My brain is full of god knows what.
Jul. 9th, 2011 11:51 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seiberwingTitle: Rationalization
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, OC
Warnings: Consensual strangulation, BDSM themes. Not technically porn but probably NSFW anyway.
Author's Note: I scribbled this down after the viewing/ficbunny creating/random cuddling party at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
stupid_drawings's place, you can blame them.
Any small satisfaction that could be gained from Sherlock not knowing something was generally crushed by the fact that he had connections to someone that did. The fact that he did know someone who could help them with Mrs. Whitman’s (apparent) attempted murder case was itself worrisome and Watson had no idea who they were about to speak to.
“Isn’t this something you could practice on a corpse?” John begged as Sherlock knocked on a scuffed white door three floors up.
“A corpse does not breathe or struggle. For the experiment to work it must be performed on a live human being.”
“And what if that human being doesn’t stay alive afterwards?”
But it was too late to keep protesting. The door was opened by a half-asleep Asian man, who pushed his long hair back from his goateed face and took several moments to realize who was standing in front of him.
“Mr. Holmes?” His dark eyes brightened. “How can I help you?”
“I would like you to asphyxiate me,” Sherlock stated, as calmly as if he’d just asked for a cup of tea.
The man looked almost delighted. John had only known him for thirty seconds and he already found him unnerving. “Well, come on in,” he said cheerfully, and escorted the pair into his flat.
John would have preferred to take Sherlock and run. Or just run. The man’s apartment wasn't particularly out of the ordinary, with beer cans stacked in the corner and random articles of clothing lying across the furniture. A pair of handcuffs was hanging from the arm of his futon mattress, which probably had some minor significance to something but by Sherlockian standards this seemed relatively normal.
“So is this your—”
“Colleague,” John cut in. Better to just get that part out of the way up front before people started assuming things. “And you are?”
“Joshua Cho. You’re John Watson, aren’t you? I read your blog.” He pointed to Sherlock. “Love this guy, absolutely love him. You should be on the telly.”
“And what…exactly do you do, Mr. Cho?” With the smuggling ring incident so fresh in his mind, he wondered if Joshua was some kind of retired Chinese assassin who specialized in strangling his victims and owed Sherlock a debt of honor for his aid in some mysterious incident.
“Currently, he does very little,” Sherlock commented dryly. “He is unemployed and mostly lives off the funds of his boyfriend the construction worker while making a very feeble attempt at being a housewife.”
Joshua rubbed his hands together gleefully. “He’s doing the thing, I love that thing. Go on, tell me how you did it. We only met once and that was two years ago, it couldn’t be a guess.”
Sherlock wandered the room, talking with his hands, pointing out the little hints that only he could see. “You obviously have two people living in the house due to the dissimilarly sized pairs of shoes at the door and coats in the closet. Not a family member, or else you would have removed the handcuffs from the arm of your futon, and by the cut of the coat your romantic interest is definitely male. The dirty boots are on top of newspaper, an addition you certainly wouldn’t have made yourself by the state of the mess you’ve made while he was out, so he’s lived here long enough to change your living habits. I can see the concrete dust on the wrists of the coat hanging in the closet, indicating not only the fact that he works in construction but that you’re desperately trying to duck your laundry duties. If you had the excuse of an actual job you’d simply blow it off, but since you are dependent upon him for food and rent you need to at least look like you’re doing some of the household chores. He’s going to notice, by the way.”
“Brilliant!” Joshua laughed, clapping his hands together like a child at a show. “You are the only man I know with a sexy brain.”
Sherlock turned to John, hands folded in that thoughtful, almost sinister way he did. “But what you’re obviously really asking is how he relates to the case. Joshua is also an experienced member of the local fetish community.”
What. “Fetish?”
Joshua grinned even wider now, John was sure he could see teeth. Suddenly his enthusiasm at the idea of strangling Sherlock became clear and Joshua's grin went from unnerving to downright creepy. “You know. Whips, chains, leather, latex—”
“And erotic asphyxiation,” Sherlock finished. “I need you to strangle me hard enough to seem realistic, but not enough to make me lose consciousness.” He began removing his coat and scarf, a casual gesture that John was sure the pervert was viewing as a striptease. “Bruises would also be ideal.”
“Fun stuff. “ Joshua jerked his head in John’s direction. “What’s the colleague going to be doing? Just watching?”
