Author’s Note: This story fills the bingo square for ‘bent over’ in the ‘Holiday Bingo Challenge’ over at the LJ group ‘spanking_world’. It’s also filling the following prompt from Dino76: Elementary – Joan/Sherlock
In the very first episode Sherlock smashes Joan's car and winds up in jail for the night. She talks his father out of evicting him. Maybe Holmes Sr. sends Joan a cane to use to keep his son in line. Maybe Joan is reluctant at first, and doesn't want to use something Sherlock's father sent or suggested, but she doesn't reject the idea and thinks Sherlock should suffer some repercussions for his behavior.
Half of the lines in the jail scene are straight from the show.
Disclaimer: I don’t own any of these characters, and I’m not making any money from this story.
Warning: Mostly consensual (slightly coerced) disciplinary spanking of an adult.

The Sub Who Knows How To Fake It

Sherlock sat in his cell staring at the opposite wall trying to decide if it had been worth it. Less than an hour ago he’d demanded that Joan hand over her car keys, and then he’d rammed her car head first into a suspect’s car in a fit of rage because they had no evidence to convict him. On the one hand, it had felt spectacularly satisfying to ruin the man’s car. But he wasn’t sure if that one fleeting moment of enormous joy had been enough to offset all the consequences.

He did feel badly about smashing Joan’s car. She had insurance, and his father would pay her handsomely to get it repaired, but getting it repaired would inconvenience her, and he found he disliked that concept. The more time he spent with her, the more grudging respect he had to give her. She was smarter than most, and clearly more observant about her surroundings than the average person. On top of that, she had an unusual dominant vibe. It wasn’t the typical ‘I’m in control and you will obey me or else’ type of vibe that he found exciting in dominant women. Joan’s dominant vibe was something much more terrifying; it was motherly. She was warm, supportive, gently guiding, and helpful right up until the point she felt he’d stepped over the line.

He winced as he thought about losing his temper with that female victim they’d been questioning. Joan had stood, told him off properly, and demanded he wait by the car as if he’d been a misbehaving child. To his horror, he’d felt thoroughly ashamed of himself, and he’d been utterly unable to refuse her demand. If she hadn’t given him time to compose himself before coming out, he might very well have begged her forgiveness right then and there. Scowling at his own thoughts he forced himself back on the correct train of thought.

The other major consequence to his behavior was that his father would most likely kick him out of the Brownstone. He had mixed feelings about that. He wasn’t exactly worried about being homeless, and not being under his father’s thumb would be freeing. He also wasn’t worried about using again, he’d vowed never to let drugs take over the way they had before. But it would be quite difficult to solve murders without a workspace other than the precinct.

While he was contemplating these things, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and saw Joan walking towards the glass. He immediately stood and walked over to his side of the window, and the two of them picked up the phones on their respective sides. He truly disliked the look she was giving him. Anger he could have dealt with, but she wasn’t angry, she was disappointed.

Glancing at the floor he said, "I’m sorry." Forcing his eyes up, he continued. "Not just about the car, but about the way I spoke to you earlier. I knew your patient’s death would be a sore subject. I just couldn’t…"

"Help yourself," she finished for him. "Yeah. I’m starting to see how that’s kind of a thing with you."

Trying not to wince at being deduced so effortlessly, he aimed his gaze down and didn’t deny it. Changing the subject he said, "I assume you’ve told my father about what happened tonight." He glanced at her face, and then nodded after seeing her expression. With a small self-deprecating smile, he said, "I’m going to miss that brownstone."

"Actually you’re not."

His eyebrows went up in surprise as he realized what that meant.

"I spoke with your father," she said, "and since what you did to my car had nothing to do with drugs, he’s agreed to give you another chance."

"You’ve decided to stay on as my companion then," he concluded with a small smile. When she didn’t immediately agree, he added, "He never would have agreed if you hadn’t."

She sighed, and gave him a curt nod.

"I’m very pleased, Watson," he said honestly, and then immediately followed that up with a half-truth. "Not for myself, of course, but for you. I happen to think there’s some hope for you as an investigator."

