Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/520936.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson, Mycroft_Holmes/John_Watson, Greg_Lestrade/
      John_Watson, Jim_Moriarty/John_Watson, John_Watson/OMC
  Character:
      John_Watson, Sherlock_Holmes, Jim_Moriarty, Greg_Lestrade, Mycroft
      Holmes, Anthea_(Sherlock), Anderson_(Sherlock)
  Additional Tags:
      school_fic, Corporal_Punishment, Underage_-_Freeform, non_con, dub_con,
      Bondage, Spanking, Public_Humiliation, Humiliation, Sherlock's
      experiments, sex_in_public, Anal_Plugs, John_being_used_as_a_fucktoy,
      everyone_loves_John_a_little_too_much, Caning, Toys, Cock_Rings, mention
      of_gangbang, Orgasm_Delay/Denial
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-09-24 Completed: 2012-10-15 Chapters: 7/7 Words: 13289
****** 5 Times John was Fucked By A Teacher and the One Time It Was A Nurse
Instead ******
by SailorChibi
Summary
     John is lucky enough to go to an elite all-boys boarding school that
     is well renowned for sending graduates on to Oxbridge. What is less
     known about the school is that the professors regularly use corporal
     punishment as motivation, and that the students are used as fucktoys.
     John just so happens to be a personal favourite.
Notes
     Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
     Written for a prompt on the BBC kink meme.
     I highly urge you to read the warnings before reading. I post
     warnings seriously and expect you to take them as such.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Chapter Notes
     Read. The. Warnings. I cannot stress this enough. I'm really tired of
     people reading all the way to the end and then telling me what a
     horrible, disgusting story this is. READ THE WARNINGS. Don't continue
     if they don't sound like your thing! Stop reading if this isn't your
     thing! Fuck, I have no idea how to make this any more clear, guys,
     seriously.
When his parents first get the news that he’s been accepted they're thrilled.
Personally John doesn't see what the fuss is about. As far as he's concerned a
new school is a nightmare regardless of the fact that all of its graduates
apparently go on to Oxbridge. He likes his old school with his friends, but he
does what he can to make his parents happy so he agrees to go.
He had no idea what he was in for.
If he did, he might've made a run for it.
And now?
Now it's just too late.
"Watson!"
John cringes into his desk at the sharp voice that slides across the classroom,
breaking through the low chatter. Silence falls and every student turns to
stare at him, their eyes collectively cold, knowing, anticipating. He works
hard to maintain his composed front as he stands up, refusing to let on to
anyone that he's the slightest bit nervous. "Yes sir?"
"What is this?" Professor Lestrade points to his desk. Thankfully John doesn't
have to be close to know what's there.
"My homework, sir," he says softly. Usually he likes to do everything right
even if it's ultimately useless, but he's dropped the ball this time and he
knows it. Between Professor Holmes and Professor Moriarty he was barely able to
walk straight, much less complete a fifty page essay, and it’s an excuse
Lestrade doesn’t even need but having a viable reason seems to make the man
that much more malicious when he looks at John.
"Unacceptable." Lestrade rises to his feet and moves around the desk. There's a
chair in the corner of the room, one that all of the students try to pretend
doesn't exist. It's straight-backed and dark brown, made of old wood, and it
creaks when Lestrade pulls it into the middle and sits down. "Come here."
For a split second John wants to throw a tantrum. Wants to let on about how
very wrong this is and maybe even walk out. What keeps him from doing so is the
thought of what they could do to him if he acted out. Life on a day to day
basis is difficult enough to deal with; he's not sure that he can handle much
more. So it's with a grim, determined silence that he steps away from the
safety of his desk and walks up to the front. He doesn't need prompting to know
what comes next. He leans forward, easing his belly across Lestrade's thighs,
propped up on his elbows until a hand comes down on his back and forces him
flat.
"You should know," Lestrade says to the class in general, "that I do not
tolerate a lack of effort in my classes." As he speaks he grips the back of
John's trousers and pulls them down, achingly slow, revealing the school-issued
white cotton pants he's wearing underneath. John prevents himself from
shivering as Lestrade's fingers glide underneath the edge of his pants, tugging
them down as well. It proves to be in vain as the resulting cold rush of air
across his buttocks makes him shiver. He stares straight ahead at the door and
tries to pretend this isn't happening.
The first blow makes that impossible. Lestrade is good at this; he's had a lot
of practice. His large hand lands squarely on the seat of John's arse in an
upward motion that drives John forward. He bites his lips against the gasp that
wants to escape and tightens his dangling hands into fists. There's no point in
trying to get away, not when there’s a hand planted squarely in the middle of
his back, and he resolves to himself that he won't wiggle, won't squirm, won't
give any of them the satisfaction.
Lestrade is careful to never hit for too long in the same spot. He likes to be
even, likes to make sure that the burn is a slow one that doesn't fade fast,
and he peppers the blows all over John's backside, down his thighs, and even in
between though the angle is difficult. John flinches at that and he hears
Lestrade draw in a sharp, excited breath. There's something hard and very
noticeable pressing against John's ribs and he knows what it means. He squeezes
his eyes shut and turns his face away from the students who are staring at him
with alternating versions of curiosity and glee; they're all relieved that it's
John and not them.
"Watson," Lestrade says, never ceasing the steady blows. Each loud crack echoes
through the room and probably down the hall, since the door is open. Once or
twice John even catches sight of a face peering in at them. It's hard to look
but harder not to. "I believe you had something to say to me?"
"I'm sorry," John says, his breath hitching as the last syllable passes through
his lips. Remaining still is getting difficult. His legs jerk and he shudders
without meaning to, the movement an unconscious one. "I should have p-paid more
attention to my h-homework."
"I'm not sure you're suitably chastened," says his teacher thoughtfully. He
stops the blows and pauses, examining his handiwork, the blushing pink skin
that borders on red.
John says nothing.
"You'll remain behind so that I can be sure you've learned your lesson. You may
return to your seat."
The pain is hot and bright when he slides off of Lestrade's lap. His cock hangs
flaccid between his thighs. Lestrade's eyes linger on it and John feels himself
flush. It annoys him that this is what gets to him after everything he's been
through and he turns, hobbling back to his desk with his trousers and pants
still around his ankles. He knows better than to try pulling them up, even
though sitting on the wooden chairs after a spanking is agonizing: every rough
granule of wood catches against his tender skin and drags, creating painful
friction that makes it nearly impossible to sit still.
Like nothing has happened, Lestrade continues the lesson. John tries to pay
attention and ignore his throbbing arse. He tries not to watch the clock, tries
not to drift off into a daydream about how good his life could be if his
parents had never applied for this school in the first place. In his darkest
moments he wonders if they know the truth but he can't dwell on that because it
threatens to break him, and more than anything John does not want to be broken.
When the bells rings, the other students flee the room. None of them meet
John's eyes. He stays where he is as Lestrade putters around the room, erasing
the board and putting some of his files away. Finally, he says, "Watson."
John stands up. "Sir."
"I'm disappointed in you, Watson. This isn't your best work by far."
"No Sir."
"I'd hate to have to resort to more serious disciplinary measures."
A cold chill runs up John's back. "I'll do better in the future."
"See that you do." Lestrade surveys him, arms folded. "Come here, then."
Slowly, John makes his way to the front of the room for a second time. The fact
that he and the professor are now alone makes it no easier, especially when
Lestrade reaches out and takes hold of his upper arm, pushing him forward until
he's bent over the desk, facing the board. Two hands palm his aching backside
and he can't conceal the soft groan of pain that escapes him. His skin is
sensitive and inflamed and Lestrade is not gentle when he squeezes tightly,
pulling John apart.
"If only the headmaster weren't so possessive," he says mournfully. John hears
the sound of a zip and can't help tensing a little, though he forces himself to
relax in the next moment as a lubed cock nudges teasingly at his entrance,
pressing lightly and then easing off.
"Please sir," he grates out, knowing what Lestrade’s waiting for. "Please
punish me."
