A Detective's Place is in the Kitchen

“Drive a goddamn car, Sherlock. People drive cars all the time. You’ll fit right in.”

Sherlock tosses his head imperiously. “It’s a police force motorcycle, John. Be logical. All the officers will be on them; their consultant should be too.”

“Sherlock, those things have sixteen times the rate of serious injury, compared to a car. Want to know how I know that? Because I looked up the goddamn statistics, and also because I’ve seen it. Mangled bodies, brains spilling out of skulls. Do you think that’s what I want for you?”

Sherlock is momentarily swayed, John can tell; the reference to his field expertise (which Sherlock finds incredibly arousing) in combination with a reminder of John’s love for him (which Sherlock still seems to find, even after all these years, nearly shocking) almost does the trick.

Then Sherlock says, “I’ll do anything you want me to, if you let me ride with them for the sting.”

Oh, of course he will. John flicks his eyes skyward “You won’t. You never do anything I want unless it suits you.”

“Well, this time it will suit me.”

John narrows his eyes, trying to read what kind of a game Sherlock is playing. Most likely, he’ll simply forget about the promise the moment he gets what he wants out of John. Or he’ll have built in some sort of ludicrous loophole to pull out and crow about the moment John tries to hold him to his end of the bargain. It wouldn’t be the first time.

I’ll do anything you want. Sherlock has never made an offer quite like that before, though.

“You know,” John says, “that ‘anything I want’ isn’t going to be stuff you’ll enjoy. I don’t need to force you to do… most things, really.” He grins lecherously.

To his surprise, Sherlock holds his gaze, seemingly taking his threat at face value. “I know,” he says. “But perhaps there are certain circumstances under which I would enjoy being forced to do things I don’t enjoy.”

John can feel his eyebrows nearly retreating into his hairline, but an electric, dangerous feeling settles in his lower belly, humming. “Cooking and cleaning, Sherlock?” he tests.

Sherlock merely shrugs. “Whatever you want,” he says. “That is rather the point, isn’t it?”

John licks his lips. “I’m going to have to have a chat with Greg about this whole motorcycle sting idea.”

“Good to know the two of you can still find common ground in discussing my care and feeding. Is that a yes to my proposal, then?”

“Goddammit. I’m going to regret this. Yes, fine. Yes.”


“This,” says Sherlock, “Is not very original.”

“Didn’t say it was going to be original,” says John. He’s sitting in his armchair, swivelled toward the kitchen, so that he can see Sherlock over the top of his newspaper. John doesn’t even usually read a real, broadsheet newspaper– but he’s bought one just for this occasion.

“I’m cold,” Sherlock complains.

John lets out a bark of laughter, and lowers the paper a little. Sherlock is standing in the kitchen, completely nude except for a pair of rubber gloves and– well, you can’t exactly call a large glass butt plug an item of clothing, can you. The refrigerator door is open, and he’s shivering in the draft of cold air as he takes every item of food and experimental chemistry out of it and places them on the counter. “‘Course you’re cold,” says John. “You’re cleaning the refrigerator naked. Problem?”

Sherlock scowls mutinously, but then he just holds John’s eyes as he picks up the sponge from the counter and slowly– wincing prettily every inch of the way– sinks to his knees to scrub the first shelf.

“Very nice,” John comments, as dispassionately as he can, and returns to his newspaper. Well. Returns the newspaper to a position in front of his face where it’s plausible that he’s reading it, anyway.

Over the top of the newspaper, though, he’s observing Sherlock’s cock. The way it shrivels into his body away from the chill of the fridge, but jumps minutely with every shift of the plug inside of him. He has a distasteful expression on his face as he scrubs the bottom shelf with a damp sponge.

“How long are you going to make me do this?”

John can’t help but laugh. “Until it’s done. Did you think this was some sort of game?”

Sherlock glances down at his own naked body. “Yes. Clearly it is.”

“Okay, it is, but it’s a game that’s going to end with a clean refrigerator. And I think I could do with a brandy while I watch you clean it.” For a moment, John thinks Sherlock is going to refuse, but then he stands and takes of the gloves to fetch a glass and the bottle.

Sherlock approaches him demurely, eyes cast down to the ground, half-hard prick swaying slightly. He drops to his knees in front of the armchair. “There you are, John,” he breathes, placing the glass on the side table John’s left hand. He’s still looking down, but now it’s to stare pointedly into John’s lap.

“Nice try.”

Sherlock scowls and pushes himself back up brusquely, returning to the kitchen and snapping the rubber gloves back on.

“And drop the attitude,” comes John’s voice from the armchair, and Sherlock’s eyes widen as he glances back. John is casual and dangerous-looking, raising the glass to his lips and setting it back down on the table.

