ironmonger | (no subject)

(no subject)

The past few days are finally starting to take their toll on Obadiah when Milliways appears tonight. It's mostly over, save for tracking down the masterminds and dealing with them. Tony is fine - physically, at least - and Sherlock hardly the worse for wear despite the blow to the head he took. In terms of physical damage, the worst they got was Jones's broken leg. In terms of publicity, they're doing well; Stark Industries is front page news. Everyone likes a happy ending.

He's still looking very much forward to making the assholes in charge of the operation pay the price, but for now he's more than happy to settle in at the fireplace with a drink. And, at Bar's insistence, dinner.

[OOC: Warning for painplay and consensual breaking of safewords at some point after the six-hundred-comment mark. This one kind of got away from us.]

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"Sounds lovely. Don't leave anything nearby I can pick the lock with, if you're going that route."

He can joke about it because he knows Obadiah can be trusted.

(He would still joke about it even if he didn't, but never mind that.)

"Of course not," he says, sounding mildly insulted. "That's just sense."

"While granted you are much better at this sort of thing than Tony, he has been tripped up many a a time by the definitions both of nearby and of something I can pick a lock with."

Those were handcuffs, though, and handcuffs are extremely pickable.

"I'll remember that," Obadiah says.

He prides himself on his attention to detail.

(The advance warning doesn't hurt, either.)

"And as you've seen," he glances wryly at the tie, "left to my own devices I tend to free myself without thinking about it. I won't during a scene, of course; if you tell me where the key is and that it isn't there, I can put it out of my mind until it's needed."

This for the purposes of their adventures with Tony. If it's just the two of them, Sherlock is comfortable being locked up in a genuinely inescapable fashion.

"Of course."

He'd planned on that anyway, though more for Tony's sake than Sherlock's.

"I wouldn't want Tony to worry."

He stretches out again, smiling, and settles a little closer to Obadiah on the bed. His lethargy is fading now, but he is still very much in the mood to touch and cuddle and not move unnecessarily.

"But for myself, I am indifferent to the presence or absence of a not-to-be-acknowledged key. While we're here, would you like to strangle me?"

"If you aren't in the middle of anything else right now," Obadiah says with dry amusement.

"Nothing I cannot afford to interrupt," he says, grinning up at Obadiah. "But I am quite incapable of summoning fear right now and I would not like you to get bored."

"I'd just as soon you didn't anyway," Obadiah says, mostly truthful. "I imagine Tony's going to have a few questions when you go downstairs later and I'd rather the answers not be anything he won't want to hear."

There is of course the part of him that doesn't care about that logic, doesn't care about the consequences, just wants what it wants and wants it now, but it's been a very long time since that part was truly in control.

"I accept your logic," he says, which is a high compliment indeed from Sherlock Holmes.

"Glad to hear it."

He stops rubbing Sherlock and sits back to give him room to turn over.

Which he does happily enough, although he can't help sighing wistfully at the loss of Obadiah's hands.

Oh, well. They'll soon be back.

It's a shame that using the belt on his chest and stomach would have been far too dangerous; after the time spent exploring the forming welts, the expanse of clean skin on this side is almost offensive to Obadiah's eyes.

He makes a note to have plenty of options around for dealing with that in the future.

"Are you comfortable like this?" he asks.

"Yes, thank you."

Where 'comfortable' means 'in only the kinds of pain I like', but then, that is a perfectly rational working definition.

Comfort is relative. Even with the effects of the salve, Obadiah didn't think he'd be pain-free. Considering the situation, he doesn't even think Sherlock would want to be, not right now.

"Good," he says, straddling Sherlock. It's the same position as before, but the situation is dramatically different.

And Sherlock's posture and expression reflect that difference—loose, easy, peaceful, content; not at all the intensely deliberate calm of that previous encounter. His fingertips trace aimless patterns on the sheets, his eyes close only halfway, and he waits with a smile for Obadiah to start.

He tips Sherlock's chin back a little, running his fingers along the exposed line of his throat and over the pulse.

His hands still know the shape of Sherlock's throat perfectly, and not just because of the interlude with Tony. They settle into place with ease, and Obadiah savors the feel of it as he begins slowly to apply pressure.

In terms of pure sensory input it is very, very familiar, but the emotional content could not be more different.

He remembers, yes; he even remembers, quite vividly, one of his spontaneously generated plans for how to kill Obadiah from here. But he doesn't want to. He doesn't even have to push the thought out of his mind; it fades on its own, because it is wholly irrelevant.

The touch of Obadiah's hands on his neck is warm and welcome; the pressure is pleasant, even comforting. His breath settles into its precise rhythm, six seconds in, six seconds out, and he calculates the changing rate of his pulse without worrying about where his mind chooses to focus.

He can see the difference in Sherlock's face. It isn't the determined blank calm of before, but a genuine relaxation. It's not unlike Tony, the second time around.

He isn't going to get the reaction he got before, but that's fine. That isn't what this is about. This is about confirming that Sherlock is right to trust Obadiah with his hands around his neck. This is about laying groundwork.

Obadiah is used to ignoring the demands of that small part of him that always wants more.

Another difference: Sherlock isn't thinking of Obadiah's self-control, isn't thinking of how much he wants to know firsthand what is under all those carefully guarded habits. He still does, yes, but it isn't the time.

He is thinking mainly of where the faint fingerprints are going to show, and the way Obadiah's weight presses his collection of incipient bruises against the bed, and how incomparably lovely this feels. And the numbers. His pulse is usually faster than this at this stage, even with Tony. He wonders idly what the difference is, but doesn't pursue the thought all the way to its conclusion.

As he always does, he increases the pressure bit by bit. It's sheer habit this time around. There's no reason to want to crank up the tension or induce panic through sheer anticipation. It's the way he always does this.

And he does still have reason to want to draw out the experience.

It's not like Tony described that experience, like being filled with a love that occupies your whole being until it is the only thing left.

It is rather more like improvising on the violin.

Sherlock thinks of that. The tune drifts through his mind and the corners of his mouth turn up and he leaves off calculation, leaves off analysis, leaves off everything but being here and feeling this and knowing it is all right.

. . . now that is a lovely sight all on its own. Sherlock looks utterly open and vulnerable, and for a second or two, Obadiah's fingers itch to do something about that.

He pushes the impulse back, though, and it passes.

He slows the process just a little more, to draw the moment out that much longer.

Sherlock doesn't see it.

He doesn't just look open and vulnerable; he is. He has given Obadiah his complete trust, enough so that he believes no harm will come to him, enough so that he is no longer even looking to see if it might. Not analyzing Obadiah's movements, consciously or unconsciously. Not counting the passage of time by his still-measured breaths.

Not paying attention to anything but sensuality and trust.