"Fuck, John," Lestrade groans as he pushes inside, sliding all the way in with
one smooth glide. All of John's breath huffs out of his body and his eyes
flutter shut. Lestrade waits a handful of seconds before pulling out and then
thrusting back in with full, long strokes that mean he feels every inch of
John’s silky walls.
It doesn't hurt, per se, but it's awkward, being so full and feeling the drag
of a cock against his insides. Even after all this time John doesn't feel like
he's used to it. He digs his fingers into the top of the desk and moans softly
when the head of the thick cock strikes his prostate. Lestrade murmurs
approvingly when John rocks beneath him, unconsciously moving into the rhythm.
He shifts and grips John's hips, thumbs pressing hard against the hot swollen
skin, and sets a hard, fast pace that grinds John's cock forward against the
edge of the desk with every push forward.
And god, John hates the fact that he enjoys this, that his body is responding
to the pleasure no matter how much he doesn't want it to. His cock is swelling
and even the flash of pain from Lestrade's rough treatment feels good; the pain
and pleasure centres of his brain are so cross wired now that he doesn't even
know what's wrong anymore when it gets like this. Choking back a helpless sound
he puts his head against the desk and pushes back and clenches his muscles,
caught up in the dizzying hope that if it happens fast maybe this will be it
and he’ll be allowed to slink back to his room and forget about everything.
Lestrade groans loudly at the sudden hot tightening and comes with a grunt and
a harsh thrust, filling John with his come. He stays still until he’s
absolutely sure he’s finished before pulling out, watching as the reddened
entrance begins leaking his seed almost immediately. John stays in position,
shaking, as one of Lestrade's fingers touches his rim, sliding around his hole
almost playfully, trying to push the come back in. The gentle touch is enough
to make him bite back another whimper and Lestrade notices. He laughs.
"Not to worry, John," he says, "I hardly think that you've learned your lesson
that fast. Round two is coming right up." He gives John another slap on the
arse. “This is all for your own good, after all.”
“Yes,” John says softly, closing his eyes again. “I know.”
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The one good thing about this school is that all of the boys have their own
private rooms. Small though they may be, with barely enough space to fit a
single bed and a trunk, but John knows now to take what he can get. He lays on
his bed with his head in his pillow, trying to drum up enough interest to write
a letter home to his parents. It’s exhausting trying to be cheerful in those
letters and just the thought of having to pretend that he actually likes this
bloody school is too much to handle. The majority of what he sends home are all
lies, carefully crafted and written so as to avoid his parents having any
information about what really goes on.
A quiet knock on the door makes him stir and he sighs, clambering wearily off
of the bed. He feels cold when he sees who is waiting for him on the other
side: Anderson, his dorm’s advisor. There’s only one reason for the man to be
there and John doesn’t need to see the broad smirk on his face to know what’s
coming. He tries to ignore the smugness in Anderson’s annoying voice when he
says that the headmaster wants to see John immediately and John had best hurry
because the man doesn’t seem to be overly pleased tonight.
As if he ever is.
He walks down to the Headmaster’s office as slowly as he dares and knocks. The
headmaster’s secretary, Miss Anthea, impassively lets him into the outer room.
She looks at him for a minute, a smirk twitching at the corner of her lips,
before she saunters over to the thick wooden door that leads to the inner
office. She beckons to him with one long, crooked finger and opens the door
just enough to let him through. She pinches his arse as he passes and he jumps,
startled, flushing at the sound of her quiet laughter as she shuts the door
behind him, leaving him facing not just the headmaster but a room full of
unknown men.
“Ah, John.” Headmaster Mycroft Holmes is at the head of the table, of course.
“You’re late.”
“Sorry sir,” John mutters, edging around the room. Some of the men look at him
with eyes that are entirely too interested and he feels not quite relieved when
he’s finally beside the headmaster.
“I heard you caused quite the disruption in Professor Lestrade’s class today.”
“Yes sir.”
“I do wonder about you sometimes. Your parents had such high hopes for you,
John.” Holmes shakes his head and sighs theatrically. “Assume the position. You
know what happens if I feel you’re getting lazy. I won’t hesitate to punish you
in front of my colleagues if that’s what it takes.” His expression is mocking
in a way that suggests he won’t hesitate to let his colleagues join in and John
swallows hard, inwardly repulsed.
He drops to his knees without any further prompting and crawls beneath the
table. There is just enough space for him to kneel between the headmasters’
parted thighs without being jostled by the feet of anyone else; the chairs were
no doubt purposely set up that way. His knees will be aching with pain before
the night is through, he knows. He lifts his hands and begins unbuckling the
man’s belt as, above the table, Holmes starts the meeting. To hear his steady,
self-assured voice speaking one would never know that he has a boy under the
table freeing his cock from trousers and pants.
Of course, Holmes is not hard, not even a little. He seems to enjoy the fact
that John has to put effort into making him aroused. John takes the thick,
heavy cock into his hand, and just like every time he does this he is relieved
that the headmaster has never shown an interest in fucking him. He’s not wholly
certain he would be able to take it. He wraps his other hand around the base
and begins slowly with trailing teases of the fingers, knowing just where to
press to earn the best reaction. The smell is heady, musky, but clean, and he
leans forward, taking just the head into his mouth.
With his tongue he delivers a series of slow, languid licks all around the
sensitive tip, as though it were a lolly, sliding his tongue beneath the
foreskin and humming softly as though the taste is one he enjoys. He’s never
been able to figure out what exactly Holmes prefers best - the man is a bloody
mystery - so he does a little bit of everything that he’s never been explicitly
told not to do. Nibbling gently, licking, sliding the cock in and out of his
mouth while laving his tongue along the underside, sucking first at the head
and then taking the rest as deeply as he can… he’s got enough practice that he
nearly swallow the whole thing without his gag reflex kicking in.
His jaw begins to ache after several steady minutes of work and he pulls back
to rub at his sore cheeks. Knowing what will happen if he’s at rest for too
long, he slides his hand between the man’s thighs and into his pants so that he
can caresses his bollocks, rolling them between his fingers. Only then does he
lean forward again and press his mouth to the fabric, lightly enough so that it
doesn’t become damp and leave a visible mark, tracing the contours of the flesh
beneath. He hears a hitch in the headmaster’s voice, an audible little sigh,
and smirks to himself, shifting a little so that the weight on his knees
doesn’t become unbearable. Slowly, he moves back to the man’s cock, taking it
into his mouth and sucking so hard that his cheeks hollow from the force.
Above him, the meeting ends. The men stand up and exchange little pleasantries
as they make their way out of the room. John closes his eyes and keeps working
until a hand slides underneath the table and tangles into his hair, an
indication that he can stop. Utterly relieved, he sits back on his heels and
waits for the next indicator of what will happen. Sometimes the headmaster
likes to come down his throat. Sometimes he chooses to come all over John’s
face. As much as he hates both of those options, they’re infinitely better than
the third one... and his heart sinks when the chair slides back and he knows
that’s the one Holmes has chosen.
“John,” Holmes says and he sounds displeased. “Come out here.”
John obeys as fast as he can, which isn’t very fast at all. His knees crack
painfully when he tries to straighten up and he grabs at the table for support.
A heavy hand comes down on his shoulder and presses him flat against the
surface. He would be relieved, grateful, for the support if he didn’t know what
it means. He tries not to tense as the door swings open and Miss Anthea enters.
She’s wearing a skirt, he notices immediately, and wasn’t she wearing pants
earlier? It’s light and flowy and not at all tight against her thighs, which
means it will be easy for her to pull it up. She wears a blank expression but
her eyes are glittering noticeably as she walks over. Holmes takes her hand and
helps her up onto the table, guiding her to kneel in front of John. Sure
enough, she tucks her skirt up around the waistband, revealing a neatly shaved
mound.
“Make it good,” she says with a smirk.
