This is another instalment to my story “The Talk”.
Summary: After S2E9 Captain Gregson finds out about Sherlock’s plan to plant evidence at Bundsch’s home to tie him to the kidnapping of a woman. He is not pleased.
Disclaimer : I don’t own any of these characters, and I’m not making any money from this story.
Warnings : non-consensual spanking of an adult. I do not advocate this behaviour in real life, only in fiction.
He didn’t know how the Captain had found out about his ill-advised idea to frame Lucas Bundsch with the hair from the hairbrush he had lifted off the purse, but he did. It had been a spectacularly bad idea and Sherlock knew that. Of course he knew that, had known it since the moment the thought had struck him at the girl’s house, but he absolutely loathed the mental image of a killer and kidnapper getting away with his crimes. It angered him; the mere thought burning through his brain and chasing away any sensible concept of right and wrong. He had acted on a whim. At least as close as his overactive mind could come to a whim. He had, of course, run through every possible outcome, weighed the pros and cons, in a matter of seconds.
What he hadn't brought into the equation was the Captain’s very apparent displeasure about his intended acts – and the dire promise he had made almost a year ago. But to be perfectly honest, he had assumed Gregson would never know of his misdeed.
But musings about how the Captain found out were not what was occupying him at this very moment. It irked him, as did everything he couldn’t find an immediate answer for, sure, but diverting Gregson from his current plan of action was taking up most of his mental capacities.
“I’m not a child!” he exclaimed loudly. “It’s ridiculous to even suggest such a notion!” He paced the Brownstone’s kitchen like a caged animal, taking affront in the calm exterior Gregson exuded. Sitting on one of his kitchen chairs, the man looked infuriatingly composed and unperturbed by his continued ranting.
Stopping abruptly, he glared at him again, but Gregson did not rise to the bait.
“I warned you about what I’d do if you let your temper get the best of you again,” he replied calmly. “I don’t like it either when criminals get away, but we do not take matters into our own hands and plant evidence, even if we know that they did it.”
“I know that!” he shouted back, stomping his foot. It didn’t produce the desired impact, because of a lack of proper footwear. Socked feet on hardwood floor did not make the appropriate noise. “And I apologised for it! It was admittedly not one of my most stellar moments, and you’re in your right to make certain that I won’t venture down that road again. I’m merely opposed to your chosen form of punishment.”
“Yes, you have made that very clear,” the Captain said. “But I’m not changing my mind.”
“But why?” If ever asked, he would deny that there might have been a whine in his voice, or that he threw his arms around like an angry toddler.
“Because you knew the consequences. Maybe you should have thought about how much you don’t want a trip over my knee before you lifted that hairbrush.” He would have much preferred for Gregson to start yelling and ranting at him. Anger he could have dealt with, but calm and sane explanations only served to rile him up further. “You are going over my knee for a well-deserved spanking. All your ranting is only postponing the inevitable.”
“I’m not doing it!” he shouted, stomping his foot again for good measure and before he could stop himself, he had grabbed a used tea mug off the counter and hurled it across the room. It shattered quite spectacularly, if he dared say so, and he whipped his head around to gauge the Captain’s mood. A flared temper always did wonders to distract the opponent from their previous course of action.
“Okay. You need some time to calm down, while I clean that up,” the Captain said, still infuriatingly calm, as he rose from the chair. Sherlock could do nothing but stare slack-jawed at him as he gripped his arm and moved him towards a corner of the room, well away from the broken china on the floor. He was pushed face first into the junction of walls before he could utter a single word of complaint. “You stay here until you’re ready to talk civilly.”
He immediately whirled around, mouth opening to continue his rant, but couldn’t even get one word out, before Gregson took his arm again and turned him back to face the corner. A searing smack across the seat of his trousers discouraged another attempt to flee his predicament.
“Stay. Quiet. Calm down.”
“Captain,” he started, looking over his shoulder, but kept his body angled to the wall. “You…” He jumped with another hearty slap and snapped his mouth shut.
“Face the corner. Be quiet.” Anger and embarrassment simmering in his stomach, he reluctantly did as he was told, following the Captain’s movements with his ears. He retrieved a broom and for a few moments the only sounds to be heard were the sweeping of shards and his own laboured breathing. Then Gregson returned to the table, sitting again, and leaving Sherlock to stew in silence.