“Holding my hands down.” Sherlock stretched out on the floor, placing his arms above his head. It wasn't a position John was comfortable with, Sherlock shouldn't look so vulnerable. “The victim struggled during the strangulation. Of course I won’t be using my full strength, you’d never be able to keep me down like that. But it will match the general physical abilities of a terrified fifty year old woman who someone may or may not have been trying to murder.”
“I’m not doing this!” John insisted.
“Fine, we’ll wait until the boyfriend gets home. He’s not a doctor so he might miss the signs of dangerous levels of oxygen deprivation, but I’m sure he’ll do his best.”
“…all right, so I’m doing this.” Damn him. John knelt and placed his hands very gently on Sherlock’s wrists. “So you’re just going to trust this man you barely know to strangle you?” he said as Joshua straddled Sherlock’s waist. “What if you’re really in danger? You won’t be able to speak and if you’re already struggling we won’t know if it’s for real.”
“Safeword,” said Joshua, exasperated. “Or safesnaps, I guess. One snap with one hand means harder, two snaps means ease off. Snapping with both hands means stop. You really need to expand your education, we do safe, sane, and consensual around here.” He cracked his knuckles expectantly.
No, this is unsafe, sociopathic and ridiculous.
Sherlock sighed. “I’ll send him to the internet later, would you mind getting on with it now? And please make an actual effort, John, if it’s not realistic there’s no point.”
Against his better judgment and probably several pieces of legislation, John took Sherlock’s wrists and pressed them to the floor. He watched in trepidation as Joshua put his hands around Sherlock’s throat, applying the barest of pressure, only a hint of a threat.
Sherlock snapped his fingers once, then suddenly arched up, mock-fighting against his restraints. John reflexively clenched down and kept him still as Joshua’s fingers tightened around his friend's throat.
Snap.
John’s stomach twisted. When had Sherlock ever known what was best for his own safety? He’d nearly poisoned himself out of a sheer desire to prove he’d been right. He might asphyxiate himself for the same reasons.
Snap.
He watched Sherlock’s convulsing body face, the fingers hard around his pale throat, the way his gasping stopped for three horrific seconds before Joshua released his throat again. The next time it was ten seconds and only the barest chance at air, then the pressure was back on again.
Snap.
For god’s sake, Sherlock. If this is to prove a point, I’ll strangle you myself. The time between gasps was getting longer. How could someone possibly do this for fun?
Snap.
John was having almost as much trouble breathing as Sherlock. Mentally, he calculated the amount of pressure necessary to crush a trachea and the amount of time one could go without oxygen before incurring brain damage. Joshua was enjoying this far too much, what if he got overeager? Hadn’t there been a murder case about this somewhere?
Snap.
The struggling was becoming weaker. It was entirely possible (and the most likely explanation) that Sherlock was still mimicking Mrs. Whitman’s movements, but nightmare situations in his head said that Sherlock had simply forgotten the snapping pattern in his desperation to breathe.
Snapsnap, both hands at once. John’s hands released immediately, as did Joshua’s, and John found himself breathing again. Sherlock tossed both of them aside, vaulted to his feet and ran for the bathroom with his hand around his throat.
Joshua wiggled his fingers, clenching and unclenching his hands to relax them, and obviously proud of himself. “Where’s he going? If he’s gone to have a wank I don’t mind if he does it right here.”
John wasn't sure if he was joking. Probably not. “He wants a mirror. Gone to deduce his bruises.” No priorities. Sherlock was going to get himself killed one day and it would be ruled a suicide because it would be his own bloody fault.
Joshua was chuckling. “You like it, don’t you?”
“I don’t get off on seeing a man strangled half to death,” John said through his teeth. Some things you shouldn't do, even if someone was asking for it. And if you had to do it you shouldn't enjoy it so much.
“Not that. The part where he orders you around and you just obey it. You were dying to let him up, you were freaked as hell, but every time he snapped his fingers—“ And Joshua mimicked the gesture. “You held on harder. I’m not a mentalist but I can tell a sub when I see one.”
“A what?”
“Sub. Submissive. Just roll with it, I’m sure he won’t object.”
“I’m not a submissive!” He wasn’t completely sure what the term implied, but he was sure he wasn’t one.
The conversation halted when Sherlock came out of the bathroom, red fingermarks already forming around his throat and a grin on his face. “It was false, I knew it. The positioning of the fingers were all wrong, they were just trying to scare her! Come on, we need to get down to her sister’s apartment!” Sherlock ran out the door, leaving John behind with the pervert.
