Written for a prompt at the kinkmeme:

"John's resisted the urge to pin Sherlock down and just take what he wants for months, but finds the current situation just too tempting.

What with seeing the tale end of a drugged Sherlock being whipped into submission, who later leaned into John's arms so nicely for the ride home, so pliantly submissive, letting John tuck Sherlock close and take care of him, stroke him. Who let out only a tiny whimper when John's hand came down to fondle Sherlock's sore backside before tucking his face into John's neck and just taking it.

Having a drugged virgin Sherlock at his mercy in the bed upstairs after all that is just too much for John to resist."

And I couldn't quite resist that, now could I?

Warnings: Non-con (explicit), dark!John.

A/N - Updated to full version!

Lamb

By AnonyMouseHatesCaptcha

The ride back home to 221B Baker Street was thankfully, for the most part, uneventful. After being examined by the paramedics as well as questioned by the police on the scene (Sherlock was talkative, but in no way in any state fit to communicate, which did not seem to bother the amused officers), as well as dealing with an irate Mycroft over the phone (no less intimidating than in person, not that John will ever admit to it), they had finally been free to leave. Well, John was free to leave; Sherlock won't be walking about on his own any time soon. This is how John Watson found himself in the backseat of a police car, with his flatmate tucked securely under his arm. Lestrade was even kind enough to drive them himself.

Sherlock had fallen quiet during the ride. He'd rambled quite a bit earlier, firing incoherent observations about things only he could see. Whatever Ms. Adler had given him had quite the effect. Designer drug no doubt, Hallucinogenic, definitely. Depressant, surely, if he was only judging by the way Sherlock's body seemed to melting against John's. He was blinking heavily now, as if still fighting unconsciousness.

"All right back there?" Greg met his eyes through the rear-view mirror. Sherlock mumbled something in return, and nestled his head firmly against John's shoulder. John's lips quirked in amusement.

John held him securely, just to make sure he was sitting comfortably, limp body not jerked around by the car's movements. Sherlock did not seem to mind this, judging by the way he was nuzzling John's neck now, his breath warming a little spot on John's skin. Nor did he seem to mind John's hand on the small of his back. And well, if his hand wandered a little lower on occasion, no one was the wiser. Certainly not Sherlock, who was deep in his own world by that time.

Finally arriving in Baker's street, Lestrade helped John carry Sherlock out of the car, managing Sherlock's tangle of limbs and frustrating height with efficiency, even in front of the raised brows of passers-by. Up the stairs and into their flat, they maneuvered him to his bedroom. Placing him as gently as they could on his bed, they made sure he was lying on his side. After all this trouble, choking would be unfortunate.

"I have to go back to the crime scene, are you sure you will be all right on your own with him?"

"Do you really doubt my bedside manner? I have a medical degree, y'know," John said with a smile, "Anything I can get you before you go?"

"No, I'll be off then. Will send you the YouTube link later," Greg said with a wink, brandishing his phone in triumph on his way out.

Shutting the door behind him, John made his way back to the bedroom. Sherlock had stayed exactly where they left him, although his eyes have finally drifted shut. At that point the detective was all but dead weight, and did not resist when John sat at the foot of his bed and started untying his shoelaces, removing his shoes and setting them on the floor next to the bed. That task done, John moved to sit closer to him, and attempted to remove his jacket. That had proven to be more challenging than he first anticipated, as Sherlock seemed to be made entirely out of limbs.

Eventually John figured out a way by picking up Sherlock's entire upper body, letting it rest against John's, as he eased Sherlock's suit jacket off his shoulders and down his arms. Sherlock's head was resting again against John's shoulder, and John was… reluctant to let him back down. Letting out a long breath he did not know he was holding, he marveled at how unusual the situation he found himself in, rubbing his hand soothingly against Sherlock's back.

He was tempted. He was always tempted by Sherlock. Sherlock was like no one John had ever known. He was a storm in the middle of John's life. He was exciting, and bright and infuriating, and oh so beautiful it made John's stomach clench sometimes. He knew of course, what affect he had on people. He noted the looks and whispers as he passed them in the street, shut down those brave enough to approach him with cruel indifference. John had seen it happen. No, Sherlock did not miss anything, he just didn't care.

For all he exuded an aura of confident sensuality, despite being so meticulous in his appearance, Sherlock was simply not interested in any romantic or sexual connection. He did not care for any primal needs. He regularly forsook his body's needs, as if the urge to feed or sleep did not apply to him. For him, John knew, it was all transport. John knew that Mycroft's insinuations earlier in the palace had been true. Sherlock really was...Untouched. John could not imagine it otherwise. And yet. And yet.

Sherlock had rejected his advances in the past. In the beginning, when John did not know him all that well yet. He knew now better than to hope for anything more, he knew that Sherlock was wired differently than most people. John didn't understand it, doesn't understand it, but on most days he could let it go, was content just to stay Sherlock's friend. More than enough to share his adventures and bask in the excitement their life together meant. He knew that Sherlock needed him just as much as John did.

He was content in Sherlock's friendship, understood intellectually that there will never be anything more between them. That did not stop him from wanting.

A soft sigh from Sherlock brought him out of his reverie. Reluctantly, John carefully laid him down on the bed again, one hand supporting his head. His hand lingered, cupping the side of Sherlock's face, thumb caressing his cheekbone. John exhaled again, heavily, and withdraws his hand. Sherlock gave a soft murmur in protest, shifting his body slightly toward John's warm presence.