“This is ridiculous!” he said again, and slapped the wall for emphasis. Self-preservation kept him from turning around again though. He could deduce the Captain’s behaviour just as well without looking at him.
“Shush.” He slumped a bit, forehead thumping against the wall, as he contemplated his options. They were decidedly meagre.
“Why are you doing this?” he finally asked, as he couldn’t stand the silence any longer.
“Because I care about you.”
“But why … this?” he asked again. “Why do you wish to treat me like a child?”
“I know you went to boarding school, Sherlock, and I know about the way discipline is dished out there. – I also know you’re not close to your father. – I want this experience to be as different as it can possibly be from anything you might have experienced before.” Hearing the Captain’s undoubtedly sincere explanation, made him slump even further. To be perfectly honest he couldn’t really remember that anyone had cared about him enough to actually call him out on his behaviour because they wished for him to be a better person – because they cared about him. “Do you understand that?”
It hurt to admit that to himself, but Watson and the Captain – and possibly Detective Bell – were the only people to really care about him as a person.
“Yes. – I-I understand.” More silence followed. “You didn’t have to clean up my mess,” he said after a while, waving with his hands in the general direction of the stairs where the mug had shattered.
“You’re not wearing shoes and I didn’t want you to cut yourself,” the Captain replied calmly. He didn’t know what to say to that so he opted to remain silent, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He glanced down at his watch, but he didn’t have any reference to determine how long he’d been standing there. It certainly felt like an eternity. He had never been good at dealing with boredom.
Clearing his throat, he asked, “How- how long do I have to stay here?”
“Until you’ve calmed down and are ready to talk civilly,” Gregson replied. Then after a pause, “Are you calm?”
He nodded quickly, mumbling a sincere ‘yes’.
“Then come here.” He turned quickly and watched Gregson move his chair away from the table, facing the room, before sitting again and beckoning him over. He stayed where he was, just to be sure.
“Do you understand why I want to put you over my knee?” He was an intelligent man – smarter than most – of course he did. But he bit back the smart reply at the tip of his tongue and simply nodded. “Okay. Good. – Come here.” Gregson patted his thigh once and his face flushed with heat. Understanding it and going along with it were two very different things, and he couldn’t make his feet move within reaching distance of the Captain.
“Captain…” he started in another attempt to change the man’s mind, but Gregson just shook his head slightly, brows furrowing.
“Any more arguing and the pants are coming down,” he threatened with another expectant pat on his thigh. Heat rose again to stain his cheeks and ears and Sherlock fought very hard to keep the whine inside that threatened to emerge. He didn’t want to disrobe. He had no qualms about nudity, usually, but this was an entirely awkward situation and putting himself over Gregson’s knee was making him feel childish enough. He didn’t need to worsen the experience by having to remove his trousers.
He shuffled closer, taking as much time as he dared, but the Captain appeared to be prepared to wait this one out. He stopped again next to his leg, desperately searching for the least embarrassing way to lean over. A million thoughts raced through his head, most of them determining the level of awkwardness and impracticability of placing a grown man over one’s lap. He voiced his concerns, couldn’t help but do so, but the Captain dismissed them with a simple, “I’ll manage.”
His desperation must have been evident on his face, because Gregson took his wrist and drew him forward until he was forced to bend at the waist and put his free hand on the other man’s thigh.
From there on it only got worse, as the Captain continued to pull with gentle but unrelenting force and he settled his hips on Gregson’s thighs. He used his hands on the floor to hold himself up, while his toes touched the ground on the other side of the chair, with his knees bent and unable to support his weight because they hung freely.
He squirmed, trying to scoot back to make his backside less of a target, but the Captain’s arm looped around his waist, hand pressing his hip firmly against his stomach, and he reluctantly settled.
“Okay,” Gregson said from somewhere above him. It was entirely awkward; worse than his imagination had procured, and he flushed furiously. “Why are you getting this spanking?”
“Do we really need to make this as horrible as possible?” he asked, and a rather unpleasant sting engulfed his right butt cheek. Despite his best intentions he sucked in a surprised breath, marvelling at the Captain’s ability to produce such a sharp pain through two layers of clothing.
“It’s not the best moment to mouth off at me.” Gregson rested his ginormous hand on the back of his left thigh. No doubt a not so subtle threat to make him comply more quickly.
“I planned to plant evidence at Bundsch’s home to tie him to the kidnapping,” he said quickly.
“That’s right,” the Captain said. “And why did you do that?”