“Well, what if I don’t want to?” he called out, filled with the desire to prove he didn’t have to jump at Sherlock’s every command, even if he did it anyway. Sherlock popped his head through the door again.
“Yes, but you do,” he said, a slightly confused expression on his face. John sighed and followed him, if only to get away from Joshua’s smug gaze and patronizing suggestion that John should call him if he needed any advice on future sexual endeavors.
John looked up ‘bdsm submissive’ on the sister's computer while Sherlock looted her closet, and Joshua’s comments bothered him the rest of the afternoon. He obeyed Sherlock because it led him to interesting places. He obeyed because Sherlock was often right, and his commands saved lives and cleared names. He certainly didn’t obey because he gained some thrill from being ordered around.
When they got back to the apartment Sherlock immediately sat down and ordered John to make him some tea. John had wanted tea anyway. He was making it for himself. He was just pouring it into two cups. And it was a nice thing to do for your flatmate, to make him some tea.
“And bring in that notepad from the kitchen, the lavender one.”
It was for a case, obvious from the seemingly incoherent scrawls on it. It didn’t count if it was for a case.
John put down the mug, then slapped the notepad into Sherlock’s hand. “Anything else?” he asked testily. Of course he didn’t enjoy it. It was annoying. Nobody would enjoy it.
“Yes. Get on your knees.” Sherlock looked pointedly at the floor before him, then back up at John.
John couldn’t even respond to that. Messages passed between their eyes, the kind of communication you could only have with someone you spent so much time with that you could read their body language as clearly as their texts.
John scowled. You planned this. You got him to say that.
Sherlock cocked his head to the side. Of course I did.
A slight tightening of John’s fists. You manipulated me. Again.
Sherlock smiled. And you like it.
John shook his head. I don’t have to listen to you.
But you will. Sherlock again looked at the rug in front of his chair. His eyes narrowed, the facial equivalent of raising his voice. Now. Down.
John, very slowly, sank to the floor. He was sure there was a legitimate reason for it. He’d just…think it up later.
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, OC
Warnings: Consensual strangulation, BDSM themes. Not technically porn but probably NSFW anyway.
Author's Note: I scribbled this down after the viewing/ficbunny creating/random cuddling party at
stupid_drawings's place, you can blame them.Any small satisfaction that could be gained from Sherlock not knowing something was generally crushed by the fact that he had connections to someone that did. The fact that he did know someone who could help them with Mrs. Whitman’s (apparent) attempted murder case was itself worrisome and Watson had no idea who they were about to speak to.
“Isn’t this something you could practice on a corpse?” John begged as Sherlock knocked on a scuffed white door three floors up.
“A corpse does not breathe or struggle. For the experiment to work it must be performed on a live human being.”
“And what if that human being doesn’t stay alive afterwards?”
But it was too late to keep protesting. The door was opened by a half-asleep Asian man, who pushed his long hair back from his goateed face and took several moments to realize who was standing in front of him.
“Mr. Holmes?” His dark eyes brightened. “How can I help you?”
“I would like you to asphyxiate me,” Sherlock stated, as calmly as if he’d just asked for a cup of tea.
The man looked almost delighted. John had only known him for thirty seconds and he already found him unnerving. “Well, come on in,” he said cheerfully, and escorted the pair into his flat.
John would have preferred to take Sherlock and run. Or just run. The man’s apartment wasn't particularly out of the ordinary, with beer cans stacked in the corner and random articles of clothing lying across the furniture. A pair of handcuffs was hanging from the arm of his futon mattress, which probably had some minor significance to something but by Sherlockian standards this seemed relatively normal.
“So is this your—”
“Colleague,” John cut in. Better to just get that part out of the way up front before people started assuming things. “And you are?”
“Joshua Cho. You’re John Watson, aren’t you? I read your blog.” He pointed to Sherlock. “Love this guy, absolutely love him. You should be on the telly.”
“And what…exactly do you do, Mr. Cho?” With the smuggling ring incident so fresh in his mind, he wondered if Joshua was some kind of retired Chinese assassin who specialized in strangling his victims and owed Sherlock a debt of honor for his aid in some mysterious incident.
“Currently, he does very little,” Sherlock commented dryly. “He is unemployed and mostly lives off the funds of his boyfriend the construction worker while making a very feeble attempt at being a housewife.”