It’s awkward. In order to reach her he has to tilt his head up and it makes his
neck ache. He opens his mouth as she spreads her legs and scuttles a little
closer, the movement somehow graceful in spite of everything. She’s already
dripping wet, her juices staining his tongue when he presses his lips against
her warm skin. A breathy little sound escapes her and she grabs his head,
lacing her fingers into his hair to hold him in place. He tries not to tense,
knowing what’s coming, knowing that it will be worse if he does –
A thin sharp whistle –
And then pain explodes across the seat of buttocks, hot and burning, and he
jerks forward with a muffled little cry of pain. Miss Athena and Holmes both
chuckle, like they find something amusing about it. John clenches his hands
into fists and pants, trying to ignore the spreading ache. He can picture the
cane in his mind’s eye – long and slender, thick enough to do damage should
Holmes desire it, soaked in water overnight to add extra sting – and wishes
that he could snatch it away and burn the dreadful thing. He’s felt its kiss
several times over the past few months, both on his bare bottom and clothed.
The thin material of the school’s uniform does little to lessen the impact.
“John,” Holmes says. “If you’re not paying attention to your task you will
receive more strikes, do you understand? You did a pitiful job bringing me off
and I want you to service Anthea much better than that.”
Instead of responding John puts his face back between the juncture of her
thighs and begins to lick, meticulously cleaning the skin of her cleft while
she moans and wiggles against him. He gently flicks the tip of his tongue
across her clitoris. She doesn’t like it too hard too fast and the easiest way
to work her up is to wait until she starts grinding down for more pressure. He
forces himself to be patient when she tilts her hips in expectation and pushes
his tongue as far inside her as he can get. There’s another whistle and then
more pain, blooming directly underneath the first blow, like there’s a series
of perfectly lined targets and Holmes is doing his best to hit every one.
He won’t stop, not until Miss Anthea comes, and John redoubles his efforts as
the blows continue relentlessly. Holmes strikes him slowly and methodically,
sometimes two blows in quick succession and then a wait that seems
interminable, forcing him to never be quite sure when the next one will land.
Sometimes he takes his mouth away to breathe through his cries of pain and Miss
Anthea always hisses and forcefully drags him back against her, using her
handful of hair to direct him to where she needs him to be.
“Harder,” she urges, tilting her head back. “Come on, boy; fuck me with your
tongue.”
His face hurts, unused to the strain, and his tongue feels as though someone
has attached little weights, but it’s nothing compared to the burning throb
that goes all the way from just above his knees to the top of his buttocks.
John squirms and forcefully flattens his tongue against her clitoris. Miss
Anthea moans loudly and comes in a wet gush, painting his face with her
secretions, flattening her hand over his head to pin him in place. He gasps for
breath and gives a pained howl as Holmes lands one last blow directly across
the delicate expanse of skin where thighs meet arse. Miss Anthea slowly
releases the pressure and lightly strokes the back of his head just once before
she moves away, placing first one long leg on the ground and then the other.
“He’s a good learner,” she says to the headmaster, letting her skirt fall back
around her thighs. “I haven’t come that hard in ages.”
“I’m glad one of us enjoyed ourselves. John, since you have pleased Anthea, you
are free to go,” he says. His cock has been tucked back into his trousers and
is flaccid. “You have my permission to visit the infirmary if you are in pain.”
There is no question of ‘if’. John will submit himself to another caning before
he’d willingly agree to go visit the nurse. He’ll suffer through the pain
instead, but saying as much to Holmes is suicide. He just nods and uses the
table to drag himself back up. His knees tremble under the strain and he nearly
tips over, saved only by the appearance of Anderson, who grips upper arm in a
tight grip and leads him out of the room while giving a polite nod to Miss
Anthea and Headmaster Mycroft Holmes.
Chapter End Notes
     As established last chapter, I'm so going to hell for this... but
     judging from the comments I won't be alone. I'm much more okay with
     this then I should be.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Sitting down is always particularly difficult for the days - or, on occasion,
weeks - following a visit with Professor Lestrade or the headmaster, but John
is not relieved when he steps into Professor Moriarty’s classroom and finds
that the man is already waiting for him, a gleeful smile on his face. There
will be no sitting for this, he knows. John has a bit of trouble with maths
every now and then and it was decided for him that he would benefit from having
some one on one time with the professor. Moriarty never touches him, certainly
never fucks him; he seems to take a churlish delight in just using John and
then waving it in the face of Professor Holmes.
“Hello Johnny,” he says cheerfully. “How are you today?”
“Fine, sir,” says John, already resigned to what’s going to happen. He’s not at
all surprised when the door is closed behind him and Sebastian Moran steps
forward. Officially he’s Moriarty’s assistant. Unofficially he’s the poor bloke
who caught Moriarty’s eye while he was at school and wasn’t allowed to leave
even once he graduated. John is not ashamed to say that one of his deepest
fears is ending up in Moran’s position.
“I wanted to have you two nights ago but the headmaster got there first.”
Moriarty pouts, pushing his lower lip out. “So I had to wait until our normal
night. Did you miss me, Johnny? Wouldn’t you rather have been here with me than
over there with that old man?”
It doesn’t matter what John wants but he says, “Yes.” He steps forward when
Moran comes up behind him, moving amongst the desks until he’s reached the
front of the room. Predictably Moriarty backs off, leaving enough distance
between them that John can’t reach out and touch even if he wants to. Not that
he does, but having that extra little bit of space between them is almost
comforting. Or at least it is until Moran puts a hand on his arm. He's got a
length of familiar rope in his hands and John can already feel the kiss of it
against his skin. He swallows.
"Strip," Moriarty says softly, his dark eyes hungry.
Slowly John follows the command, trying not to let on that it bothers him to
have Moriarty watching his every move so closely. It's not so bad that Moran is
watching. Moran is so impassive that he could be watching grass grow. But
Moriarty licks his lips and moans softly like John is putting on a free porn
show and it's infuriating. An angry blush paints his cheeks as he slides his
shirt off and sets it down on the nearest desk. He kicks his shoes off and
follows them with his socks, and then he slides his trousers and boxers down,
putting them down on top of his shirt. Naked, he reveals that he's not erect at
all, but that doesn't seem to bother Moriarty, who eyes John’s shaft like it's
a delectable treat.
"Seb," he says in a low voice. "You know what to do.”
Moran takes John's arm again and goes to work. He guides John into a kneeling
position and efficiently ties each ankle to its respective thigh. For extra
pressure he loops an additional length of rope around John's knee and lower
thigh and ties it tightly. It hurts, his legs cramping, and John grits his
teeth against the instinctive urge to protest. Then he takes John's hands and
ties them securely behind his back, each wrist to opposite elbow, and tugs the
ropes to make sure that they're secure. They always are. John could scuttle
away, if he had to, but he knows that he won't be going anywhere. That doesn't
stop him from twisting helplessly when Moran grabs his body and tilts him
forward, leaving him resting on his chest and knees with his arse stuck up in
the air.
"Beautiful," Moriarty says approvingly. John jerks at the feeling of hot breath
against his arse and Moriarty chuckles. "My, Johnny, you've been a bad boy for
the headmaster to have gotten this creative."
John can't answer. This position makes it hard to breathe and he focuses on
that, though his hands clench into fists when he feels a finger touching his
hole. It pushes gently against him, testing the resistance, before sliding
inside, smearing lube around his entrance and as far inside as it can reach.
The one thing Moran does for him is to make sure he's well lubed up. John
breathes out, his muscles shaking from the tension, and tries to relax as the
finger leaves and something else presses against him. Small and slender, it
nudges inside of him and settles just right next to prostate. He can feel the
small spark of pleasure and closes his eyes helplessly when Moran reaches
around to grab his cock.
"Now John. Your grade wasn't where it should have been on the last test. But
since I'm such a wonderful professor I'm going to give you the chance to make
it up. If you can answer these questions I'd be willing to give you a pass."
Moriarty is smirking. "If you can't you may have to come back for more remedial
help in the future. So it's in your best interest to pay attention." As he
speaks, Moran gives one long, slow stroke from the base of John's cock to the
tip.
"I'm ready," John rasps. He knows it's going to get so much worse before it
gets better. He listens as Moriarty reads the first question out loud. It's
difficult to focus; Moran knows exactly how much pressure to use and just where
to place his fingers for the maximum amount of pleasure. But he gets it right.
He gets the next four right, too.
"Excellent!" Moriarty says, but he doesn't look like he thinks it’s excellent.
