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Sherlock Has to Wait

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“Hey Sherlock, would you mind if I - good God, give it a rest already, would you?

Sherlock looked up at John in the doorway and frowned, still sitting stark naked on his bed and fisting his cock lazily. “What?”

“The - this.” John waved vaguely at Sherlock’s nude form. “How often do you have to wank, anyway? I swear this is the fourth time I’ve walked in on you this week.”

Sherlock shrugged with absolutely no hint of apology. “It’s not like you’ve never seen a penis before, John. It’s just biology.” He tightened his fist and rotated it slightly, sending a visible shockwave up his spine. “I - hngh - I know you do it too.”

John tried very hard to keep his eyes on Sherlock’s face and not let them drift off-course and follow that lean torso down to the only source of motion in the entire room. Which was strangely hypnotic, really, not to mention bloody hot.

Right. “I at least make an effort to be discreet, you prat, which is more than you’ve been doing. Seriously - anyone could have walked in on you yesterday. The sofa in the middle of the afternoon - that’s just asking for Mrs. Hudson to have a heart attack.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “She was an exotic dancer; she’s seen it before.”

“That’s an image I want even less.”

“She was younger, obviously.” Sherlock huffed in what was either annoyance or a visceral reaction to the motion of his hand, now covering more of his length and moving with a bit more vigor. “There’s no reason for you to worry about discretion, either - it’s not like I don’t know exactly what you’re doing anyway. Hiding in the shower isn’t going to help.”

“The polite thing to do would be to pretend you didn’t notice, you know.”

Sherlock ticked off the fingers on his free hand. “Yesterday morning shower, five minutes. Saturday night, around 11 PM, nearly twenty, in your bed with your door closed but not under your covers. Friday morning shower, less than two minutes that time - result of a particularly erotic dream, I’m guessing. Before that was . . . Wednesday shower after work, eight minutes of actual wanking plus almost ten of just standing under the water and daydreaming about sex. Want me to go further back? I’m not going to pretend I don’t notice - noticing is one of my better skills, and I like to practice it when I can.”

“Christ.” John closed his eyes and leaned back against the doorframe, cursing the heat he could feel stealing up his cheeks.

“Furthermore,” Sherlock continued, “you’ll notice that I am in my room at the moment, in my own bed. You’re the one barging in.”

“You could at least close your door.”

“I’m not the one who minds.”

“Yeah, I see that.” John sighed. “I’ll admit I’m surprised - when we first met, you said sex wasn’t your area.”

Relationships aren’t my area.” Sherlock punctuated a particularly languid stroke with a twitch of his hips which had John’s own cock hardening the rest of the way in no time flat. “I see no reason to involve another person in the pursuit of orgasm - I’m in the best position to discern my own needs, clearly, and all that relationship nonsense seems just unnecessarily complicated. I do this because it’s useful, John, not because I’m settling for second-best.”

If John could have distilled all that was Sherlock down to a single quote, that would have probably been it. There were so many things wrong with that statement he didn’t even know where to start, but still . . . “Useful?”

“Clearing my mind.” Sherlock was very definitely involving his hips in the action, now, little short thrusts to meet the slick slap of his tight fist. “I find - orgasm helps to - clarify the - NNNGH.” He threw his head back and panted through the peak, thumb preventing any come from going too far but painting his hand with slick ejaculate. “Sorry,” he gasped, and flopped back to lie flat on the mattress with his hand still over his cock. “Orgasm helps me kick-start a new train of thought. Very useful while on cases.”

John was frozen to the floor, eyes locked on his flatmate. Only his last residual shreds of pride kept him from fleeing to his room and pulling himself off right there, Sherlock’s uncanny perception skills be damned. He’d been trying to brazen through this aspect of Sherlock’s personality ever since they moved in together, but Sherlock was getting more and more obvious about his masturbatory habits and honestly, even if John hadn’t walked in on this exact session, they’d have been having to confront the issue soon anyway. He wasn’t going to be able to keep his attraction to himself much longer, but so far Sherlock had showed no signs of even being aware John existed - at least, not in that way. Which was probably for the best . . .

“You’re still here.” Sherlock groaned and rolled over to his side to reach for the flannel he’d clearly left at the ready. “I really don’t see the issue.”

“It’s not . . .” John stopped a moment to gather his thoughts (and to will his stubborn erection away). “Right. I’m not going to appeal to your sense of modesty, because you don’t have one. And I’m not going to tell you this ‘just isn’t done’ because leaving dessicated pig intestines in the fridge isn’t done either and we’ve compromised on those so you’d call me out for the inconsistency in that. But I’m worried that this is so far outside what normal flatmates would be like, and given the way cases can drag you away for days at a time . . . I mean, does it cause problems if you, you know, go without?”

Sherlock propped himself up on one elbow and frowned, giving the question more thought than John expected. “You think this is another addiction,” he said slowly.

“Not - Christ, not like that.” John kept his hands in his pockets and his gaze stubbornly on Sherlock’s window. Away from all that pale skin. “It just seems like it would get in the way, eventually, if you rely on it too much. There’s going to come a time you don’t have the privacy to wank five times a day, and not everyone is going to be as crap at calling you on your bullshit as I am.”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s voice was smaller. Thoughtful. “I hadn’t looked at it that way, but . . .” He rolled smoothly up to a cross-legged sitting position, elbows propped on his knees. “Fine, I’ll take you up on your wager.”

John blinked. “Wager?”

“That’s what you were about to propose, wasn’t it? I refrain from masturbation for some suitable period of time, with mutually agreeable forfeits or prizes at the end based on the result?”

“I-” John took a deep breath and tried to remind himself that he actually chose this, he volunteered to live with this mad genius with no people skills, so he’d brought this all on himself, really. “What kind of wager?”

Sherlock was silent for several seconds. “Two weeks,” he said eventually. “I refrain from any type of orgasm for two weeks; that should be valid for the purposes of experimentation.”

“And forfeits?”

“What do you want?”

“You cleaning,” John said instantly. “If you can’t do it, you take sole responsibility for cleaning the flat for the week afterward. That means dishes, laundry, organizing the mess in the living room, all of it.”

“Fine.” Sherlock stared at him for far too long before suddenly sitting up straighter and lifting his chin defiantly. “And if I can, you let me do whatever experiments I want for that same week. With no complaints.”

“Whatever you want within reason,” John corrected. “Nothing that will get us evicted, or set the flat on fire, or require Mycroft to institute an international cover-up to fix the mess.”

“Deal.”

I must be fucking insane. “Deal.”