"I want you to let me in on the rest of the plan to catch this guy." She spoke with that same mild motherly authority that he wasn’t sure how to refuse. "I know you wouldn’t have wrecked my car unless it was part of some elaborate…"

He couldn’t hide his wince this time, because he had absolutely no idea how to catch the guy, and he knew she wouldn’t like that answer.

As soon as she saw his face she muttered, "…temper tantrum. Right."

Sherlock hated the way those words made his stomach dive, and glared at the floor. It hadn’t been a temper tantrum; it had been a fit of rage. There was a difference, but he wasn’t about to correct her when she was already upset with him.

"In that case, I want you to tell me about London." she said in that same authoritative tone that made him want to answer her.

Refusing to give in to his base desires, he replied glibly, "Big place. Lots of rain."

"I want you to tell me about what happened to you in London," she reiterated while looking him straight in the eyes.

"Why is it important to you?" he asked, trying valiantly not to give in.

"Because if I’m going to stay with you, I need to know everything."

Her use of the word ‘need’ grated on him the wrong way, and he was easily able to refuse her this time. "Actually, you don’t need to know anything other than I’m a recovering addict. You want to know about London, because you think it will connect us in a more meaningful way. But in case you hadn’t noticed, I don’t have meaningful connections."

He waited to see how she’d respond, and she surprised him by smiling knowingly. It made him highly uncomfortable. "Why are you smiling?" he asked.

"Because now I know it was a woman."

His stomach sank, and he had to work very hard at keeping his face neutral. "What makes you say that?" he asked, forcing himself not to think about her.

"You’re trying too hard. Just like you were the other day with that tattooed lady. All that ‘sex is repellent’ crap. You can connect to people. It just frightens you."

There it was again. The same grudging respect, mixed with terror that she saw him so clearly. They stared at each other for a few seconds before he said, "My bail hearing is at nine tomorrow morning. I trust I’ll see you there."

"Your father is having a cane sent to the brownstone," she said with a raised eyebrow. "He told me I should use it to keep you in line."

His knees felt weak, and he said softly, "That’s entirely unacceptable on every possible level."

"I thought so, too. But now…" she tilted her head to the side, "…I’m not so sure. Yesterday you were talking about that suspect giving off a Submissive vibe, and dismissed him as the killer because of it. Do you know what kind of vibe you give off?"

"I’m a switch," he lied.

"You’re a Sub who knows how to fake it," she countered.

Pursing his lips, he glared at the floor yet again. She said softly, "I don’t like the idea of a cane, and I especially don’t like the idea of using anything your father provided since it clearly upsets you. So tomorrow when I pick you up from your bail hearing, I want you to tell me what you deserve for wrecking my car."

His eyes snapped up to hers, and he watched her hang up with his mouth hanging open. She gave him another curt nod, and walked away, while he stood dumfounded with the phone still held to his ear.

# # #

After several agonizing hours of trying to decide what he actually deserved for wrecking Joan’s car, and another hour of trying to decide what he was going to tell her he deserved, Sherlock fell into a short fitful sleep. He dreamed of his mother, and Joan, and her. None of it was restful or refreshing in the least. When it was time for his bail hearing, he was grateful.

Once he got to the courtroom and realized Joan wasn’t present, he started to worry. It wasn’t like her to be late, which meant she’d either overslept, which seemed unlikely, or she’d changed her mind about staying with him, and frankly that hurt. Doing his best to put her out of his mind, he suffered through the incredibly dull bail hearing, and dutifully did what was expected of him so that he could go home and have a long think.

As he was walking down the steps of the courthouse, he saw Joan headed his way, which gave him a rush of feelings that he didn’t appreciate. First was relief that she hadn’t abandoned him, and next was annoyance that she’d been late, and lastly was nervous anticipation about their upcoming discussion.

"You’re late," he said, going on the defensive. "I didn’t take you for the…"

She cut him off by shoving a file into his chest. "Look at what this says about the dead guy’s allergies."

Shocked and pleased with her focus on the case, his eyes went to where she was pointing, and suddenly the pieces all fell together in his head. He knew how to catch their suspect, and nothing else mattered until that happened. "Come Watson, let’s put this guy away."