He holds up a small remote. It fits neatly into his hand. "You're doing so well
that I think I need to make it a little more difficult, just to make sure that
we get a true reading on your abilities."
Fuck. The sweet buzzing starts up and it's all John can do to not thrash
around, even though Moran's steady grip won't really allow him to. His
prostate's always been sensitive and this, this is like torture, it's almost
worse than the caning. He moans low in his throat and doesn't hear when
Moriarty reads the question out.
"Johnny!" The sharp reprimand comes instantly. "You know the rules. You won't
be allowed a reward until you can do this so I suggest you pay attention."
He tries. He really does. But between the vibrator and Moran's unceasing
strokes it's nearly impossible. John squirms and struggles to focus, trying to
push past the blinding waves of pleasure. Moriarty repeats the question and it
seems to take forever before his brain understands and comes up with an answer.
Thank god, it's right. Moriarty is watching him eagerly and every now and then
he palms the bulge between his thighs. His voice remains steady as he reads out
the questions but it's obvious he's starting to lose his composure. But he
never lets his guard down and when he can see that John is on the edge of
losing it he orders Moran to stop. John can't help the pitiful sob that escapes
him because he was so close.
Moran pulls away as commanded and, without even bothering to get up, crawls
over to Moriarty. He twists around so that he's facing John and pushes his
trousers and pants down, presenting like he's an animal waiting to be mated.
John can't look away, just watches in mingled horror and something he doesn't
want to recognize as Moriarty frees his cock and kneels, greedily pushing into
Moran without even bothering to prepare him. If it hurts Moran gives no
indication. If anything he looks like he's enjoying it, as his cock is half-
hard and he starts rocking backwards into the relentless thrusts. And through
it all, Moriarty never stops with the seemingly endless list of questions,
until John doesn’t even know what he’s answering anymore. He spits the last
number out and closes his eyes, shuddering all over, unable to keep from
rocking back and forth in an effort to get a little more friction, his hips
moving uselessly.
Moriarty growls softly and when John looks up he sees that the man is watching
him as he fucks Moran ruthlessly, fingers digging deep into the flesh of
Moran’s hips. As John watches Moran tenses suddenly and comes, his body shaking
from the force of it, his eyes rolling back in his head. A moment later
Moriarty groans loudly and bottoms out, spilling into Moran’s body. He stays
there for a long moment, eyes still locked on John, breathing harshly. Then he
pulls out, standing gracefully, and stalks over to John.
“I thought the headmaster needed a reminder,” he says softly, and in spite of
himself John feels a frisson of fear, because this is when Professor Moriarty
is at his most dangerous. He panics when the man walks somewhere behind him
because now he can’t see and doesn’t know what Moriarty is doing. Then fingers
grip the vibrator and slide it out quickly. John gasps at the sudden empty
feeling but it doesn’t last long. Something hard and solid is pressed to his
entrance, pushing in relentlessly. It’s thicker than what he’s used to and John
moans, trembling. He doesn’t know what it is but the pressure is incredible,
making his head spin.
“W-what...” he manages to choke out.
“You should see yourself, Johnny,” comes the whisper. “I bet the headmaster
will think of you every time he carries this with him.”
And just like that John knows what he’s being filled with and the idea is
utterly humiliating. He whines low in his throat and tries to squirm away, but
he can’t, he can’t slide off of it that easy, it’s too big. He hangs his head
and shudders as Moriarty begins to fuck him slowly, angling it against his
prostate with every sharp jab. For once he doesn’t seem to care about John’s
maths skills, or lack thereof, and seems intent on making him orgasm. It’s
working. John twists and grunts and then, with a sound he can’t bite back, he
comes, his cock jerking between his thighs as he paints himself and the floor
with seed.
“Brilliant,” Moriarty murmurs smugly and for the first time he touches John,
one small cold finger sliding down the curve of John’s arse, brushing across
his ruthlessly stretched entrance and the handle of the headmaster’s umbrella.
“Absolutely brilliant.”
***** Chapter 4 *****
The morning after John visits Professor Moriarty he finds a note slipped under
his door. He doesn't need to read it to know who it's from or what they want,
but he picks it up anyway and puts it in the bottom corner of his trunk, right
next to the rest of the notes that he's saved up since coming to this bloody
school. It means that Moriarty went and bragged after John left, but he hopes
that it doesn't mean he's in for another rough morning because he's not sure he
can take it. His arse, thighs and back throb with one continuous burn and there
are rope marks left around his arms and legs. He's a fucking mess, he thinks,
and he doesn't know what to do about it.
He leaves his room before the other students are awake and makes his way down
to the Chemistry labs. He doesn't knock, just walks right in, and there he is:
Professor Sherlock Holmes, bent over a silver table that's loaded with all
kinds of test tubes and vials, each filled with a bubbling concoction that is
likely toxic in some way. Holmes doesn't appear to notice John's entrance but
John knows better; the man misses nothing. He closes the door gently and moves
closer, watching as those long fingers deftly pluck a glass flask of bright
blue liquid and add it to the green one that he's hovering over. Time seems to
slow down as Holmes continues his work and John watches, relaxed, knowing that
nothing else can touch him here.
"John," Holmes says at last without looking up. "Fetch me the glass stirring
rod."
It's automatic to obey, moving over to the desk and fetching the instrument,
bringing it back and handing it over. Holmes stirs the contents of his tube and
then sets the stirring rod aside before turning to face John. His eyes take in
John, flicking over his body and silently assessing while John holds still,
trying not to give anything away even though he knows it's a pointless
endeavour. Sometimes he feels like there is nothing that Sherlock Holmes
doesn't know about him and that's really quite terrifying because there's a lot
that John doesn't want anyone to know, much less this man.
"I got your note," John says for lack of anything better to say.
"Of course you did. You're here, aren't you?" Holmes moves past him, over to
his desk, and takes out a jar. "I've developed a new cream that's designed to
work well on bruising. I heard that you'd visited my brother earlier this week.
Drop your pants, John."
Again, he obeys, sliding his trousers and pants down and leaving him standing
half-naked in the darkened room. Holmes turns towards him and makes an
impatient movement for John to bend over. He does, resting his elbows on the
nearest table, and feels Holmes behind him a moment later. There's a pause
during which Holmes examines the raised welts and bruising on his back,
buttocks and thighs, and then an impossibly gentle hand, covered with cream,
touches his spine and begins to rub in small circles. John lets out a slow
breath and drops his head as the itchy burning immediately begins to subside,
replaced with a sweet, deliciously cool feeling that makes him realize how much
pain he was in.
This is what he hates about Professor Holmes. He hates the little games the man
plays, the way that John is never sure where he stands. With the others he
knows he's never more than a fuck toy and though it repels him he can survive
even that humiliation. But this, the gentle touch, it's somehow worse than
anything else. Did Holmes really create this cream and it was just a
coincidence that John has the wounds for to be tested on? Or did Holmes hear
about what his brother did and create the cream just to make John better? He
can never be sure and sometimes he thinks that Holmes isn't sure, either, and
that... this is... he digs his fingers into the metal table and tries not to
tremble as the fingers move down, sliding over his buttocks and across his
thighs. His legs inch apart, allowing them in between, dangerously close to his
growing erection.
"Does that feel better?" Holmes breathes.
"Y-yes," John stutters, his breath catching when Holmes "accidentally" grazes
his perineum. That brief little flash of pleasure makes his knees feel weak.
Holmes standing up behind him and he's so close that his clothing is brushing
against John's bare skin. He takes a deep breath and feels his back press
briefly against Holmes' chest. The contact is agonizingly short. "Professor..."
"I've told you to call me Sherlock, John."
"Sherlock." The name feels oddly intimate on his lips. He struggles to keep
breathing as one finger slides between his cheeks, brushing over his entrance,
and then slowly pushes inside. A soft moan escapes as he moves back into the
touch. It stings after last night, but perhaps Moriarty has been detailed
because Holmes – no, Sherlock is oddly gentle, spending what feels like hours
just moving his finger in and out patiently before adding a second with a
generous glob of the cream, making sure that every inch of his hole is
slathered, and it helps.
