Fic: Fullest Freedom: Mature
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holmes_minorTitle: Fullest Freedom
Length: 500
Rating: Mature
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Notes: follows "A Case of Identity"
Warnings: Dom/sub themes. Dom!Watson. Sub!Holmes.
Title from: "The Reigate Squires": "...when Holmes understood that the establishment was a bachelor one, and that he would be allowed the fullest freedom, he fell in with my plan..."
Summary: Why would Holmes want freedom, when he'd found the perfect captor?
Author's Note: Apologies. The monthly prompt should've led me to nobler avenues than this one...
“You’re being a consummate ass about this, Holmes! I ought to take a horse-whip to you myself!”
The words hung in the ether between us.
The words shot into my blood as if they’d been injected.
The words conjured a postcard image I’d kept locked away in a strong box in my attic brain.
The words evaporated, fled in the night like unlawful usurpers.
Reason resumed its throne.
“If you feel so strongly about the matter of Miss Sutherland, then I suggest you tend to it as you see fit.”
My voice was even and cool, and I rejoiced in the delusion that I had not given myself away.
“Oh, I will.”
“Good.”
I half-expected him to storm out that moment, but he only looked about the room as if he’d lost something.
The sitting room was in an extreme state of disarray, piles of papers and books and bric-a-brac scattered in all directions.
I watched mutely as he found what he sought: a riding crop.
I remained seated, my arms resting on the arms of the chair.
He closed the distance between us and stood before me. Then, like a sovereign bestowing knighthood, tapped me on each shoulder with the crop.
“I didn’t know, Holmes.”
I warred with myself, then replied,
“How could you?”
He dragged the keeper of the crop along my jaw and looked at me, oh, looked at me with an infernal heat I would’ve scarcely thought possible outside my naughtiest midnight reveries.
My body began to stir, and I closed my eyes as the keeper and Watson’s gaze travelled lower.
“No.”
His voice was like steel.
I opened my eyes at once and looked at him, questioningly.
One corner of his mouth lifted.
“Don’t close your eyes until I tell you.”
“Yes,” I pressed my lips together briefly, “Captain.”
He smiled at that.
I wanted to make him smile. I wanted to do anything he asked of me.
He looked behind him, and in a few moments, my hands were being bound to the arms of the chair with napkins. The knots were strong but not inviolable.
They were symbolic.
They were a fantasy come true.
He brought the keeper of the crop once more to the base of my neck, then drew it down, southward.
He made a careful outline of the bulge between my legs, which was, by then, prominent.
Then he leaned forward, his hands on my forearms, and whispered,
“This is not the hour.”
True. Mrs. Hudson would be in shortly to collect the breakfast things.
But it was, perhaps, the place.
“Later?” I asked, hesitatingly.
He nodded.
Then, very swiftly, the napkins were back on the table, and the crop was once more among the detritus of the room.
“Holmes, you are, of course, free at any time to change your mind.”
“My dear man…”
What I thought was: what use had I for freedom when I’d found the perfect captor?
But what I said was:
“…so are you, naturally.”
Length: 500
Rating: Mature
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Notes: follows "A Case of Identity"
Warnings: Dom/sub themes. Dom!Watson. Sub!Holmes.
Title from: "The Reigate Squires": "...when Holmes understood that the establishment was a bachelor one, and that he would be allowed the fullest freedom, he fell in with my plan..."
Summary: Why would Holmes want freedom, when he'd found the perfect captor?
Author's Note: Apologies. The monthly prompt should've led me to nobler avenues than this one...
“You’re being a consummate ass about this, Holmes! I ought to take a horse-whip to you myself!”
The words hung in the ether between us.
The words shot into my blood as if they’d been injected.
The words conjured a postcard image I’d kept locked away in a strong box in my attic brain.
The words evaporated, fled in the night like unlawful usurpers.
Reason resumed its throne.
“If you feel so strongly about the matter of Miss Sutherland, then I suggest you tend to it as you see fit.”
My voice was even and cool, and I rejoiced in the delusion that I had not given myself away.
“Oh, I will.”
“Good.”
I half-expected him to storm out that moment, but he only looked about the room as if he’d lost something.
The sitting room was in an extreme state of disarray, piles of papers and books and bric-a-brac scattered in all directions.
I watched mutely as he found what he sought: a riding crop.
I remained seated, my arms resting on the arms of the chair.
He closed the distance between us and stood before me. Then, like a sovereign bestowing knighthood, tapped me on each shoulder with the crop.
“I didn’t know, Holmes.”
I warred with myself, then replied,
“How could you?”
He dragged the keeper of the crop along my jaw and looked at me, oh, looked at me with an infernal heat I would’ve scarcely thought possible outside my naughtiest midnight reveries.
My body began to stir, and I closed my eyes as the keeper and Watson’s gaze travelled lower.
“No.”
His voice was like steel.
I opened my eyes at once and looked at him, questioningly.
One corner of his mouth lifted.
“Don’t close your eyes until I tell you.”
“Yes,” I pressed my lips together briefly, “Captain.”
He smiled at that.
I wanted to make him smile. I wanted to do anything he asked of me.
He looked behind him, and in a few moments, my hands were being bound to the arms of the chair with napkins. The knots were strong but not inviolable.
They were symbolic.
They were a fantasy come true.
He brought the keeper of the crop once more to the base of my neck, then drew it down, southward.
He made a careful outline of the bulge between my legs, which was, by then, prominent.
Then he leaned forward, his hands on my forearms, and whispered,
“This is not the hour.”
True. Mrs. Hudson would be in shortly to collect the breakfast things.
But it was, perhaps, the place.
“Later?” I asked, hesitatingly.
He nodded.
Then, very swiftly, the napkins were back on the table, and the crop was once more among the detritus of the room.
“Holmes, you are, of course, free at any time to change your mind.”
“My dear man…”
What I thought was: what use had I for freedom when I’d found the perfect captor?
But what I said was:
“…so are you, naturally.”