# # #

Four hours later, Sherlock was in good spirits as he and Watson took a cab back to the brownstone. They’d caught the bad guy in a blatant lie, and he was currently being booked. As Joan paid the cab driver, Sherlock got out, and then stopped in his tracks half way up the stairs to his front door.

"What’s wrong?" she asked, and then followed his line of sight. There in front of the door was a long thin delivery box, that looked to be the perfect size for a cane.

Joan walked past him, picked up the box, and said, "Come on," as she opened the door.

Squaring his shoulders, and telling himself to buck up, he walked stiffly into the house behind her and shut the door.

She opened the coat closet near the front door, shoved the box inside, and firmly closed it. After dusting her hands off, she said, "Let’s go talk upstairs."

Surprised at the level of relief he felt at seeing the cane put away so promptly, he followed her without comment. She sat in his TV room and gestured for him to sit beside her on the other chair. He sat and tried not to fidget when she gave him an expectant look.

"Tell me what you think you deserve for having a temper tantrum and wrecking my car."

"It wasn’t a temper tantrum, it was a fit of rage," he muttered, picking at some lint on his jeans.

Clearly unimpressed she crossed her arms and waited.

"I… I deserve…" irritated by his inability to spit it out the words he’d planned to tell her, he unbuckled his belt, yanked it off his waist, and held it out to her. Forcing himself to meet her eyes he said clearly, "I deserve a whipping. I spoke to you with disrespect, I destroyed your property, and I put your job in jeopardy by not following my father’s edicts. I apologize, and I’ll do my best not to let it happen again."

She looked at the belt he was still holding and then back at him. "Would you actually dislike a whipping? Isn’t that what the tattooed woman was doing to you before I arrived?"

Flushing at being caught out he stammered, "I doubt I’d enjoy it if you were the one doing it."

She shook her head and said with disappointment, "I’m going to go make some tea, and you’re going to sit here quietly by yourself until you can give me a better answer."

"What? That’s ridiculous. You can’t…" Before he’d had the chance to come up with an adult term for being put in time out, she was up and walking down the stairs. He tossed the belt across the room in anger, and heard her footsteps stop. He froze and waited until he heard her continue down the stairs before he started breathing again.

He shifted and fidgeted in his chair for a good ten minutes, before resigning himself to telling her the truth. The idiotic and always irritating submissive portion of his brain was begging him to be truthful, and he was tired of denying it again and again.

He found her sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea in front of her, and another cup of tea in front of a vacant chair. Keeping his eyes on the table he said with sincerity, "The worst punishment for me is boredom. Dull repetitive tasks like writing lines are excruciating for me. I’m able to tolerate a moderate amount of pain quite well, but I don’t actively enjoy it per se. I hate the cane. It brings up bad childhood memories, and tends to anger me, so it’s not a good implement. The belt… you’re right, I can enjoy that to some degree if used by someone with experience. But…"

He trailed off.

"But?" she prompted.

His voice was almost a whisper as he said, "But a slippering wouldn’t make me angry, and I could never enjoy it."

"Why not?" Joan asked.

"Because it reminds me of my mother, and it makes me feel… ashamed of myself if I’ve actually done something to be ashamed of." He made eye contact for the first time and said, "You remind me of her in certain ways, so it seems… appropriate."

"Thank you for your honesty," she said. "And what do you think you deserve for the car incident?"

"A hundred with the slipper, and a thousand lines."

She shook her head and said gently, "That’s much too harsh, Sherlock."

He shrugged. "That’s what I think I deserve."

"Then I guess it’s a good thing it’s not up to you." She tapped the table with her fingertip and said, "Jeans down, but leave the boxers up, and bend over."

Pursing his lips, he quickly shoved his jeans down and leaned over, putting his elbows on the table. He wanted this whole distasteful affair over and done with so he could shove his submissive guilt back to the recesses of his brain where it belonged.

"I’ll be right back," she said, and went to her room.

