Sadie: For @squeakpigsrevenge. 😉

The first time John used a pair of gloves with Sherlock, it had just been for a bit of fun–moreso to giggle at his reaction than for any actual purpose.

And God, was he ever so glad that he did.

Sherlock was bent over the end of the long table in the sitting room, pouring over an ancient-looking book (honestly, John felt that if he looked at it for too long, the pages would crumble into dust…and Sherlock was handling them accordingly) and then typing on his laptop at a burning speed that John had always been secretly envious of. It was early morning; early enough that he hadn’t even showered or combed his hair yet, and from the state Sherlock was in, John could tell that he hadn’t moved far from that spot in at least several hours, let alone showered either.

The doctor lifted his daily cup of coffee to his mouth and breathed in deeply, smiling to himself as he watched his painfully meticulous lover: the way his nostrils flared as he huffed when the book said the (apparently) wrong thing, the way the sun caught the auburn streaks hidden among his curls and set them aglow in a fluffy halo, the way you could count every notch of his spine while he was hunched over, studying the problematic text…

John couldn’t help it any longer; he set his steaming mug aside and went to kiss each and every single one of those notches.

He heard Sherlock grunt when he circled his arms around his waist, but the detective had become used to John’s random acts of physical affection over time, so he made no move to push him off.

John chuckled and pressed his lips over the highest notch of Sherlock’s spine (that he could reach). “Good morning to you, too.”

“Morning,” the other man mumbled, then paused and looked up; “…Morning? What time is it?” he asked, blinking against the sunlight that he was only now noticing. Which meant he’d been reading in the dark again. He was going to ruin his eyesight and go blind by the time he was middle-aged at this rate, and John smiled as that train of thought led him to picture a future Sherlock, greying at the temples and pushing a pair of glasses up the bridge of his nose…he closed his eyes and nuzzled his cheek against the other man’s back, glad for the difference in height just this once, and gave his waist a squeeze. “It’s time to leave the book alone and start paying attention to meeeeeeeeee!”

Sherlock snorted; “And you say I’m needy,” he groused, but John felt arms laying on top of his own, negating any actual pissyness. “Brat,” he chuckled.

“I am not a brat.”

“Sounds like something a brat would say.”

There was a quick huff of air that could just as easily been a muffled laugh. They were both silent for a moment…a warm, cozy moment…until the next thing he heard was the deep rumble of Sherlock’s voice. “…So what if I am?”

John’s eyes shot open; Sherlock had gained his full attention now (as though he hadn’t already!). “What was that?” he asked…maybe John had mistaken him; it was early morning after all, he hadn’t even had a full cup of coffee yet, and Sherlock had likely been up all night worrying over faded text written in a dusty-looking language that the doctor didn’t even recognize immediately…there was NO way he’d just heard Sherlock use his ‘fuck-me’ voice. Zero chance. Nada.

“I said, ‘so what if I am’? What are you going to do about it?” Sherlock purred, and pressed his arse into John’s crotch.

Well. There was no mistaking THAT.

John took a half-step back, looked down, and cupped a pert little bum cheek with his hand. He rubbed up and down slowly, thoughtfully, as if he were appraising it. “Hmm,” he wondered out loud. “Brats get smacked, don’t they?” As he said this, he pulled his hand back and gave Sherlock’s arse a slap…not a hard one, mind; he probably barely felt it through his pajamas, but it made a nice little clapping sound.

John enjoyed a good game as much as the detective did.

Sherlock went up on his toes, as if it’d stung greater than it had. “I wouldn’t know…I don’t belong to that club, remember?” He leaned over and put his elbows on the table, then looked over his shoulder and pouted up at John, while batting his eyelashes.

Had it been later in the day, John would have rolled his eyes before giving Sherlock one more smack and sending him on his way, because even this obvious a ploy was a little too obvious, but it appeared that the detective caught him in a particularly randy mood this morning. “Sounds like a big, FAT fib,” John said, the tone of his voice pitching lower, and gave Sherlock’s arse a squeeze when he emphasized the word ‘fat’.

A sharp “Hey!” broke Sherlock’s character and he started to stand, ready to whirl around and ask John just what in the hell did he mean by that?!–when another smack (much harder than the last) cut him off with a sharp intake of breath. He froze, feeling a charge in the air…the game had just changed, but he couldn’t say why or how until he felt John’s hand in between his shoulder blades. “Down,” the man ordered, pressing firmly.

Sherlock quickly obeyed, returning to his previous position with his elbows on the table, palms laid flat.

“You’ve got a lot of…spirit, for someone who’s been up since fuck-knows-when o’clock.” He heard John move away, but Sherlock still had a strange feeling–call it ‘self-preservation’–that he should keep facing forward until otherwise told, so that’s just what he did. But he could still listen, and he heard John rummaging around in something…something hollow, it sounded like, something sturdy, but with a little give…

Then he heard a metal clasp click shut, and he knew exactly what it was.

John’s satchel. The one he carried to the clinic everyday (every day he managed to show up, actually)….but what would he need from there? And for what?…

John continued on, his voice cutting through the rush of questions clouding Sherlock’s thoughts; “…but as much as I love your spirit, love, I’d prefer you to be much more…pliable, right now.”

Sherlock didn’t know if he should answer (or tell John that the word he was looking for was ‘compliant’, but he was pretty sure that detail wouldn’t really be appreciated at the moment), but he was readying up a default ‘yes sir’ that never failed to earn him a little extra mercy in these cases, when he heard a loud, rubbery, butthole-clenching SNAP! and this time, he did whip his head around to look–

John adjusted the thin, elastic band of the latex glove around his wrist, using his finger to make sure it laid flat instead of rolling in on itself, then met Sherlock’s gaze…

…and smiled.