Sherlock collapsed into the sofa, taking up its entire length.
John had been trying to ease himself back down from the erotic jolt in the cab, and fumbled with the bills for payment as Sherlock strode past. He was unsure if Sherlock would have snogged him senseless just inside the doorway, but instead found him already gone (presumably upstairs). So John took a deep breath and headed to the sitting room. There he was... like a giant cat sprawling in a sunbeam. Arms stretched out above his head, mobile dangling out of his left hand. Shoes hanging off the sofa's edge. Not even enough room to claim the end of it. "Text from Molly," he drawled. "Tryptizol. Over 750 mg."
"Yes. Yes, that isn't surprising." John wasn't sure what to do next. "Anytime," Sherlock's voice boomed inside his head. Might require some preparation. How does one go about doing something like this, anyway? He grabbed his laptop.
Sherlock rolled towards John, watched him type something in with his ridiculous hunt-and-peck method and smirked knowingly. "Eager, are we?"
"Don't pretend you're not."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Never done this before? I'm actually rather surprised."
"Not exactly, no." John stopped typing to look back at Sherlock. "I've done light bondage, but not really the same thing. Tying someone to a bed rail with tights is not comparable. No safeword, no pretending. Just... experiencing limited control and movement. Have you ever done anything like this before?"
Sherlock returned to his back to gaze up at the ceiling. "I wouldn't expect it to be radically different. And I don't know that there are many websites on overpowering your flatmate who has a six inch height advantage."
"Well, if I was out to hurt you, it wouldn't be a problem. Since I'm not, it could be." John frowned.
"I know you wouldn't want to use any weapons."
John's face was tight. "You've got that right. Even a plastic knife poses a risk of injury and there's no way in hell we are playing around with my gun."
"I know." Sherlock sighed. "That's why we will already need to be close when you make your move. Then you would already be well within striking distance and it would minimise the advantage of my greater reach."
John stared for a moment, silent. "You... really want to fight me?"
"Well, just a bit, yes."
"What have you got framed on your wall, then? Judo? Karate?"
"Judo. Black belt." Sherlock got up and crossed to the kitchen, speaking as he walked. "But not to worry. I won't be using any of those moves and if I'm already lying down you need not risk injury for either of us, to sufficiently overpower me. I'll start the kettle." He kept his back turned to John as he filled it with water and powered it on before crossing back to the sofa to resume his languid stretch.
John nodded. "That does sound safest. So, I take it I'm to actually make the tea?"
"I just said I'd start the kettle, not that I'd prepare it."
FILL 4/? Take (past noncon/current rape fantasy)
John had been trying to ease himself back down from the erotic jolt in the cab, and fumbled with the bills for payment as Sherlock strode past. He was unsure if Sherlock would have snogged him senseless just inside the doorway, but instead found him already gone (presumably upstairs). So John took a deep breath and headed to the sitting room. There he was... like a giant cat sprawling in a sunbeam. Arms stretched out above his head, mobile dangling out of his left hand. Shoes hanging off the sofa's edge. Not even enough room to claim the end of it. "Text from Molly," he drawled. "Tryptizol. Over 750 mg."
"Yes. Yes, that isn't surprising." John wasn't sure what to do next. "Anytime," Sherlock's voice boomed inside his head. Might require some preparation. How does one go about doing something like this, anyway? He grabbed his laptop.
Sherlock rolled towards John, watched him type something in with his ridiculous hunt-and-peck method and smirked knowingly. "Eager, are we?"
"Don't pretend you're not."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Never done this before? I'm actually rather surprised."
"Not exactly, no." John stopped typing to look back at Sherlock. "I've done light bondage, but not really the same thing. Tying someone to a bed rail with tights is not comparable. No safeword, no pretending. Just... experiencing limited control and movement. Have you ever done anything like this before?"
Sherlock returned to his back to gaze up at the ceiling. "I wouldn't expect it to be radically different. And I don't know that there are many websites on overpowering your flatmate who has a six inch height advantage."
"Well, if I was out to hurt you, it wouldn't be a problem. Since I'm not, it could be." John frowned.
"I know you wouldn't want to use any weapons."
John's face was tight. "You've got that right. Even a plastic knife poses a risk of injury and there's no way in hell we are playing around with my gun."
"I know." Sherlock sighed. "That's why we will already need to be close when you make your move. Then you would already be well within striking distance and it would minimise the advantage of my greater reach."
John stared for a moment, silent. "You... really want to fight me?"
"Well, just a bit, yes."
"What have you got framed on your wall, then? Judo? Karate?"
"Judo. Black belt." Sherlock got up and crossed to the kitchen, speaking as he walked. "But not to worry. I won't be using any of those moves and if I'm already lying down you need not risk injury for either of us, to sufficiently overpower me. I'll start the kettle." He kept his back turned to John as he filled it with water and powered it on before crossing back to the sofa to resume his languid stretch.
John nodded. "That does sound safest. So, I take it I'm to actually make the tea?"
"I just said I'd start the kettle, not that I'd prepare it."