Sherlock surveys the refrigerator. He wrinkles his nose at the amount of crusted-on food and god knows what else on the now-empty shelves; it would take a lot of scrubbing, and perhaps a knife, to get all of it off.

Instead, he swipes the sponge over the shelves a few times and surveys what remains. There are quite a few splotches, but they would be easily covered up by artfully arranged containers. After a few trials of the geometry of the thing, he’s found a natural-looking way of slotting the food back into the fridge to cover up what needed to be covered.

The rest of the refrigerator goes much more quickly that way, and Sherlock even enjoys the challenge of the deception. He smiles proudly at the result, then closes the door and goes to kneel in front of John, this time staring up through his lashes seductively. He lets John see him struggling to hold still and not wriggle against the pressure of the plug inside him.

John smiles, and Sherlock’s cock twitches in anticipation. “All done?” he says, and Sherlock nods eagerly. John places a fond hand on the side of he cheek. “Well done, you,” he says, and rises to go into the kitchen.

Sherlock bites his lip, not turning around. There’s no reason for John to start moving things around in there. He should just open and shut the door and be done with it. There is, after all, a naked and wanting detective in the living room to distract him.

When John returns to the chair, Sherlock’s heart sinks. His eyes are narrowed, and he looks disappointed.

And… aroused.

“Find me something in that fucking filthy kitchen of ours to spank you with,” he says.


Sherlock stands in front of the two drawers of kitchen utensils, blinking.

The choice is dizzying. Or maybe it’s his sudden, overwhelming arousal that’s dizzying. Either way, Sherlock leans forward and grips the counter tightly. John hasn’t left his armchair, but he has put the newspaper aside and spread his knees slightly. Sherlock can practically feel John’s heated, disappointed gaze boring through him, and it makes him want to cringe away. It makes him want to curl into a ball and cry. It makes him want to find John something to spank him with to make it okay again.

It does not, however, make Sherlock want to clean the refrigerator properly.

He reaches into the drawer and starts pulling out kitchen tools, letting John see him lay out the ones he’s considering. Wooden spoon– a classic, moderately appealing for that reason alone. Microplane cheese grater– John would probably veto on the grounds of its ability to draw blood, but it would be interesting to see the look on his face when Sherlock presented it to him. Solid plastic spatula– dull but serviceable. Balloon whisk– Sherlock frowns, then sets it down with all the others, rather at a loss to even imagine what that would feel like. Slotted metal spatula– nasty, would probably leave fascinating patterns on him, though he wouldn’t be able to see them very well.

He stares at them, mind racing, hand hovering over the pile.

“Sherlock,” comes John’s voice through the white noise of indecision, and it is surprisingly gentle. “Stop thinking. Come here.”

Sherlock makes his way over to John’s chair empty-handed, feeling sheepish. He hadn’t cleaned the refrigerator, and now he can’t even choose a punishment properly. John is never going to believe him again when he tries to barter.

“I’ve got a perfectly good hand to start with,” John says, and the sternness is back, and Sherlock feels the static in his mind dissipating, so he sinks down eagerly when John pats his knee and says, “lie down.”

Sherlock settles on John’s lap, the balls of his feet on the floor and his cheek pressed against John’s thigh. He breathes in the smell of John, savours the way the warmth of him radiates outwards from his torso and groin and the feeling of a strong, warm hand on his back, holding him steady.

Then John starts hitting him, and it hurts. Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, concentrating, trying to transmute the pain into something else, but it doesn’t work: every sharp slap is just painful, despite the shifting of the plug inside him. He thinks of the filthy refrigerator, and the promise he’d made to do anything John wanted, and grits his teeth. He doesn’t need to enjoy this, after all. He just needs to allow it.

John stops. Sherlock takes the opportunity to drag in a deep breath, something he hadn’t been able to do while John had been smacking away at him. When he lets it out, it feels natural to relax more, so he does, rubbing his cheek on the soft fabric of John’s trousers. It feels good, and he wonders idly if it’s over already.

“Do you want more?” John asks. The space in between hearing the question and processing it seems to take longer than normal. Sherlock frowns. He had thought he wanted it to stop, but now that it has, he feels strangely disinclined to move. Perhaps it won’t be so bad. “All right,” he says.

A gentle hand rubs down his back and then pulls up on his hips gently. John manages to stand and slide off the armchair at the same time as he deposits Sherlock onto it. “Stay there,” he says. “I’m choosing. Something sensible, not the bloody cheese grater, you git.”

Sherlock giggles a little into his arm, feeling lighter now that the choice is out of his hands. He had been hoping to get a reaction out of John by pulling out the cheese grater. He purposely shuts his eyes and turns away as John steps into the kitchen, makes his choice quickly, then strides back towards Sherlock. John pulls him back up and over his lap, and Sherlock waits.