Joshua rubbed his hands together gleefully. “He’s doing the thing, I love that thing. Go on, tell me how you did it. We only met once and that was two years ago, it couldn’t be a guess.”
Sherlock wandered the room, talking with his hands, pointing out the little hints that only he could see. “You obviously have two people living in the house due to the dissimilarly sized pairs of shoes at the door and coats in the closet. Not a family member, or else you would have removed the handcuffs from the arm of your futon, and by the cut of the coat your romantic interest is definitely male. The dirty boots are on top of newspaper, an addition you certainly wouldn’t have made yourself by the state of the mess you’ve made while he was out, so he’s lived here long enough to change your living habits. I can see the concrete dust on the wrists of the coat hanging in the closet, indicating not only the fact that he works in construction but that you’re desperately trying to duck your laundry duties. If you had the excuse of an actual job you’d simply blow it off, but since you are dependent upon him for food and rent you need to at least look like you’re doing some of the household chores. He’s going to notice, by the way.”
“Brilliant!” Joshua laughed, clapping his hands together like a child at a show. “You are the only man I know with a sexy brain.”
Sherlock turned to John, hands folded in that thoughtful, almost sinister way he did. “But what you’re obviously really asking is how he relates to the case. Joshua is also an experienced member of the local fetish community.”
What. “Fetish?”
Joshua grinned even wider now, John was sure he could see teeth. Suddenly his enthusiasm at the idea of strangling Sherlock became clear and Joshua's grin went from unnerving to downright creepy. “You know. Whips, chains, leather, latex—”
“And erotic asphyxiation,” Sherlock finished. “I need you to strangle me hard enough to seem realistic, but not enough to make me lose consciousness.” He began removing his coat and scarf, a casual gesture that John was sure the pervert was viewing as a striptease. “Bruises would also be ideal.”
“Fun stuff. “ Joshua jerked his head in John’s direction. “What’s the colleague going to be doing? Just watching?”
“Holding my hands down.” Sherlock stretched out on the floor, placing his arms above his head. It wasn't a position John was comfortable with, Sherlock shouldn't look so vulnerable. “The victim struggled during the strangulation. Of course I won’t be using my full strength, you’d never be able to keep me down like that. But it will match the general physical abilities of a terrified fifty year old woman who someone may or may not have been trying to murder.”
“I’m not doing this!” John insisted.
“Fine, we’ll wait until the boyfriend gets home. He’s not a doctor so he might miss the signs of dangerous levels of oxygen deprivation, but I’m sure he’ll do his best.”
“…all right, so I’m doing this.” Damn him. John knelt and placed his hands very gently on Sherlock’s wrists. “So you’re just going to trust this man you barely know to strangle you?” he said as Joshua straddled Sherlock’s waist. “What if you’re really in danger? You won’t be able to speak and if you’re already struggling we won’t know if it’s for real.”
“Safeword,” said Joshua, exasperated. “Or safesnaps, I guess. One snap with one hand means harder, two snaps means ease off. Snapping with both hands means stop. You really need to expand your education, we do safe, sane, and consensual around here.” He cracked his knuckles expectantly.
No, this is unsafe, sociopathic and ridiculous.
Sherlock sighed. “I’ll send him to the internet later, would you mind getting on with it now? And please make an actual effort, John, if it’s not realistic there’s no point.”
Against his better judgment and probably several pieces of legislation, John took Sherlock’s wrists and pressed them to the floor. He watched in trepidation as Joshua put his hands around Sherlock’s throat, applying the barest of pressure, only a hint of a threat.
Sherlock snapped his fingers once, then suddenly arched up, mock-fighting against his restraints. John reflexively clenched down and kept him still as Joshua’s fingers tightened around his friend's throat.
Snap.
John’s stomach twisted. When had Sherlock ever known what was best for his own safety? He’d nearly poisoned himself out of a sheer desire to prove he’d been right. He might asphyxiate himself for the same reasons.
Snap.
He watched Sherlock’s convulsing body face, the fingers hard around his pale throat, the way his gasping stopped for three horrific seconds before Joshua released his throat again. The next time it was ten seconds and only the barest chance at air, then the pressure was back on again.
Snap.
For god’s sake, Sherlock. If this is to prove a point, I’ll strangle you myself. The time between gasps was getting longer. How could someone possibly do this for fun?
Snap.
John was having almost as much trouble breathing as Sherlock. Mentally, he calculated the amount of pressure necessary to crush a trachea and the amount of time one could go without oxygen before incurring brain damage. Joshua was enjoying this far too much, what if he got overeager? Hadn’t there been a murder case about this somewhere?