“Do you like this?” Sherlock murmurs, his voice deep and husky, thrumming
through John’s bones. “Do you want me, John?”
John shakes his head in lieu of answering, biting his lip to keep back the
instinctive ‘yes’ that wants to escape. Sherlock chuckles and pulls his fingers
out. He feels a flash of disappointment when Sherlock steps away. He stays
where he is for a breathless moment, uncertain, and he can imagine that
Sherlock is smirking because he likes this, this moment when they both know
that Sherlock can do anything and John won't try to stop it. With the others he
hates what happens and if he ever has the chance to rebel he will. But if
Sherlock wants him to John will bend over and part his cheeks, he'll let the
man fuck him, he'll enjoy it and he won't want it to stop. This is what
terrifies him, the knowledge that if Sherlock wants him to be what Moran is to
Moriarty, John might not say no, probably doesn't even know how to say no.
"Pulls your pants up," Sherlock says softly. “We have things to do today.”
John’s hands feel numb as he pulls his trousers and pants up, settling them
snugly around his waist. He follows Sherlock to the door and out into the
hallway. The lights seem oddly bright after how dark the room was. He squints,
rubbing at his eyes, and realizes that while they were in the room the school
has gradually come alive with other students. Most of them go silent when they
see Sherlock walking down the hall and they stare when they see John beside
him. John tries to ignore them. The little smirks they wear, the expressions
that say ‘thank god you’ve got his attention and not us’, make his stomach
hurt.
“I have lots of experiments on the go. You can help me today.” Somehow Sherlock
doesn’t seem to notice the stares. He has his phone out and he’s texting,
fingers dancing across the screen.
“Okay,” John says because at least it means that he won’t be free for any other
professor. His cheeks slide greasily with every step he takes and it feels odd,
wrong, and he squirms. A strong hand catches his shoulder and spins, shoving
him back against the wall with a thud that takes his breath away. Sherlock is
looming over him, eyes burning, a strange smirk quirking his lips.
“I have an erection, John,” he says. “I’d almost forgotten.”
There is no forgetting with Sherlock Holmes, the bastard. John doesn’t know how
he didn’t see this coming. The preparation, the walk down the bustling hall –
this is Sherlock staking a claim and making sure that everyone knows John
belongs to him. He does this every time he feels that the other professors are
forgetting. John tries to twist away but Sherlock holds him easily in place
with one hand. His other goes to work on John’s trousers, thumbing them open
and pushing them and his pants back down John’s hips. They slide to the floor,
leaving John naked and erect in front of everyone.
“Look at me,” Sherlock commands. “Just at me.”
And, fuck him, John does, staring into those otherworldly blue/grey/green eyes
as Sherlock undoes his own trousers and pulls his cock out. He grips John under
the arms and lifts him easily, stepping forward between John’s parted thighs to
keep him from closing his legs. John pants and wants to close his eyes but he
can’t, he can’t stop watching even when he feels the thick cock pressing
against his hole, the fat head breaching him slowly, as Sherlock lowers him,
letting him slide down the wall until he’s sitting on the man’s cock, legs
obscenely splayed out to either side. He’s pinned and vulnerable knowing that
those eyes are reading everything about him, stripping him down to the core,
ravaging everything he’s ever tried to keep secret, until Sherlock decides to
remake him however he wants.
It should be hard for Sherlock to fuck him like this but the man manages just
like he always does. He slowly circles his hips until John stiffens against him
and moans, exposed, caught off guard by the blazing hot burst of pleasure
that’s wound its way up his spine. Vaguely he hears someone tittering but
everything feels so far away, like nothing else matters except for this. His
cock is trapped between them and it grinds against Sherlock’s stomach and oh
it’s good, so good, that he doesn’t even realize he’s closed his eyes until
Sherlock says his name, firmly like.
“John, watch me,” he says, “watch me.”
“Sherlock,” he chokes out. Somehow his hands have landed on Sherlock’s
shoulders and he tightens his fingers, clenching them into the stiff black
fabric. He knows his every emotion is probably being painted across his face
and he wishes he could hide it, wishes he could crawl inside of Sherlock’s coat
and stay there forever. Instead he keeps staring even when he wants desperately
to close his eyes, even when his body is shaking and he can feel himself
starting to tip over the edge.
“You want it,” Sherlock whispers. “You want me to fuck you, don’t you?”
No, John wants to say, because he shouldn’t. He writhes and looks away, then
looks back.
Sherlock smiles slowly as he reaches between them to grip John’s cock. “You’re
mine, John. You belong to me.”
John comes with those words ringing in his ears, a helpless cry escaping him.
It seems to go on for ages and Sherlock works him through it, one hand on his
cock and the other supporting his hip, cock nudging persistently against his
prostate, until John slumps against the wall, whimpering piteously under his
breath. Only then does Sherlock press deeply inside of him and come, staring
hard into John’s eyes as his hips thrust unconsciously and he fills John with a
hot wet feeling. He stays there for – for John doesn’t know how long, seconds,
minutes, hours, before pulling out and stepping back just enough to let John’s
aching legs fall to the ground.
“Mine,” Sherlock says, catching him before John can slide down, his muscles too
weak to hold him up. He cups John’s cheek and kisses him, their lips lightly
brushing together, a gesture that seems sickeningly innocent after all that,
and when Sherlock lets him go John hides his face inside of the coat so that he
won’t have to face a world where Sherlock is, yet again, right.
***** Chapter 5 *****
John needs an escape. He’s not foolish enough to think that he’s going to
escape - it’s not beyond his capability, but it’s also no secret that the reach
of the Holmes family goes so far that there’s probably no where far enough that
he can hide - but he needs something that’s just his and he thinks he’s found
it in the rugby team. It’s perfect. When the season really starts the team will
have games nearly every weekend, games that will take him outside of the school
and give him a break from… well, from everything. Try-outs are this afternoon
and he’s reasonably sure that he’s going to make the team.
He leaves his room only after making sure that no one else is around and starts
making his way down towards the back entrance. He’s got to be there by half
past one and he’s waited until the last possible minute to leave. He’s told no
one that he plans to go and he’s made sure that he hasn’t done anything
differently in his routine, all in the hopes that he might actually get to do
this. But for all of his preparations, for all of his care, he only makes it to
the door before someone steps up behind him and slings an arm firmly around his
waist.
“Fuck!” John squeaks, shocked. The body behind him is intimately familiar and
causes an instinctive reaction, his cock half-hardening between his thighs. In
the clothing he’s wearing it’s blatantly obvious and he hates himself just a
little as he starts, “What the - ”
“Rugby tryouts, John, really?” Professor Sherlock Holmes says, sounding a
little amused. “How boring.”
“Not to me,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Fortunately your opinion doesn’t matter.”
“Let go,” John says to the door, standing stiff and tense, deciding that he’ll
ignore that last remark. He refuses to relax into Sherlock, not even when the
hand on his belly rubs idly. “I’m going to be late.”
“That doesn’t matter because you’re not going at all.”
“Sherlock - ”
The hand around his waist loosens and slides away and then he’s being turned
around. Sherlock stares down at him with a familiar smirk on his face. “Have
you ever actually watched one of the practices, John?” he says with the slight
tilt of his head that means he already knows the answer to his question.
John hesitates, sensing a trap of some kind. “No,” he answers cautiously.
“I didn’t think so. Come on, I think you’ll enjoy being an observer.” Sherlock
puts particular emphasis on the word “observer” and John bristles as a heavy,
possessive hand is placed against his lower back, guiding him out the door.
They cross the damp grass together and, ahead of them, John can see the rest of
the boys who are trying out getting ready. The school’s athletics professor, a
man known only as Colonel, is striding around them in a loose circle, slapping
a riding crop against his knee-high boots. He catches sight of Sherlock and
John and pauses.
“Good morning sir,” he says. “Got another one for us?” He leers at John and
gives the crop a particular snap. John shivers, able to imagine the kiss of the
crop against his skin all too easily, and finds himself pressing just a little
bit closer to Sherlock.
“We’re only here to watch,” Sherlock says firmly, his hand sliding up John’s
back to rest on his neck. The sight of the pale fingers spread across John’s
skin seems to be enough to make Colonel back off. He casts John a longing look
as he turns away and strides back over to the other students.
