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Sherlock Has to Wait

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Sherlock was a surprisingly heavy sleeper, when he did deign to sleep. John got a few hours himself, up in his bedroom, then woke up around three to finish his preparations. When he slid into Sherlock’s bed at half past, the detective barely moved.

“Hey,” John said softly, nuzzling Sherlock’s pectoral with his nose. “You’re going to miss it.”

“Mmmm?” Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, elongating his spine in a lazy stretch, then slowly became aware of John’s presence. “I . . . miss what?”

“You can’t have forgotten already - you’ve been waiting two bloody weeks for this.” John slid down lower, so he was pressing tiny kisses to Sherlock’s lean stomach through the cotton of the pajama shirt. “The end of the wager. When you finally get to come - inside me, I think your request was? Your bed’s as good a place to start as any.”

Sherlock made a strangled noise, but the erection pressing up against John’s collarbone said he understood perfectly well. “It’s not - you’re trying to trick me. There’s still hours yet.”

“Look at your clock.”

Sherlock blinked sleepily at the alarm. The red numbers blinked “7:02 PM” back at him. It took a full three seconds for him to close his mouth and return his quizzical gaze to John.

“No point getting out of bed to confirm - my alarm, the microwave, the oven, both our laptops, and our phones all say the same thing. I even remembered to mark the date off on the wall calendar. I say it’s seven o’clock and it’s been two weeks, Sherlock. And I’m amending our wager again.”

Sherlock licked his lips. “Oh?”

“Mmmm.” John slid a little lower, just enough to press his cheek to the line of Sherlock’s erection under his pajamas. “You talk a big game. And we both know you would be perfectly happy to come here, on the sofa, in the shower, on the kitchen table, under the kitchen table, and on pretty much any accommodating surface in the flat. So I’m giving you a challenge.”

“I - hngh! - I like challenges.” Sherlock tried valiantly to resist the urge to buck as John nuzzled up and down the length of his cock, but his body betrayed him. “I always win.”

“Oh, I do hope so. Because you’ve built yourself up quite a list.” John rucked Sherlock’s pajama shirt upward a few inches and pressed an abrupt and messy kiss directly over his navel. “I don’t have quite the stamina you do, but you’re going to change that. Because by the end of the day, I expect you to get me off in each and every one of those positions we’ve talked about. Here on my back, bent over the sofa, sprawled over the table, against the wall in the shower, panting and desperate on the kitchen floor. Five times, five orgasms, by the time we get to the real seven PM. Think you can do that?”

Sherlock groaned. “Do I - do I have to wait to come? Because I don’t know if I-”

“God, no,” John growled, and dragged Sherlock’s trousers and pants roughly down to his knees. “I figured we can call it a draw and we’ll save that for one of your future experiments. I kinda like seeing you beside yourself like this. Rock-hard and aching.” He encircled Sherlock’s erection with a gentle grip and pumped him a few times - Sherlock was already leaking, already on the edge, and he’d been awake less than five minutes. “I haven’t come six times in one day since that one time when I was fourteen - you’ll have to be very, very good.”

Sherlock blinked. “Six-”

“Got a head start in the shower. While I was doing this.” He dragged the sheets back, threw a knee over Sherlock’s hips, and guided himself down onto Sherlock’s length in one long movement.

And Sherlock threw his head back so fast it actually rebounded on his pillow. “Fuck, John, you - fuck.”

“All prepped and ready to go,” John admitted. “Thought you’d appreciate me taking care of that for you. Fucking myself on my fingers in the shower, getting nice and slick, tossing one off while daydreaming about how you’d feel inside me. How you’d be so warm and thick, make me feel so deliciously full. Got the last of my sexual identity crisis out of the way early so I could just ride you until you broke. Figured it was only fair to give you a handicap, making me start from zero, given how utterly debauched you looked already when I tucked you in to bed.” He shifted upward and settled again - Sherlock did feel fantastic inside him, heavy and hot and amazing, untapped potential all coiled and ready to go, that laser-focus ready to be turned on him-

Sherlock gasped and bucked, squeezing his eyes shut tightly and going rigid with a choked-off shout. John squeezed around him, which prompted another curse and a groan. He was more or less hard, now, just thanks to that, but he held perfectly still so Sherlock could pull out. The man was surely oversensitive, so soon after his orgasm - John had hoped they’d be able to draw it out a bit more, but it was hardly surprising that Sherlock couldn’t wait. He’d been waiting for two bloody weeks.