“Because I did not want him to walk free – again. – And … and let my temper dictate my actions,” he mumbled, squirming again.
“Also right. – You’re a grown man – a very smart man, and you cannot let your actions be controlled by your inability to keep your temper in check,” Gregson lectured calmly. “Maybe this will help you remember if there ever is a next time.” His hand lifted from his thigh and Sherlock tensed in anticipation. He wasn’t made to wait for long, as the first of no doubt many smacks landed on his rear end. He grunted, and immediately clamped his mouth shut to keep any further sound inside.
The Captain was methodical in his approach, doling out the same amount of smacks to each cheek, but his attempt to anticipate his moves, proved futile. There was no apparent pattern, other than that he alternated cheeks, which made handling the unpleasant sting difficult, and he couldn’t keep his hips from moving and his legs from twitching.
He had handled pain much worse than this. Self-inflicted by one of his experiments or otherwise, therefore it shouldn’t be so difficult to deal with a hand spanking of all things. But the whole ordeal was incredibly humbling. Being placed in such a vulnerable position left him raw and open, and that combined with the burn in his backside was, simply put, awful.
He sucked in a pained breath as the Captain shifted his focus to the area between his butt and thighs, where he would feel it most when he sat down.
“I hope this will be a deterrent in the future,” he lectured calmly, smacking the other thigh.
“Yes!” he bit out through clenched teeth, balling his hands into fists and pressing the fingernails into his palms to distract himself from the pain in his butt.
“I really hope I won’t have to do this again, Sherlock.” Another flurry of smacks and he drummed his feet on the floor, the muscles in his legs tensing and straining.
“You and I both, Captain. – Ow,” he added in a low voice. It continued for a while longer, Sherlock couldn’t say how long, but it certainly felt like an eternity, where he had nothing else to focus on except the disappointment in Gregson’s voice and the sharp burn inflicted by his unyielding palm.
And just as he was about to embarrass himself further by kicking his feet up or starting to cry, it ended.
He let out a slow breath, willing the tears back by sheer determination and surreptitiously wiping at the ones that did escape, as the hand that up until now had caused so much discomfort took up rubbing his back in gentle circles. He wasn’t one for physical contact that did not involve sex or boxing, but it gave him something to focus on until he got his breathing and facial expression under control.
As soon as he managed that, he immediately pushed himself up and off the Captain’s lap. Standing, he looked at everything but Gregson, fidgeting in place and fighting the urge to rub at his butt. The Captain stood too.
“I know you’re not one for hugs,” he started. “I’m gonna offer it anyway.”
“I-I’m good. Thanks,” he mumbled, and jerked as his shoulder was gently grasped.
“Okay. I respect that,” the Captain said. “If you ever change your mind, don’t hesitate.”
“That’s not going to happen.” He fidgeted some more, eyes firmly trained on a spot above Gregson’s left shoulder.
“You took that really well.” He shook his shoulder slightly, adding, “Hey, look at me, Sherlock.” He did, because how could he not? It would only further cement that the Captain had chosen exactly the right punishment to get to him. “I’m proud of you for going through with that.” He squirmed again in discomfort, eyes darting away again. “I know how hard that was for you.” He nodded, and thankfully the Captain let go of his shoulder, and he quickly took a step back. “I hope you’ve learned from that.”
“I-I have,” he said after clearing his throat, treacherous tears still at the back of his eyes, ready to emerge at the slightest provocation. “I’ll make a better effort to control my temper. There won’t be a next time.”
“Good.” They stared at each other for a while and Sherlock fought the urge to squirm even more under the scrutiny. “Are you okay?”
“I’m- I,” he stopped, sorting his thoughts. “I will be. – I – I just need a moment.”
“Okay. Do you want me to leave?”
“I … don’t know,” he admitted, going back to staring over his shoulder.
“Okay. – How about this then, I’ll go upstairs, wait in the library for a while and you join me when you’re ready. How’s that sound?”
“That would be… that would work.”
He watched the Captain ascend the stairs and once he was out of sight, heaved a big sigh and finally succumbed to rubbing his butt. He’d join the Captain shortly, as soon as his backside stopped burning quite so viciously and his eyes wouldn’t threaten to leak tears if he so much as tilted his head. He’d distract himself with one of the cold cases he had upstairs and maybe the Captain would join his efforts, as he had done before.
That would be nice.