“Let’s get moving,” he shouts, aiming the crop at the nearest backside. The
student yelps in pain and hurriedly pulls his shirt off. John watches in what
can only be described as horrified amazement as the students strip naked,
wearing only trainers and, in some cases, bands of cloth around their
foreheads. They assemble in front of Colonel and he begins shouting
instructions at them, never ceasing with the occasional strike of the crop
across thighs, bums and backs. Every sharp snap makes John wince. It’s too
similar to the thwack of the cane and he realizes that the sound is probably
going to haunt him for a long time.
The students get into formation and the game begins. It’s surreal to watch and
John wonders how he missed this, how he could have expected anything about this
school to be normal. For once he’s actually relieved that Sherlock interfered
because he gets molested enough without being in the middle of… of this,
whatever it is, and it only serves to get worse when a scrum starts. He watches
them gather into a tight circle and when the signal is given, well. It
dissolves into chaos. Fighting dirty is apparently not against the rules here.
Cocks are grabbed, balls are yanked, nipples are twisted, fingers are thrust
into arseholes, and before long the point of the scrum has been forgotten and
it’s become what can only be described as a gangbang, with some of the weaker
students being thrust unwillingly into the receiving position of cock on both
ends.
“Do you see?” Sherlock murmurs and John starts, having almost forgotten the man
was even beside him. “Do you see why I didn’t want you to participate? You
belong to me, John. It’s bad enough I have to share you with the other
professors for the time being.” He practically chokes saying that. “I don’t
like sharing and you are not to have sex with anyone else.” The implied ‘unless
you have to’ doesn’t need to be said.
For a split second something rebellious flares in John’s chest and he’s tempted
to run into the fray just to prove that he still has some say over his life.
But no matter how frustrated he gets he’s never going to be that stupid, and so
he doesn’t protest when Sherlock turns him around and they start walking back
towards the school. Over his shoulder John can hear Colonel finally wading into
the fray, yelling at them to break it up, all the while swinging his crop and
not caring where it lands.
“Why?” John says, staring straight ahead. His chest hurts. He can see his
future and he doesn’t know whether to hate it or not. “Why me?”
“Because you’re interesting,” Sherlock says without skipping a beat.
John sends him a look of total disbelief. “Interesting,” he says flatly. He’s
seen what the other students have to deal with. Yes they’re punished sometimes
but on the whole it’s a fraction of what John goes through. The thought that
this is all happening because a madman finds him interesting makes him feel
sick. “You can’t… you can’t just…”
Sherlock kisses him. In one smooth move he’s pulled John around and pressed
their mouths together, cutting off whatever else John was about to say. The
words die a swift death as Sherlock parts John’s lips, ruthlessly invading his
mouth and kissing him until John’s knees feel weak and he’s having trouble
standing. He can’t breathe, can’t even think under the onslaught of lips and
tongue and teeth. A firm surface meets his back and he distantly realizes that
Sherlock has backed him up against the wall of the school, but then his legs
are being nudged open and a thigh is sliding between at just the right angle
for John to rut against.
“Don’t ever tell me that I can’t do something, John.” His voice is all dark
smoke, a heady whisper that feels like it’s leaving an actual impression on the
skin it’s voiced against. He shifts ever so slightly and John whimpers at the
feeling of his cock receiving just the right amount of pressure.
“S-Sherlock,” he pants, his hands scrabbling for purchase, and he can’t even
remember what he was going to say or why. Arousal blooms hot and sweet in his
belly and he grinds down, searching for more friction as that mouth, bloody
hell that mouth, latches on to his neck and begins to suck hard. He doesn’t
realize that Sherlock’s hands are working on his trousers until he feels cold
fingers wrapping around his cock. Helplessly he bucks forward, a strangled
sound emerging from his throat.
But then -
The feeling of being restrained, of his orgasm being just a little out of
reach, sweeps over him. John struggles for breath as he opens his eyes and
looks down. His cock is hanging out between them, erect and ready, and Sherlock
has slipped a small black piece over the shaft. John’s eyes widen in disbelief.
“Is that…?”
“I had an experiment planned for us today,” says Sherlock. “I was planning to
see how many times you could come in an hour.” He lightly tickles the underside
and John moans. “But I don’t like being denied, John. You’re going to learn
quickly that there are so many different ways of punishing you and not all of
them involve being taken over a knee and spanked or a cane. You will wear this
until I say that you may take it off.”
“I…” John can’t get enough air into his lungs. His whole body is trembling, on
the brink, but he can’t, he can’t and it’s maddening already. “Sherlock,
please.”
Sherlock smirks, damn him, and presses a hand to the back of John’s head. What
he wants is blatantly obvious and John grits his teeth as he gives in, falling
to his knees. Trapped between the wall and Sherlock, he breathes in the scent
of musk as Sherlock takes his cock out. The foreskin is already retracted and
the head is gleaming from pre-come: a fat drop wells up and dangles
tantalizingly in front of John’s eyes. Without a second thought he leans
forward and takes it in his mouth, suckling like an eager child, using his
tongue to clean the warm skin.
A soft moan escapes Sherlock and he tangles his fingers in John’s hair, tugging
lightly, not hard enough to hurt. Joan groans in response and begins to suck
harder, putting all of his skill to work. The headmaster likes to come down his
throat on rare occasions but Sherlock is the only one who comes in his mouth,
and as he nears his completion Sherlock pulls out so that just the tip of his
cock is between John’s lips. His eyes have gone dark as he grunts and comes,
pumping his seed into John’s mouth, leaving John with no option but to swallow
as much as he can. The bitter, salty aftertaste lingers as he pulls back and
wipes his mouth.
His cock is achingly hard. “Sherlock,” he says pleadingly.
“No, John.” Sherlock grips his arms and easily pulls him up into another kiss,
blending the flavour of his come and his mouth until John’s head is spinning.
“Not until I say.”
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Notes
     There will be 7 chapters now because a bit of plot snuck in when I
     wasn't looking.
The rest of the weekend is torture. Sherlock insists that he requires John's
presence to help with all of his experiments even though John knows for a fact
that there are several Chemistry-obsessed students who would gladly trade their
right arms for the chance to stay in man's presence for even a minute. He
doesn't even bother to point this out, though, not wanting to be treated to a
thirty minute lecture about how utterly boring the rest of the population is.
Instead he mutely helps as best he can and tries not to break completely the
three different times that Sherlock pins him down and fucks him slowly, letting
John feel every ridge of his cock, until his rim is swollen and sensitive and
John is sweating and trembling and trying not to beg.
He wakes up on Monday morning to find himself in Sherlock's bed. He has no
memory of going to bed last night; in fact that last thing he does remember is
trying to find a comfortable position balanced on one of the stools and
watching Professor Sherlock Holmes in his element, dancing around a lab table
covered with highly dangerous experiments. He doesn't want to think about he's
ended up here. Instead he sits up and rubs his eyes, wondering what time it is,
hoping he's not late for class. Almost immediately he notices is that he's
naked, and the second thing he notices is that the headmaster is sitting on the
other side of the room, one leg folded over the other, watching him intently.
"Jesus!" John cuts off the curse words that want to escape and swallows them,
scrambling for an armload of blankets. Holmes has seen parts of him naked
before but not completely nude and it’s not a routine John wants to start. He
stares at the man, dazed and bewildered. "What are - "
"It's a curious thing, John," Holmes says, idly tapping one end of his umbrella
against the floor. John eyes it and can feel himself turning a pretty shade of
red, remembering where it was the last time he'd seen it. When he looks up
again, Holmes is watching him with a fascinated air. "When you first came to
this school I thought you would be just another toy. A fun one, to be assured,
but nothing more. But then you caught my brother's eye. I believed that you
were a passing fad, and yet..." He cocks his head and waits like he's expecting
John to leap in with an answer to a question that hasn't been asked.
"I don't know," John says a little sheepishly and a lot angry. He doesn't know
what it is about him, ordinary little John Watson, that has Sherlock so
curious. Sometimes he's not sure he wants to find out.
