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John, generally, didn’t go in for all of that BDSM bullshit. He’d had girlfriends in that past who did, that wanted recreational discipline, some even who toed the line of what was acceptable. Some had called him “daddy”, and John had grudgingly enjoyed being sucked off by women who got off on his apathy.
That wasn’t really what he did with Sherlock, though. When John did eventually give in and tell Sherlock, slam him up against the wall and kiss him within an inch of his life, it was the eventual pop of months of frustration and anger. It wasn’t a love born of love.
As their relationship progressed, it changed; John was soft and fond, Sherlock was petulant and adorable. When they were home, it was tea thoughtfully delivered, bodies gently brushing past each other in hallways, chores lovingly done. John gave him soft kisses with breakfast, Sherlock showed John what he saw in the microscope, and both smiled softly at one another when a song came on the radio that reminded them of a beautiful night out.
It was only the bedroom where that anger came out, now. John felt complicated; frustrated that he’d reached the happiest he’d ever be and that it wasn’t anything like he’d imagined, angry that he’d found the most cruel man to fall in love with, something he couldn’t name that Sherlock was so, so physically attractive that looking at him made a person’s guts twist up. It was a repulsion, that John was so intensely invested in this life of his that he’d never asked for.
And there was something about Sherlock, too. Sherlock just lit the fire inside of him. He threw John off balance, and John was like an animal; when confused, he lashed out. John would never hurt his partner, was disgusted by anyone who could bruise or demean the one they love. But he needed to get that feeling out of him, the fight or fight harder instinct that Sherlock pushed into his veins like so much adrenaline.
So, he did this. He didn’t plan more than a few hours ahead, but he planned carefully. Sherlock was so cunning and brilliant, John had to be so very careful not to push what they did to any point that Sherlock could snap and acknowledge the ridiculous theatrics of it.
It was quite accurate, really, it was theatre. But it was also science, and sadism, and love. John did everything he wanted, indulged every fantasy, to Sherlock’s intense benefit. In short, John liked to give pleasure.
Sherlock, if he ever talked about it (neither of them did, even to each other), could attest that John liked to give pleasure. If he had even one singular thought in that diamond mine of his in the middle of it, he’d laugh at the assessment.
When he was sobbing, shaking and begging for the pleasure to end, coming a tenth time, unable to do anything but lay there and take it, he didn’t have any capacity for laughter. John rode a high from Sherlock’s pleasure, he loved when he came and he heard the soft gasp from his mouth as the orgasm punched out of him. John enjoyed it, but he reached the true pinnacle of his pleasure when Sherlock couldn’t take it anymore, when he was sweating and unable to speak, when his body rebelled and tried to refuse another orgasm, when John turned the dial higher and forced another to bubble to the surface.
There was something so satisfying to destroy Sherlock like this. The man who had deemed love and the adjacent chemicals as a deficiency, brain flooded with the feel-good chemicals of his orgasm even as he fought the sensation with everything human in him. When he was reduced to just a body, feeling whatever John chose to make him feel. It was satisfying when Sherlock tipped over the edge from man to animal, from coherent to compliant, from fighting to enduring.
John, of course, always got his own. When Sherlock was limp and shaking with tears and exhaustion, when Sherlock was finally taken out of his stocks and crying into the pillow from overexertion and covered in his own fluids, John stood over him and had one very satisfying orgasm on to Sherlock’s broken body.
And that was the moment it ended, that he went to sweet and kind Doctor Watson, that he was soft and fond and loving once more, wiping Sherlock’s tears with a soft rag, and Sherlock tried to look into his eyes with something other than fear of his power. John sweetly cuddled the love of his life, and Sherlock slowly settled back into being a man again, and they were humans once more.