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John was staring. Jesus, he was staring. Sherlock was laying it on thick, his heavy-lidded eyes locked on the doctor's, his hand tracing lazy circles on John's chest. It was hard to think, hard to breathe, when he looked so ready to fuck.

"I want to make you mine, Sherlock. I want to strip away all your defenses, all your senses, until you're drowning in the tiny slivers of sensation I DO give you. I'm going to drive you half-mad with deprivation. Do you like that, Sherlock?"

"Mmm. Yes, John, I do."

John rose from the bed and cast a quick glance around the room, his brow furrowed.

"Closet. Left-side floor. Black box."

With a nod John stepped towards the door. He found the box with relative ease, a thin black suitcase that had probably cost more than his entire wardrobe, and carried it gingerly to the bed. Inside rested a strange assortment of gear, ranging from stolen police-issue handcuffs to leather blindfolds and gags. John couldn't help but be surprised- for a man who wanted control in every aspect of his life, he sure seemed eager to give it up between the sheets.

Sherlock watched him carefully, trying to deduce what he'd remove, but John had a plan. He slipped a leather blindfold into his palm and gripped it tightly, falling into parade rest as he moved closer to Sherlock.

"Sherlock. Look at me and tell me what you see."

"You're distractingly aroused, your heart rate seems to be stabilizing, you're picturing me in black rope and possibly in women's lingerie, you never realized you love the smell of leather until tonight, and you still seem to think you can make me scream for you while half-mad with ecstasy. You're wrong. I'm going to love proving it to you."

"How could you possibly know what I was picturing?"

Sherlock has a tell, one John noticed during their first case together. When Sherlock gets ready to explain his deductions, he always looks away first. It's just a moment, enough to clear his mind and pull all the evidence forward, but it's enough. John has the blindfold over him in the span of a heartbeat, tying it tightly against his wild curls. Sherlock arched his back in surprise.

"You're good," he whispered.

With Sherlock unable to watch, John smiled as he sifted through the man's toys. The handcuffs felt too low-class for Sherlock's slender wrists, and there was no time for fancy rope bondage. However, a bundle of black silk straps caught John's eye. Perfect for restraining wrists without the risk of damage, and easy to use. John slipped two from their ribbon.

Sherlock was sitting upright, using his arms to hold himself up, his legs folded neatly beneath him. A smirk played across his features as the bed dipped beside him. John counted to ten, breathing slowly, trying not to be distracted by Sherlock's erection, by the rise and fall of his naked chest, by the way the light threw his body into stark contrast. Roughly, quickly, he seized his arms and pulled backward. Sherlock fell with a gasp as John wound the cloth around his wrists.

"Be still," John growled, and Sherlock obliged with a small moan.

John was rough as he tied Sherlock to the headboard, the cloth strips leaving rough red marks where he pulled too tightly. As he finished the knot he withdrew from the bed, leaving Sherlock alone and vulnerable.

"John... Don't gag me. I want to be able to talk."

That was interesting, but not out of the norm for Sherlock. John let the gag fall back into the briefcase and latched it, placing it out of the way on the floor.

"You have free reign with me, John, but there are rules you need to follow. Don't place anything in my mouth, don't use anything with a strong scent, and don't stop unless I command you to."

Somehow his voice was still weighted with lust, even as he instructed John. It was so antithetical, and it sent waves of heat down into John's groin. He bit his lip as he moved to stand at the foot of the bed. He swept his eyes of the pale expanse of flesh before him, barely scarred for all his injuries, all angles and wiry strength... There was no other word for it. Sherlock was fucking beautiful.

"It's a pity we don't have any leather gloves."

"Why do you say that, John?"

Sherlock WOULD accentuate a simple question with a roll of his hips. Bastard.

"I, uh... You remind me of someone. You probably wouldn't know him, an industrial singer from America. Harry was really into his work in the 90's, Trent-"

"Reznor, of Nine Inch Nails. Yes, you're referring to the video for Closer, aren't you? Just a few frames of him, bound, writhing against his bonds... Funny that comes to mind. Why, John?"

John sighed.

"Your hair is dark, your skin pale. You're very muscular, which is unexpected considering how slight you often appear. You're blindfolded, you're restrained, and..."

Beneath the leather, Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. God, it was sexy.

"And, John?"

"And the song applies. It... it pops in my head sometimes, so loud I often fear you'll hear it. When you come in wrapped in nothing but a sheet, when your hair is wet from the rain, when you hold a wineglass to your lips at Angelo's, when you drop your voice impossibly lower, where it seems to be on a frequency only my blood can hear..."

"Come then, John. Fuck me. Fuck me like an animal."