"Yes, you wouldn't, would you?" comes the soft, almost amused reply. Holmes
takes a pocket watch out of his suit jacket and looks at it. John suspects that
the move is more for show than anything. "I believe I requested you visit the
nurse, John. I have had no report of your health in my office."
"I..." Again John cuts himself off. It won't do him any good to point out that
actually Holmes had said he could visit the nurse if he wanted which he doesn't
want thank you very much. He swallows hard, steeling himself. "I'll go this
morning then, shall I?"
"See that you do." The man levers himself up. "You were a good student, John.
Pity."
John stares after him, even more confused than before, before shaking his head.
A visit to the bloody nurse - fucking fantastic. Muttering under his breath, he
slowly climbs out of the bed and gets dressed in the neat set of clothing
that's waiting for him on the nearby chair. There's no sign of Sherlock and no
reason why he shouldn't get the visit over with, so he shoves his hands in his
pockets and heads down towards the office. No one is around when he gets there;
only a handful of truly obsessed students would be brave enough to come here if
they weren't truly ill. John squares his shoulders before knocking on the door
and a moment later it's wrenched open.
"There you are, been wondering where - oh." Doctor Bill Murray blinks down at
John, looking surprised. A moment later that's wiped aside for a wicked
expression that sends chills down John's spine. "Hello there, John. What can I
do for you?"
"The headmaster sent me to get a check-up," John says stonily.
"Did he now. I'm afraid I have prior arrangements this morning." In the back a
whip cracks and a young voice cries out in pain. John flinches. Murray smiles
lazily. "But that's alright. Nurse Adler is on hand today and I'm sure that she
wouldn't mind over-seeing your examination instead. That's alright with you,
isn't it?"
No, it very much isn't, John feels like telling him. If there is one person in
this school that he really and truly hates based just on personality alone it's
Irene Adler. He can't stand the way she smiles at him, like she knows something
about him that no one else knows, and she seems to take special pleasure out of
dropping Sherlock's name into the conversation and watching John squirm,
sometimes literally. She knows how to push buttons and she delights in the
reactions that she gets. John’s never actually seen Sherlock and Irene
interacting but that’s probably a good thing, as just hearing the way she talks
about the man makes him want to punch her in the face.
But what John wants hasn't mattered for a long time, and Murray ushers him into
the room and closes the door. A moment later the door at the back of the room
opens and a woman comes out. She's dressed in the shortest, tightest nurse
uniform that John has ever seen and she'd holding a whip in her hand. When she
catches sight of John her eyes light up and she licks her plump bottom lip. If
Murray notices, he doesn't pay any attention. He's bustling around the room
collecting his stethoscope, a tongue depressor, and a tube of medical grade
lubricant. He disappears into the back room and leaves John alone with her.
That woman.
"Hello John," she says and her voice is a deeply seductive purr, something that
rarely fails to get a good percentage of the boys in the school excited at
hearing just a couple of syllables. "What brings you here?" At John's stony
stare, she grins. "Not going to talk to me today, hmm? Just like Sherlock, the
silent type. That's alright. I think I can guess. Get undressed and put the
robe on, there's a good boy."
She won't turn away and John knows it. He doesn't give her the satisfaction of
hesitation, knowing that she loves knowing that she's gotten under his skin. He
strips without a trace of modesty, baring his skin to the cold room, and wraps
the robe around him, though the flimsy thing does little to help now that she's
already seen him naked. Irene makes a soft sound in her throat and, for about
the half hour, she actually acts like a proper nurse. She takes his vitals and
listens to his heart, checks his eyes and ears and throat, even his reflexes.
John goes along with it, silently grinding his teeth as he submits to her
touch. Every deliberate slide of her nails against his skin makes him itch and
when she tells him to turn around and bend over he seriously contemplates
making a run for it. May have done just that had she not cracked the whip and
given him a reminder that she won’t hesitate to use it on him.
The kiss against his lower back and the resulting weal that’s left behind is
enough of a threat. He twists and bends over, propping his elbows on the
counter and baring his bottom to her perusal. He spreads his legs when she
places a foot between his thighs and hangs his head, clenching his fists as he
feels a cold finger prodding at his entrance. It's still sensitive after
Sherlock's attention and he winces a little. Irene clucks her tongue.
"Dear me, I'm going to have to tell Sherlock to be more careful with his toys.
Obviously he's not taking the proper time to stretch you. That's alright,
though; I have the perfect thing for you. Stay there." Irene moves away but
she's back all too soon and something cold and hard is pressing against John's
hole. He tenses unconsciously. "Relax. It will be worse if you don't."
"What - " he starts, gasping out loud. Whatever it is, it's big, pushing
relentlessly, parting his insides and feeling like a bloody invasion of the
worst kind. His legs are trembling by the time the widest part pops just inside
and settles into place. Irene chuckles and strokes his arse cheek in a
pantomime of a comforting gesture. Her fingers graze whatever’s inside of him
and he makes a strangled sound at the dim flicker of pleasure.
"A plug," she says simply and he can hear some odd, faint clicking noises that
his mind can’t place. The plug has settled in just right to nudge against his
prostate and it’s worse when he squirms but he can’t stop. "Easy and effective.
It will keep you stretched all the time so that Sherlock and the others won't
have to worry about it." She pinches his cheek and he jumps. She laughs. "I'm
going to prescribe it to you for a full week. Make sure that you're wearing it
at all times, John. It may be difficult for you to put it in by yourself so I
suggest that you ask whoever has fucked you last to help." She says it cruelly
and John can practically feel his face flaming.
Unwillingly, he imagines asking Lestrade or Moriarty to put it in, or worse
Sherlock, because the man can be purposely absentminded sometimes and it would
be just like him to fuck John in the hall and then make John ask him to put the
plug back in, in front of anyone who happens to be in the hallway. And just
like that John's mind skips to being plugged after Sherlock has come inside of
him, to being full of Sherlock's come all day, and he lets out a shuddering
breath as the arousal that has never really died grows fresh in his belly. He
can feel his cock swelling with blood and lifting, his balls growing heavy, and
just the thought of spending a day like that would be enough to make him come
were it not for the fucking cock ring. He nearly sobs in frustration.
The door bangs open. John jumps again. Irene stops him from straightening up
with a firm hand to his spine. "Hello Sherlock," she says softly. “Got my
message, I see.”
***** Chapter 7 *****
There’s a tense pause before Sherlock speaks and when he does his voice sounds
strange. “Irene.”
“You have a lovely toy but you’re not taking care of him properly. Fortunately
I’ve stepped up,” she says and it’s all too easy to picture the wicked smile on
her face. The pressure of her hand eases and she draws a finger teasingly down
between John’s arse cheeks, tickling the plug until John grunts and shifts.
“Doesn’t he look pretty like this, Sherlock?” she asks in a breathy purr.
There’s a confusing few seconds where John hears footsteps moving around behind
him and he’s not sure who has moved where and that’s pretty fucking terrifying
but then another hand, a familiar hand, settles on his lower back, fingers
splayed out in a possessive position. Against his will he can feel his body
relaxing. Better the demon he knows than the one that’s still an unknown
danger. Soft fabric brushes against his lower thigh as Sherlock steps closer
and then the robe is draped over his back, shielding him from view. Surprised,
he straightens up, tentatively at first and then more firmly when Sherlock
doesn’t stop him, and turns to look at Irene.
She’s watching them, full lips curved into a small smirk, idly tapping the whip
against the palm of her hand. “Are you sure?” she asks Sherlock. “We could have
some fun, you know. There is just so much that I can teach the both of you. I
know you’ve still got a pure mind.”
John nearly chokes at the idea of Sherlock being pure in any way. Sherlock’s
hand tightens against his back to keep him silent. He says, “I’ve told you
before that you’re not allowed to touch John, Irene. Your obsession with me
runs deep enough without taking anyone else into it.” Somehow he manages to
sound bored and condescending all at once and Irene’s face flushes just a
little, nearly imperceptible but there all the same, and it’s possibly the most
satisfying thing John has ever seen.
“I was just trying to help,” she says, pouting a little.
