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silverfoxflowerTitle: Slap on the Wrist
Author:![[info]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=3)
silverfoxflower
Fandom: Sherlock
Genre: Pre-Slash
Word Count: ~1000
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Somewhat sexualized violence (caning) on a coerced, long-suffering individual (John). UST
Notes:Fills the Caning square on my![[info]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif?v=3)
kink_bingo.
Summary: Sherlock is up for another experiment. John thinks he might as well go along with it.
Disclaimer: No ownership was claimed in the making of this porn
“You seem to complain quite a bit for someone who went to a Catholic primary school,” Sherlock rolled the thin wooden rod between his fingers, making a considering sound at the weight and feel of it. A whole different animal compared to the riding crop.
“I’m not even going to ask you how you know that.” John said, which meant that he was learning. Despite his earlier protests, he pulled off his jumper obligingly and draped it over the back of his chair. “Contrary to popular belief, it wasn’t all nuns with rulers.”
“That’s not what I was going for at all.” Sherlock replied, slicing through the air a few times with the switch.
John winced at the sight but didn’t press Sherlock further. He had once seen Sherlock deduce from the brand of socks that a man wore that he was a masochist and had a secret fetish for being stepped on by beautiful women. Perhaps later John would be in a mood to have his psyche examined by the all-knowing Sherlock Holmes. Right now, he was so sore from chasing around London in the humid August drizzle that all he wanted to do was to be beaten, bandaged, and packed off to bed. Perhaps a spot of tea in between.
Sherlock watched John roll up his sleeves to his elbow, placing his hands on the table in front of him with palms up. Other than a bit of nervousness, John seemed unstressed, almost casual in trusting Sherlock with his pain. The thought sent a spark of strange excitement through Sherlock’s spine, completely separate from his interest in the results of his experiment. “What about you?” John asked suddenly. He was doing more of that these days, casually injecting questions about Sherlock’s background in everyday conversation. Sherlock concluded it was because John’s unfortunately human brain was one, unable to deduce everything he needed to know without direct questioning and two, hardwired to show polite interest in his colleagues. “Teacher’s pet, I suppose,” John added sardonically, when Sherlock didn’t answer.
“They tended to dislike the way I corrected their errors.” Sherlock said, with just the edge of boredom in his voice. He didn’t add that after primary school, he had been educated by a string of tutors who, as Mycroft had put it, possessed a 'special sort of patience'. As well as higher degrees in various subjects.
Thinking of his brother, Sherlock raised the switch and sent it, whistling, down onto John’s forearm.
“Son of a bitch!” John gasped, curling forward in pain. “Would it really hurt to give some warning?” He looked up accusingly.
“What should I say in this situation, John? Should I say, there, there?” Sherlock said dryly, his eyes raking over the sharp pink stripe which John was sullenly rubbing with his knuckles. “There, there, John. Now do shut up. I’m trying to think.”
John opened his mouth, and then closed it again with an exasperated sound. He placed his arm back on the table for Sherlock to inspect.
The long, pink stripe had started to welt, swelling on the pale skin of John’s forearm. Sherlock considered how the wound would look on a woman’s buttocks. Then the thought of how it would look on John’s buttocks. There was that strange excitement again. He would examine it at greater depth later, but at the moment his sadomasochistic fantasies contributed nothing to his experiment.
He brought down the switch lighter, this time, to test its precision. John seemed to think it was for his benefit, because he relaxed a bit in his chair and shot Sherlock a grateful look.
“You’ll take it a bit harder for me, John.” The words slipped out of Sherlock’s mouth, although he hadn’t really considered it necessary to give John a warning. But John seemed to take the statement sexually, which was an annoyance and an amusement onto itself as the sputtering began.
“Right, then.” John said finally, and Sherlock began hitting him in earnest.
Rage, thought Sherlock, Or sexual arousal? Which is it?
I’m going to have to wear a long-sleeved shirt tomorrow, thought John, In this kind of heat.
The switch, which had felt at first awkward in Sherlock’s hands, seemed to grow more familiar with every blow, snapping down with a flick so precise it was like an extension of his arm. Sherlock frowned at the flare of pleasure that shot up his spine every time the wood met John’s arm with a satisfying crack.
Sexual gratification, then, Sherlock thought, staring at John’s grimace, the way he clenched his fists and began to grunt after every blow.
He stopped when John’s forearms were striped with red, a strange kind of art with skin for canvas and blood in broken vessels as paint. None of the blows had made him bleed.
“Wrong.” Sherlock muttered, and there was a childish sort of petulance around his mouth.
“What?” John looked up, breathing hard and trying not to show it. His pupils were dilated. “What’s wrong?”
“This is not the right switch.” Sherlock said in exasperation, staring at the wood in its hand as if it had committed a personal offense. “But I’ve still solved the case. Call Lestrade.”
“Well that’s, that’s brilliant.” John actually reached for the phone in his trouser pocket before the pain of skin sliding over bruised flesh made him curl in his seat.
“Bothersome.” Sherlock snapped, and a small bottle of aspirin was slammed in front of John even as a long-fingered hand reached into his pocket and retrieved his phone.
“Thank you, I think.” John said, rubbing his arms as Sherlock finished up his scathing text message.
After he was done, Sherlock dropped into the chair opposite of John’s, and they watched each other for a bit before Sherlock reached for the aspirin. “Half of these are arsenic, you know.” He said conversationally, shaking the white pills onto his palm.
“No thank you, then.” John said tiredly, growing a bit pale as he remembered himself taking one this morning. “I believe I’ve had enough experiments for one day.”
