A lovely bit of fanart, which said the artist wished for a text fill. So I tried to give her one. You can see the picture here
Title: Property of John Watson
Rating: R (Suggested themes)
Summary: Sherlock just wants to belong
A/N: I think the picture was set in the 2009 movie verse, but I personally ship BBC verse. Because of that, I tried to make it as generic as possible. I mean, men have been wearing leather belts and white collared dress shirts for a long time! So hopefully it makes sense, whatever verse you prefer.
Sometimes, when Watson leaves the flat and Sherlock knows he'll be gone a few hours, he sneaks into his flatmate's room. At first, he would just curl up on John's bed, hugging a pillow that smelled like the man he'd come to love and wishing he could hug John himself.
Soon, it wasn't enough. One day, he checked the bottom of the wardrobe for dirty clothes and selected a wrinkled white dress shirt. Stripping off his own shirt and undershirt, he slipped it on, noticing the words "Property of John Watson" written into the tag.
Sherlock's breath caught. That was it
. The unnamable thing that had been teasing at his conscience for who only knew how long. He didn't just want John, he wanted to belong to the man. That was why the warning look he receive when he taunted Lestrade turned him on as much as the hand John sometimes put in the small of his back when guiding him into a room.
John Watson was more than Sherlock's flatmate, friend, and partner. He was his dream come true, the love of his life, his owner. Sherlock wrapped the shirt tighter around himself and fought bitter tears as he desperately pushed away the knowledge that John would never return his love. He wasn't going to think about that now. Just for a few minutes, he was going to pretend.
He spotted a belt hanging in the wardrobe and pulled it down. Brown leather, soft, supple, this was one of John's favorite belts. Certainly his oldest. Wanting to dream, just for a little while, about what it would be like not only to hold John and be loved by him but to truly belong to the other man, Sherlock fastened the belt around his own neck, like a collar.
The feel of leather wrapping around delicate skin was too much. Sherlock instantly felt calmed, as if he'd just arrived home from a long journey. Even the knowledge that this wasn't real, that John had no idea and would be disgusted and horrified if he knew, was not powerful enough to overtake the fantasy. He was kneeling in John's room, surrounded by the other man's scent via the unbuttoned shirt, and there was a strip of leather around his neck making it clear who he belonged to. Property of John Watson.
Sherlock was floating so deeply that, when he heard John reenter the flat, he didn't even scramble to hide what he was doing. He only waited, centered and somehow at peace, kneeling in the middle of John's bedroom. He belonged to John Watson. That was all there was to it. Whether or not John had any interest in owning him, he had a right to know about his possession. And so, Sherlock stayed, kneeling and drifting in a haze of submission.
When John entered the room, his first thought was that Sherlock had gone quite mad. "What is this?" he asked, completely caught off guard and thoroughly confused.
"Whatever you want it to be," Sherlock told him quietly. "I'm yours. Whatever you want from me, even if it's nothing, it's what I'll give you. I promise."
John stared at his flatmate as if he'd grown another head. His first thought was that this was some kind of experiment, maybe relating to an abuse of power case. Then he noticed the glazed look in Sherlock's eyes and began to fear that his flatmate was dangerously high. "What did you take?" he asked sternly, confused friend replaced instantly by a doctor, ready to triage.
Sherlock misunderstood the question. "Just the shirt and belt," he said, eyes downcast. "I needed to feel close to you. Property of John Watson," he recited, remembering the tag.
John suddenly found himself remembering things he'd read about the darker side of human sexuality. Dominance and submission- one person giving up control, needing to belong to the other. He'd written off his occasional urge to throttle his flatmate or kiss him senseless after a particularly reckless stunt as overprotective and unproductive, but this display.... it made him suspect that Sherlock wanted exactly what John had always wanted to give him.
"Come here," he ordered, his voice becoming authoritarian naturally. Sherlock didn't rise, but shuffled over on his knees. John reached down and tugged the belt. "You will never dig through my things like this again, is that clear?" he ordered, and Sherlock looked as if he might cry. John was denying him his one comfort, the one thing that kept his dreams alive. Before a tear could break free and make its way down the smooth, pale cheek, John spoke again. "From now on, you come directly to me."
Sherlock's eyes filled with desperate hope, and John smiled. "You aren't the only one who feels the pull of it, Sherlock," John told him, releasing the belt and carding a hand gently through his new lover's hair. "I want to own you as much as you want to be owned." As he spoke, John pulled Sherlock to his feet, removing the shirt and the other man's pants, but leaving the belt as he pushed him matter of a factly onto the bed, climbing on top of the detective and straddling him. "I want to love you, control you, cherish, comfort, protect, love, adore, ravage, and when you need it, punish you. I want to do all of those things because I know, deep down, that you're mine. You were made for me, Sherlock. And I was made for you."