It’s the plastic spatula; Sherlock can tell from the sound of it whistling through the air. Not that that matters, since any idiot would be able to tell from the feel of it a moment later anyway. But it matters to Sherlock that he knew a split second early. Then it stops mattering at all, because his entire attention is taken up by the spot– perfectly square, although it doesn’t feel like it– in the middle of his left arse cheek that is on fire.

It doesn’t stop; John strikes the other side before he has the chance to recover from the first blow, and every time Sherlock opens his mouth to say stop, ouch, you’re hurting me, he is distracted by the contours of another complete package of fascinating, entirely distracting pain. Eventually he has to stop wanting it to stop, because otherwise he won’t be able to pay attention properly; and paying attention to it is becoming more important than the fact that it hurts, so he lets it happen.

He can hear John’s little huff of air every time he swings the thing and feel the hand still on his back and oh, he had somehow entirely forgotten about the large glass butt plug inside of him. All of a sudden it is impossible to ignore; his muscles clamp down in it with every blow and it holds him open anyway, unforgiving and delicious, and there, there, now each sharp sting of the spatula is welcome, is exactly what he wanted.

John’s stomach contracts in a small chuckle the first time Sherlock forgets to stop himself from moaning. He stops the blows for just long enough to grab a fistful of Sherlock’s abused flesh, kneading it around and Sherlock can feel the smooth glass pressing against his prostate and his strangled “John!” sounds far more pained than he would ever allow himself merely to express pain.

“Yeah,” says John, “Feel it. Good. Fuck. I’m not really teaching you much of a lesson here, am I? No wonder you’re such a bloody spoiled brat.”

Sherlock manages to rally the resources to wriggle around in what he hopes is an enticing way, but not much more. John is right; Sherlock’s erection grinding into his thigh is making it fairly clear that if John were hoping to scare him into cleaning properly in the future, it isn’t going to work.

“Go get me the slotted one,” says John. Sherlock starts to slither off of his lap, and he adds, “And crawl. I want to see your red arse the entire time.”

The entire world is gauzy and indistinct as Sherlock makes his way across to the kitchen on his hands and knees. He reaches up to pull the slotted spatula down from the counter, and starts to turn around when he hears John’s pointed “What did I say?”

Ah. Okay. Sherlock clamps the spatula in his teeth, and starts to make his way carefully back to the armchair backwards, feeling his way with his feet. He only notices he’s made it when John’s hands come down decisively on his cheeks, pulling him apart for John to admire the plug, then reaching around to pluck the kitchen tool from his teeth.

“Up you come,” says John, and starts pulling Sherlock’s languid body back up to settle on his lap. “Ten with this. Then you’re getting fucked.”

“Yes, please,” says Sherlock, because he has briefly regained the power of speech and John likes to hear him say it even though John knows he could do pretty much anything to Sherlock in this state and he wouldn’t register an objection. Perhaps that’s why he likes to hear it.

The air whistles through the slots in the second spatula and Sherlock feels himself pushed forward with the force of it. He allows himself to whimper, and though he intended it to be just one before he clamps his lips closed for the rest of it, instead he can’t help but keep it up through the entirety of the ten strokes. John hums his appreciation for the noises Sherlock is making, and runs his hand down Sherlock’ back and over his flaming skin in between each strike. Sherlock is vaguely aware of when his murmured litany changes from counting down the strokes and encouragement to praise and filthy promises.

“You did so well,” John is saying, “Now you’re going to get my cock. You’re going to get my balls slapping hard against your sore arse. You want that?”

Sherlock weighs the amount of effort it would take to respond while he’s being maneuvered into position on the carpet against the likelihood that John is actually going to stop if he doesn’t say yes, and decides it’s worth the risk of simply folding his arms to rest his head on, presenting himself, and waiting.

Luckily, John knows not to wait for permission. There is the swish of John pulling his trousers and pants down, and the snick of the tube of lube being opened, and then John grabs the base of the plug and spends a moment twisting it around, pressing it to one side and then the other against the inside walls of Sherlock’s entrance. It feels enormous, and Sherlock keens into the floor, impatient for the pressure inside of him to be John.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice is stern again. “You’re still being punished, remember. You’re not allowed to come from this.”

Fuck. Sherlock winces as John pulls the plug out brusquely. He replaces it with his cock with no warning whatsoever and pushes forward, not worrying about being gentle when Sherlock has just spent so long being stretched by the glass toy, and Sherlock sees white pinpricks of light bursting in front of his eyes. He has to find a way to prevent himself from coming.

He pushes himself up so there’s no chance of his cock getting any friction from the floor, closes his eyes, and tries to breathe deeply. True to his word, John is ensuring that his balls and thighs slap Sherlock’s sore arse as hard as possible with each stroke, so the detective tries to concentrate on the pain itself and not the reason for it.