“I don’t want your help,” Sherlock says and it’s not meant to be a brush off or
a rejection, it’s just simple fact: Sherlock Holmes doesn’t want or need the
help of anyone. Irene stares at him for a long time before she lets out a
disappointed sigh.
“Pity. We could’ve been good together. I could’ve taught you a lot.” There may
be genuine regret in her face, John can’t tell. He suspects that Irene is just
trying to make Sherlock feel guilty. Predictably it doesn’t work. Sherlock just
ignores her and uses his arm to push John forward, not even giving him enough
time to fetch his clothing, guiding him out into the hall. John knows his face
is bright red and he clutches vainly at the flimsy robe. Silly, really, when
most of the students have seen him naked before but this is somehow much more
revealing.
They end up back in Sherlock’s room. John sinks down onto the bed, his legs
feeling like mush. The plug shifts inside of him and he shudders at the
resulting spark of sinful pleasure from a gentle nudge against his prostate.
Sherlock looks at him, expression calculating, and in the next breath he’s
across the room and the robe is gone and John is sprawled flat on his back when
his legs up on Sherlock’s shoulders, parted and exposing him to the man’s
perusal. He gulps, flustered and stunned, and then tries to wriggle backwards
to get some modesty. Strong hands grip his hips and stop him from moving.
“John,” Sherlock says. “John.”
“W-what?” John says breathlessly, shivering at the way those eyes look peering
up at him, breath sliding over his shaft, though Sherlock appears not to
notice. Impossible, since it’s nearly poking him in the chin.
“You have a choice to make.”
It’s so the opposite of what John is expecting that for a moment he just stares
in befuddlement. “What?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes, like do keep up John, really, but he repeats himself.
“You have a choice to make. I am leaving the school.”
John experiences two conflicting emotions that are completely different from
one another. Beneath the shock and surprise, one is joy: now he won’t have to
worry about being unravelled because Sherlock is the only person who can do
that. But the other is genuine dismay: for the first time, he actively allows
himself to imagine a life without Sherlock and is chilled by the results. How
has this man, this bloody possessively frustrating man, ensnared himself into
John’s life so easily? How has Sherlock managed to make John want to be with
him when John should hate him and be relieved that he’s leaving? He fists his
hands in annoyance and Sherlock smirks.
“You may stay here if you like,” he says. “When you graduate Mycroft will make
sure you have the highest recommendation possible. Or you can come with me. I’m
going to London.”
On the surface it sounds like a release, a choice to not be with Sherlock, but
John’s smarter than that. He understands that his choice is going with Sherlock
now or staying at the school for the time being and being found later. He
exhales shakily and tips his head back. It’s hard to think. His cock is
achingly hard and throbbing and Sherlock is stroking the soft skin of his inner
thighs, not quite brushing against his balls but close enough that it tingles,
that John knows exactly where he wants Sherlock to touch him. He squeezes his
eyes shut.
“I’m never going to get away from you, am I?” The question is resigned and
doesn’t really require an answer. His fate is sealed in blood and lust and some
odd twisted form of something that John can’t bring himself to identify, not
yet.
“Of course not. You’re mine, John.”
“Why me?” John looks down again. His hands are shaking. “Why me, Sherlock?”
Sherlock stares at him for a long, speculative moment. Then he says, “On the
day that you first came into my class I deduced everything there was to know
about you in front of everyone. By that time you’d had an introduction to the
school from Mycroft, a taste of his cane, and although you didn’t know the full
extent of what was coming you had a good idea. The idea abhorred you and you
would’ve left had it not been for your parents and your desire to keep from
disappointing them. In spite of how repulsed you were, you took my deductions
in stride and called me brilliant.” His voice drops into a low rumble that
makes John’s stomach tighten. “You said I was amazing.”
And fuck, John remembers that so well, that first day when he’d walked into the
Chemistry lab, bottom stinging after a private meeting with the headmaster, and
Sherlock had turned to look at him. A good portion of his life had been
stripped bare for everyone to see in the span of a few short minutes and it had
been amazing; he’d never known anyone who could do that and it was
extraordinary, captivating him like nothing else. The words had come out before
he could stop them and he’d developed a crush on this mad creature in between
one breath and the next. He’d had no idea he was sealing his fate.
Now, he wonders if he’d kept his mouth shut, might things have been different?
“Say it,” Sherlock says. “Say you’ll come with me, John.” The implicit “say
you’ll be mine” hangs around them.
“Yes,” John says finally, because god help him he can’t lie any more, he wants
this, wants Sherlock, and he’s so hard it hurts and Sherlock is so close and no
one can do to him what this man does, no one, “Yes, I’ll go, just please - ”
Long fingers part his cheeks and slide the plug out of him. Sherlock tosses it
over his shoulder with a disdainful look, like Irene’s toys aren’t good enough
for John, and lowers his head. John’s back arches and he cries out at the first
warm touch of tongue against his hole, lapping insistently at the sensitive
rim, soothing away the damage that has been wrought. No one has ever done this
to him before and he can’t believe how it feels, like Sherlock is attacking
every single one of his individual nerves and licking them into submission. He
thrashes, uncertain of whether he should push down or move away, and it’s only
Sherlock’s hands on his hips that keep him still.
And then when Sherlock pushes in with his tongue, well. John nearly levitates
off of the bed and gives a hoarse wail, his cock jumping against his belly.
It’s so good that it’s bordering on painful and he honestly doesn’t know how
much more he can take, it’s too good. Sherlock has devoted himself to his task
with the sort of single minded approach he gives to all of his experiments and
he seems to be enjoying the new range of moans and squeaks that he’s pulling
out of John’s body. John can’t keep himself quiet, even when he stuffs his fist
into his mouth he can’t stop the sound from spilling out.
“Please,” he gasps, and air doesn’t seem necessary, not for this, oh god,
“Sherlock, I can’t.” He can see his cock jutting up against his belly, red and
angry at so much stimulation, and he wants and needs to come but he can’t, he’s
so close but he’s still under Sherlock’s control and he whimpers helplessly.
Sherlock stands, keeping John’s legs spread, and pushes in. John yelps and
freezes at the unexpected pressure of a large cock filling him, but within a
couple of seconds it starts to feel good. Really good. He’s more than stretched
and his body adjusts quickly, he’s ready for a thorough fucking but Sherlock
doesn’t move, just props himself on one arm and leans over John and stares down
at him. A low whine builds in John’s throat and he rocks his hips uselessly,
unable to do much more than squirm when he’s skewered and pinned like this, so
deeply that he swears he can almost taste it.
“You’re mine, John,” Sherlock says very slowly, putting special emphasis on
each word, like he wants to burn it into John’s brain.
Lost, John thinks, eyes fluttering as he draws in a shaky breath. He’s so lost
and he doesn’t even care. “Yours,” he chokes out. “Yours.”
The confining pressure around his cock eases and then the edge is there, so
near that John is dangling, unable to pitch over until Sherlock slides out once
and then pushes back in directly against his prostate. John’s vision goes white
and he loses control of everything, his body shaking and trembling
uncontrollably, cock spurting days worth of seed all over his belly and chest,
even as far as his chin. He’s vaguely aware of Sherlock kissing him and he
tries to gather himself enough to kiss back, hands weak as he clutches at
Sherlock’s shirt.
He regains himself slowly and finds that they’re now both lying on the bed. His
back is against Sherlock’s chest. Long, slender arms and legs are wrapped
around his body and a hard cock is still buried inside of him. He feels
completely surrounded by Sherlock, like he’s drowning in the man, and he can’t
bring himself to care anymore. Wearily he flexes the muscles of his arse and
Sherlock huffs a laugh behind him just before a kiss is placed on the back of
John’s neck, one that quickly turns into sucking and nibbling. A mark will be
left, one that tells the world who he belongs to, and John’s just amazed it
took this long.
“Go to sleep,” Sherlock says into his skin. “I want you like this, with my cock
in you, so that you know who you belong to.”
John allows his eyes to slide shut, exhaustion taking over, and he’s asleep so
quickly that he doesn’t have time to tell Sherlock that he already knows, that
it’s been imprinted into every inch of him, so that he can’t forget.
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