He tried to think of anything other than his current predicament, but it was nearly impossible while bending over and feeling guilty.

She came back in holding a thick off-white slipper that looked like it would pack quite a wallop, and he cringed. Walking up to him, she put a hand on his lower back and rested the sole of the slipper on his ass.

"I’m giving you twenty, and then you’re going to sit and write me a hundred lines while you drink your tea."

He didn’t know if he should be upset or relieved at such a light sentence after he’d suggested something much harsher. But in the end it simply felt right. His own mother would never have agreed to punish him so harshly no matter what he’d said. And the fact that Joan was going to make him drink his tea during the punishment, made the whole ordeal seem… familial and caring rather than erotic.

When the first solid thwack of the rubber sole landed on his thinly covered backside, he grunted and balled his hands into fists. Clearly Joan wasn’t holding back, and he was very glad she’d given him a number to focus on. She smacked him again and said, "I didn’t appreciate your tone last night." His stomach churned at her lecturing, and he grunted again as she gave him two more hard slaps with the slipper. "If you want something, you ask me politely, you don’t demand." Two more slaps lnded. "When you’re angry, you don’t lash out in a rage." He shifted his weight from foot to foot with the next two slaps. "If you need to get out some aggression, we can carry a pillow around for you to punch."

"I’m not actually a child," he snapped.

She smacked him even harder. He groaned and came up on his toes for those two. "No one said you were. But you are undisciplined, and that’s going to change while I’m around." The next swats landed lower where his ass met his thighs, which made him suck in air between his teeth. "Did you even think about the fact that you could have hurt yourself?"

"What?" The slipper landed twice more, and a very undignified whine came out of him.

Joan rubbed his back and said gently, "You could have seriously hurt yourself by ramming into that other car. You have the cuts on your forehead to prove it. What if glass had landed in your eye?"

He couldn’t take her concern for his wellbeing. It made him feel even worse than before, so he arched his back to get away from her gentle touch and muttered, "Don’t be ridiculous, Watson."

She moved her hand to his shoulder, and squeezed it gently while speaking very sternly. "It’s not ridiculous. You could have hurt yourself, and that is the least acceptable thing you did last night."

Before he could formulate a response, the damn slipper had landed on his ass again, building on the unpleasant burning sensation that was now covering his entire backside. When the third strike landed, he realized the lecture portion of this punishment was over, and held his breath to ride out the last three explosions of pain on already sore skin.

As soon as the twentieth smack landed, he carefully and slowly let his breath out to ensure he didn’t embarrass himself with any whining.

"You took that very well," she praised while patting his back again.

The hated submissive portion of his brain ate up her praise while the logical portion of his brain fiercely rejected her praise as placating.

"Pull up your pants, sit down, and drink your tea while I get some paper."

He slowly pushed himself into a standing position, and carefully pulled his jeans up into place. After a hatful glare at the innocent kitchen chair he’d been told to sit in, he eased himself down, refused to wince, and took a sip of his tea.

His eyes and ears tracked Joan as she took the slipper back to her room, got some blank paper out of his printer, and grabbed one of the pens off his desk. She sat in the chair next to his, and wrote a line on the top sheet of paper before pushing the small stack towards him. He took the offered pen, and looked at what she’d written.

"One hundred lines, numbered, and written neatly please," she said with that same horrible calm authority.

Clenching his jaw, he closed his eyes for a moment and strongly resisted the urge to send the entire stack of papers flying off the edge of the table. Of all the things she could have made him copy repeatedly as punishment, this was the worst. This line made him feel… guilty and cared for all at once, and he had a very difficult time dealing with those two emotions at once.

He felt her hand on his shoulder again, and automatically jerked his upper half away from her.

"Sherlock," she said in a much gentler tone while squeezing his shoulder again, "I know you don’t like this, but I also know you can do it. A hundred lines please. Neatly and numbered."

When she let go, his shoulders slumped in defeat, and he opened his eyes to look at the line again. He sighed, shifted in his seat to try and find the least painful position, and started to write.

1. I will not purposely put myself in harm’s way while having a temper tantrum.
2. I will not…

The End

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