“John,” Sherlock forces out after a while, slightly muffled by the side of his mouth that is mashed into the carpet, “Are you going to let me come… at all?” The question sounds pitiful even to his own ears, but he needs to know.

John grunts and smacks him again, and that should not push Sherlock dangerously close to the edge but it does. “Maybe,” he says.

“I’ll clean it for real,” Sherlock attempts to bargain, but John doesn’t reply because he’s too busy seizing Sherlock’s hips with a bruising grip and holding their bodies together as he comes. Warm and wet blooms inside of Sherlock and he breathes a sigh of relief that at least he won’t have to hold out against an orgasm while actively being fucked any more.

“You won’t,” says John the moment his softening cock slips out of Sherlock’s very sore arse. “Maybe if I made you do it right now you would. Hard cock, sore bum, my spunk slipping out of your hole and down your legs. And if I were watching you like a hawk the whole time.” He pulls on Sherlock’s torso to flip him over, so that Sherlock is lying on the floor underneath him. “But then,” John continues, “who would mop the floors afterwards?”

Now satisfied, John seems to be in no hurry to decide on his next move. He sits back on his heels, scrutinizing Sherlock like he’s a work of art which just needs one final touch to be complete.

“I won’t cheat this time,” Sherlock promises, but his head lists to the side, and he’s not at all sure that his legs would even hold him up for long enough to clean a refrigerator, at this point.

“Nah,” says John, and he leans back, his shoulders against the seat of the armchair and propping one arm on it. “I think I just want you right here. Want to see you put on a show. Touch yourself, and make it pretty for me. Show me how sorry you are.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, relieved. That, he can definitely do. He makes a grab for his prick, relieved to finally be allowed to touch it, but John barks out “Slowly. I said make it good for me, you,” so he pulls his hand slightly back and then tries again, just teasing his fingers up the underside of his shaft.

John’s concern for the mopping of the floors is clearly contrived, since he’s not objecting at all to Sherlock’s come- and lube-slicked rear being pressed to the carpet. It’s not the worst that carpet has seen, after all. Still, might as well make use of it. Sherlock catches John’s eyes and holds his gaze as he dips his fingers down, slowly pressing into his own hole, gathering up the wetness he finds there, and smearing it upwards towards his cock.

John sighs, lips parting. He’s soft, but after all he has just come, and he’s absolutely riveted anyway. “Nice and slow,” he says, “Don’t grip yourself too tight. Like that. Gorgeous.”

Sherlock has to look away, has to close his eyes to savour the slow drag of his own hand up and down his cock, and he only forces his gaze back to John to say, “Can I…” as his other hand dips back down towards his hole.

John chuckles fondly. “You’ve just had a plug for nearly an hour and then my cock, and you’re still gagging for something to fill you up?”

Sherlock just nods desperately.

“Go on, then.” John is smiling, seemingly fascinated, when Sherlock immediately reaches around and shoves two fingers into his arse. It feels incredible, even with his hand and wrist irritating the sore skin as he moves, and he manages to synch up the thrusting of the hand in his arse and the hand on his prick until his is writhing around on the carpet with no regard for dignity or even the quality of the show he was supposed to be putting on. John clearly enjoys it anyway, though, because the moment Sherlock gives one last moan and comes into his own hand, John is on top of him, holding him down to kiss him.

Sherlock removes his fingers from his arse slowly, trying not to distract from the kiss. “Very pretty,” John breathes into his mouth. His blue eyes hover, pleased.

Sherlock bites his lip, feeling suddenly guilty. All of this had been rather nice. But he can’t help but think–

“I’m sorry I didn’t clean the refrigerator,” he says.

John pushes himself over so he’s leaned on his elbow on the carpet beside Sherlock. His eyebrows are nearly in his hairline. “Idiot,” he says affectionately.

Sherlock bristles. “I said I’m sorry. There’s no need to insult me. Especially not with an insult that’s so obviously untrue.”

John shakes his head and says “Idiot” again. Then he leans in to lick a wet stripe up Sherlock’s neck, and continues, “You seriously thought that I believed you were going to do housework properly naked and plugged?”

Sherlock thinks back. Now that John mentions it, he hadn’t exactly been set up for success, no. “I may have underestimated you,” he admits.

And now that Sherlock is considering it, there was really no reason for John to prevent him from riding a police motorcycle in the first place. John himself places himself in far more danger than that regularly, and has no problem with Sherlock doing the same. John’s reluctance had, however, worked out… rather conveniently. Sherlock narrows his eyes.

“You won’t do it again,” John smirks. He pushes himself up far enough to grab a bottle of lotion that had been sitting– presciently– on the table, then pushes on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Now, roll over and let me take care of you.”