decided to answer the original question. "Was I sure you wouldn't reject my suggestion? No, not really. But remember I had seen your response to controlled pain in the bathroom the night I caught you with the knife, so I knew you had an interest in it. And I know you, Sherlock. I spend most of my waking hours with you when I'm not at the clinic. I might not have your astoundingly brilliant deduction skills, but I see how you react to stimulus." John thought he could push it a touch further, so he lowered his voice slightly, modulating to add emphasis, before saying slowly and seductively "In fact, I can see how excited even this discussion is making you Sherlock. You are positively on edge. Do you want to ask me for some more... physical experiences... for your data gathering?"

"John!" Sherlock gasped, "I, uh, no, I mean, what?" he stammered, totally out of his depth in this conversation. How had John been able to read him so well? He was usually better at keeping his thoughts under wraps than this - either John had improved or Sherlock was slipping.

John laughed, amused at how easy he was finding it to get the upper hand for once with Sherlock. He was quite content to be the detective's right hand man when they were out solving cases, and was in awe of his friend's truly astounding brain, but he thought it did both their egos some good for the tables to be turned on occasions. "Remember rule three Sherlock, you can ask me for it any time you like."

"What if I did ask?" said Sherlock cautiously, "what would you want to do?"

"That depends... If you were to ask me in the middle of a difficult case like last time, when it was a last resort, I'd probably give you a similar experience - expediency being the key when you need your brain to get back to work quickly. But it if was now..." and again John's voice dropped into that dangerous, seductive tone, "if it was right now I'd want to toy with you and play with you and see what kind of things gave me the most satisfaction when done to you. There would be no rush, no need to hurry things. I could experiment on you all evening."

Sherlock found himself enthralled, much to his internal disgust. He could see John was positively licking his lips in anticipation. He found it disturbingly easy to conjure up images in his mind matching John's words. And he could feel his breath catch in excitement and expectation. He wanted it! He wanted to be John's experiment, and discover what made his body tick. This was all so refreshingly new. He'd never really been one for physical pleasures before, finding them fleeting in their attraction. But the combination of the physical elements with the mental stimulation John was offering was compelling.

Suddenly he needed to get away, take a step back from the situation which had escalated rapidly out of Sherlock's control. He broke eye contact, stood up from the sofa quickly and, without looking back at John, raced to his room, slamming the door behind him. John watched him leave, half amused that he'd been able to provoke such a reaction from Sherlock, and half frustrated that he wasn't going to be able to play this evening after all.

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John ate dinner alone, and managed to get an hour to himself to indulge in crap tv and some peace. He mind wandered frequently to thoughts of the detective and what kind of things he might do to him next time Sherlock came to John's room. Because John was under no illusions that it wouldn't happen again - and probably soon. Sherlock's curiosity would win out, he was sure of it, especially after that evening's conversation. So when he made his way up to bed some time later he was disappointed the detective hadn't resurfaced from his room. That is until he was woken by a gentle knock on his bedroom door in the middle of the night. He switched on the bedside light and opened the door to find Sherlock standing behind it, looking unsure of himself.

"You want to ask me something?" He asked his friend coolly, hoping he was able to suppress the glee he felt inside at Sherlock's arrival.

"John, I, would you? Um, things, yes." Sherlock shook his head in frustration at the way his words weren't obeying him yet again, took a deep breath and looked into John's eyes, before starting again, "John, I'd like it if you would make me feel that way again. Please."

John said nothing, merely opened the door wider and indicated Sherlock should enter the room, before John closed the door behind him.

Time to play...