This was certainly more affectionate than Sherlock usually was. John worried his lower lip, gazing at his flatmate's face. In his sleep, Sherlock's face was calm and relaxed, mouth slightly open. Before he realized what he was doing, John was reaching for him again, running his thumb gently over his lips. He was really quite striking, all angles and cheekbones, and that mouth. Dark hair against the white pillowcase. Fragile and hard all at the same time.

He's really out of it, John thought to himself, some feeling he couldn't identify curling in his chest. John Watson wasn't a bad man, knew this wasn't exactly proper. But Sherlock Holmes took so much out of him without ever giving anything back, every day, without asking, without even saying thanks.

It was all just transport for him, anyway.

John leaned closer over his friend now, nose merely inches away from Sherlock's. His hand slipped lower from Sherlock's mouth to his neck, dragging calloused fingers over fine, pale skin and collarbone. John kissed a closed eyelid tenderly, kissed his cheek and the side of his mouth. The frames creaking as he moved, kneeling now on the bed. Sherlock sighed and shifted under him, and John froze for a full minute. He relaxed once again when Sherlock did not make any more sounds or movements.

He pressed his lips against Sherlock's unresisting mouth. Just a few curious pecks at first, then more intimately, running his tongue over the perfect Cupid's bow. He deepened the kiss, parting Sherlock's lips easily, exploring. It was an unusual experience, kissing someone who wasn't kissing back. It wasn't entirely unpleasant.

John kissed a line from his jaw, leaving wet, open mouthed kisses at the juncture between neck and shoulder. He bit, not hard, not enough to leave a mark. Groaning, he kissed the same spot. The shirt was getting in the way. John drew back and started to unbutton Sherlock's shirt.

He paused halfway through. How will Sherlock react when the drug's effect had worn off? Will he wake up and instantly deduce what had happened while he was out cold? Will he take one look at John and figure out exactly what transpired? No, John needed to be careful about this. Mustn't disturb Sherlock too much, mustn't leave any marks. He eyed the spot where he had pressed his teeth to, earlier, on Sherlock's neck. Thankfully the area did not redden at all, the pressure not enough to mar even Sherlock's near translucent skin.

He rubbed his hand over Sherlock's bared chest; he was so thin but still lightly muscled, wiry. His fingers found a nipple which hardened under his touch. John was hard too, straining against his trousers. He unzipped, sighing in relief. Still touching, his hand slipping into the half buttoned shirt. The other hand was busy. He imagined what it would be like to strip Sherlock off, piece by piece. Imagined him kneeling before John, awake and begging, pink tongue darting out to lap at his cock. Imagined him on his hands and knees, John's hand running along his spine, could almost feel himself buried in that perfect arse.

"John," Sherlock mumbled, eyes still closed, hardly even moving at all. "John."

"Shhhhh." He did not seem to be stirring otherwise. Dreaming?

John took one of Sherlock's hands in his. Slide his fingers between his companion's long digits, pulled it over Sherlock's head – just to see how he looked like this, pliant and open and more vulnerable than John had ever seen him, pale and perfect under him. He wanted to sink his teeth into that perfect neck again. Leaning closer, he brought his groin to Sherlock's face level and brushed his cock against Sherlock's mouth instead, lovingly tapped the head against his lips. The position was awkward, he couldn't get him to open wide enough to take him in like this so John had cupped his jaw, attempted to pry his mouth open. Discomforted, Sherlock moaned beneath and around him, twitching, airway blocked and no this won't do at all.

Changing tactics, John pulled one elegant hand to his mouth, slicking the palm with saliva before wrapping it around himself. He worked the hand on his cock; touched himself with Sherlock's hand the way he liked to touch himself, showing Sherlock how to touch him. He pressed his face into the crook of Sherlock's neck and closed his eyes. Ran fingers through dark curls. Inhaled. It was over too quickly.

It took minutes for his head to clear and for him to raise himself back up. He looked at Sherlock's still face. He brushed his fingers over the bruise on Sherlock's cheek (right handed punch, barely a scratch), the only mark he had left on him that day. He willed himself not to panic. It was all right. Sherlock was not hurt, Sherlock would probably not have minded anyway (transport, transport, transport). Sherlock would understand. He just needed to get this out of his system. He would explain this to Sherlock (if he asked).

John ran a wet cloth over Sherlock's bare skin, buttoned back his shirt and made damn sure there were no suspicious fluids left on the sheets. If Sherlock would be left with any recollection of tonight in his drug addled state, he would probably just chalk it up to a strange dream. Mind still reeling from the highly sexualized meeting with Ms. Adler earlier that day, nothing more. He carefully rolled Sherlock back unto his side, and tucked the sheet up to his ears, making sure he was completely, entirely covered.

John quietly exited the room. He needed a cup of tea.

Besides that single time during the night Sherlock had literally rolled out of the bed, yelling for John and muttering about 'The Woman', he had managed to sleep until morning. The next day, Sherlock was back to his usual self, drug appearing to have worn off completely. He ate and drank his coffee, joked with John, sniped at Mycroft and looked not at all like he was just betrayed (molested) by his best friend. John relaxed, they were back to normal, and Sherlock appeared to have no memory of the previous night.

And while John noticed that Sherlock began to lock his bedroom door at night, he never brought it up.