Snap.
The struggling was becoming weaker. It was entirely possible (and the most likely explanation) that Sherlock was still mimicking Mrs. Whitman’s movements, but nightmare situations in his head said that Sherlock had simply forgotten the snapping pattern in his desperation to breathe.
Snapsnap, both hands at once. John’s hands released immediately, as did Joshua’s, and John found himself breathing again. Sherlock tossed both of them aside, vaulted to his feet and ran for the bathroom with his hand around his throat.
Joshua wiggled his fingers, clenching and unclenching his hands to relax them, and obviously proud of himself. “Where’s he going? If he’s gone to have a wank I don’t mind if he does it right here.”
John wasn't sure if he was joking. Probably not. “He wants a mirror. Gone to deduce his bruises.” No priorities. Sherlock was going to get himself killed one day and it would be ruled a suicide because it would be his own bloody fault.
Joshua was chuckling. “You like it, don’t you?”
“I don’t get off on seeing a man strangled half to death,” John said through his teeth. Some things you shouldn't do, even if someone was asking for it. And if you had to do it you shouldn't enjoy it so much.
“Not that. The part where he orders you around and you just obey it. You were dying to let him up, you were freaked as hell, but every time he snapped his fingers—“ And Joshua mimicked the gesture. “You held on harder. I’m not a mentalist but I can tell a sub when I see one.”
“A what?”
“Sub. Submissive. Just roll with it, I’m sure he won’t object.”
“I’m not a submissive!” He wasn’t completely sure what the term implied, but he was sure he wasn’t one.
The conversation halted when Sherlock came out of the bathroom, red fingermarks already forming around his throat and a grin on his face. “It was false, I knew it. The positioning of the fingers were all wrong, they were just trying to scare her! Come on, we need to get down to her sister’s apartment!” Sherlock ran out the door, leaving John behind with the pervert.
“Well, what if I don’t want to?” he called out, filled with the desire to prove he didn’t have to jump at Sherlock’s every command, even if he did it anyway. Sherlock popped his head through the door again.
“Yes, but you do,” he said, a slightly confused expression on his face. John sighed and followed him, if only to get away from Joshua’s smug gaze and patronizing suggestion that John should call him if he needed any advice on future sexual endeavors.
John looked up ‘bdsm submissive’ on the sister's computer while Sherlock looted her closet, and Joshua’s comments bothered him the rest of the afternoon. He obeyed Sherlock because it led him to interesting places. He obeyed because Sherlock was often right, and his commands saved lives and cleared names. He certainly didn’t obey because he gained some thrill from being ordered around.
When they got back to the apartment Sherlock immediately sat down and ordered John to make him some tea. John had wanted tea anyway. He was making it for himself. He was just pouring it into two cups. And it was a nice thing to do for your flatmate, to make him some tea.
“And bring in that notepad from the kitchen, the lavender one.”
It was for a case, obvious from the seemingly incoherent scrawls on it. It didn’t count if it was for a case.
John put down the mug, then slapped the notepad into Sherlock’s hand. “Anything else?” he asked testily. Of course he didn’t enjoy it. It was annoying. Nobody would enjoy it.
“Yes. Get on your knees.” Sherlock looked pointedly at the floor before him, then back up at John.
John couldn’t even respond to that. Messages passed between their eyes, the kind of communication you could only have with someone you spent so much time with that you could read their body language as clearly as their texts.
John scowled. You planned this. You got him to say that.
Sherlock cocked his head to the side. Of course I did.
A slight tightening of John’s fists. You manipulated me. Again.
Sherlock smiled. And you like it.
John shook his head. I don’t have to listen to you.
But you will. Sherlock again looked at the rug in front of his chair. His eyes narrowed, the facial equivalent of raising his voice. Now. Down.
John, very slowly, sank to the floor. He was sure there was a legitimate reason for it. He’d just…think it up later.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-07-09 05:31 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2011-07-09 11:46 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2011-07-10 05:12 am (UTC)And it's also totally awesome that you're into Sherlock, too! I absolutely adore the series. I had no idea you're a fan. ;)
Wish I could've been there to hear the conversation that spawned this fic. I enjoyed reading it! I hope you write some more for them!
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Date: 2011-07-12 02:48 am (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2011-07-12 03:05 am (UTC)*giggles self sick*
*and combusts from hot*
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