Author:
silverfoxflowerFandom: Sherlock
Genre: Pre-Slash
Word Count: ~1000
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Somewhat sexualized violence (caning) on a coerced, long-suffering individual (John). UST
Notes:Fills the Caning square on my
kink_bingo.Summary: Sherlock is up for another experiment. John thinks he might as well go along with it.
Disclaimer: No ownership was claimed in the making of this porn
“You seem to complain quite a bit for someone who went to a Catholic primary school,” Sherlock rolled the thin wooden rod between his fingers, making a considering sound at the weight and feel of it. A whole different animal compared to the riding crop.
“I’m not even going to ask you how you know that.” John said, which meant that he was learning. Despite his earlier protests, he pulled off his jumper obligingly and draped it over the back of his chair. “Contrary to popular belief, it wasn’t all nuns with rulers.”
“That’s not what I was going for at all.” Sherlock replied, slicing through the air a few times with the switch.
John winced at the sight but didn’t press Sherlock further. He had once seen Sherlock deduce from the brand of socks that a man wore that he was a masochist and had a secret fetish for being stepped on by beautiful women. Perhaps later John would be in a mood to have his psyche examined by the all-knowing Sherlock Holmes. Right now, he was so sore from chasing around London in the humid August drizzle that all he wanted to do was to be beaten, bandaged, and packed off to bed. Perhaps a spot of tea in between.
Sherlock watched John roll up his sleeves to his elbow, placing his hands on the table in front of him with palms up. Other than a bit of nervousness, John seemed unstressed, almost casual in trusting Sherlock with his pain. The thought sent a spark of strange excitement through Sherlock’s spine, completely separate from his interest in the results of his experiment. “What about you?” John asked suddenly. He was doing more of that these days, casually injecting questions about Sherlock’s background in everyday conversation. Sherlock concluded it was because John’s unfortunately human brain was one, unable to deduce everything he needed to know without direct questioning and two, hardwired to show polite interest in his colleagues. “Teacher’s pet, I suppose,” John added sardonically, when Sherlock didn’t answer.
“They tended to dislike the way I corrected their errors.” Sherlock said, with just the edge of boredom in his voice. He didn’t add that after primary school, he had been educated by a string of tutors who, as Mycroft had put it, possessed a 'special sort of patience'. As well as higher degrees in various subjects.
Thinking of his brother, Sherlock raised the switch and sent it, whistling, down onto John’s forearm.
“Son of a bitch!” John gasped, curling forward in pain. “Would it really hurt to give some warning?” He looked up accusingly.
“What should I say in this situation, John? Should I say, there, there?” Sherlock said dryly, his eyes raking over the sharp pink stripe which John was sullenly rubbing with his knuckles. “There, there, John. Now do shut up. I’m trying to think.”
John opened his mouth, and then closed it again with an exasperated sound. He placed his arm back on the table for Sherlock to inspect.
The long, pink stripe had started to welt, swelling on the pale skin of John’s forearm. Sherlock considered how the wound would look on a woman’s buttocks. Then the thought of how it would look on John’s buttocks. There was that strange excitement again. He would examine it at greater depth later, but at the moment his sadomasochistic fantasies contributed nothing to his experiment.
He brought down the switch lighter, this time, to test its precision. John seemed to think it was for his benefit, because he relaxed a bit in his chair and shot Sherlock a grateful look.
“You’ll take it a bit harder for me, John.” The words slipped out of Sherlock’s mouth, although he hadn’t really considered it necessary to give John a warning. But John seemed to take the statement sexually, which was an annoyance and an amusement onto itself as the sputtering began.
“Right, then.” John said finally, and Sherlock began hitting him in earnest.
Rage, thought Sherlock, Or sexual arousal? Which is it?
I’m going to have to wear a long-sleeved shirt tomorrow, thought John, In this kind of heat.
The switch, which had felt at first awkward in Sherlock’s hands, seemed to grow more familiar with every blow, snapping down with a flick so precise it was like an extension of his arm. Sherlock frowned at the flare of pleasure that shot up his spine every time the wood met John’s arm with a satisfying crack.
Sexual gratification, then, Sherlock thought, staring at John’s grimace, the way he clenched his fists and began to grunt after every blow.
He stopped when John’s forearms were striped with red, a strange kind of art with skin for canvas and blood in broken vessels as paint. None of the blows had made him bleed.
“Wrong.” Sherlock muttered, and there was a childish sort of petulance around his mouth.
“What?” John looked up, breathing hard and trying not to show it. His pupils were dilated. “What’s wrong?”
“This is not the right switch.” Sherlock said in exasperation, staring at the wood in its hand as if it had committed a personal offense. “But I’ve still solved the case. Call Lestrade.”
“Well that’s, that’s brilliant.” John actually reached for the phone in his trouser pocket before the pain of skin sliding over bruised flesh made him curl in his seat.
“Bothersome.” Sherlock snapped, and a small bottle of aspirin was slammed in front of John even as a long-fingered hand reached into his pocket and retrieved his phone.
“Thank you, I think.” John said, rubbing his arms as Sherlock finished up his scathing text message.
After he was done, Sherlock dropped into the chair opposite of John’s, and they watched each other for a bit before Sherlock reached for the aspirin. “Half of these are arsenic, you know.” He said conversationally, shaking the white pills onto his palm.
“No thank you, then.” John said tiredly, growing a bit pale as he remembered himself taking one this morning. “I believe I’ve had enough experiments for one day.”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-08-24 02:16 am (UTC)I love when he thinks about Mycroft and starts hitting John, :)the Holmes brothers are fantastic.
no subject
Date: 2011-08-24 03:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-24 03:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-24 04:06 am (UTC)