“Sorry,” Sherlock mumbled, averting his eyes. “I couldn’t - that was -”

“Completely understandable,” John finished for him. “I did warn you I was going to be cheating.” He started to lift himself up, to go clean up, but Sherlock’s sudden grip on his hips stopped him.

“Wait - don’t make assumptions. I didn’t say I was done yet.”

John glanced down at where they were still joined. Where Sherlock was . . . still somewhat erect. Even after what had obviously been a satisfying orgasm. Well damn.

“Think of that as a palate-cleanser,” Sherlock said, his rich baritone rumbling through both their bodies. “An equalizer, if you will. Now I can focus more on you.”

Oh. OH.

Sherlock twisted his torso - without moving his hips, which was impressive all in itself, the man was so bloody graceful - and plucked a bottle of lube out of the nearest bedside drawer. He squeezed a dollop onto his palm, spread it over both hands, then lay back and reached for John’s cock.

And fuck. If John hadn’t already known those long fingers were agile, he damn well knew it now. Because it felt like they were everywhere, caressing his bollocks and stroking his shaft and squeezing around the head of his cock with perfectly-gauged pressure. He went from mostly-hard to bloody well aching in less than a minute. Sherlock just watched, smirking. By the time John was ready to move, though, Sherlock was already nudging upward in tiny little thrusts. It wasn’t nearly enough, but it kept them both excruciatingly aware of just how short Sherlock’s refraction time was after two weeks of deprivation. It must have been catching, too, because John couldn’t remember the last time he’d been up for a second round so soon after his first orgasm.

“You miscalculated,” Sherlock murmured, punctuating the remark with a particularly delicious undulation of his hips. “I did warn you two weeks ago - ejaculation helps me clear my mind. Helps -” - nudge - “- me -” - nudge - “- focus.” Upward thrust with a simultaneous glide down John’s cock with both fists, fucking him inside and out. John bit back a manic shout which would have been entirely too telling.

Not that he could get anything past Sherlock, anyway - the detective repeated the motion, at a slightly different angle, and John shivered. No point in even trying to pretend Sherlock hadn’t found his prostate - he could feel his cock jump in his flatmate’s hands. Sherlock’s expression grew more intense, if such a thing was even possible, and he hit that elusive spot again, dead-on. And then a third time, then a fourth.

“Fuck,” John groaned. “Just - Christ.”

Sherlock abruptly removed his hands entirely. John was flipped over on his back before he had time to complain, the sheets still warm where Sherlock had been lying only a moment earlier. Sherlock withdrew long enough to kick off his pajama trousers and pants, but then he was grabbing the underside of John’s knees and folding his legs up into his chest and when he slammed confidently home once again, John may have actually whimpered.

“Like that?”

“Jesus fucking bloody hell. Yes.”

Sherlock did it again, the long slow slide out and the sharp thrust back in, grazing John’s prostate and making every nerve ending in his body light up at once. How the hell had he been missing this all these years? It felt even more intimate than being inside a woman, although part of that may have been the way Sherlock’s attention was completely, entirely focused on him, his body, probably even his bloody breathing. John couldn’t resist rucking up Sherlock’s pajama shirt and tweaking his nipple - not hard, not painful, but enough to make Sherlock do some gasping of his own. Which he did, throwing his head back and exposing his pale throat. John took the invitation gladly, levering himself upward and flattening himself against Sherlock’s torso so he could deliver a long, wet lick up that tempting column of skin. Sherlock mumbled something and thrust again, a different angle now that John was propped up on his elbows, new sensations as that hard cock shifted inside him. And then Sherlock snaked a hand between their bodies to pump John with a firm grip and everything went fuzzy around the edges. John was dimly aware of Sherlock pistoning his hips twice more and then stilling, body tense against his, then they were both limp and gasping and giggling together in the semi-dark.

“That,” John announced when he could finally breathe again, “was ridiculous.”

“It was intense,” Sherlock corrected. “And - okay, ridiculous is accurate.”

“It felt - god, I don’t even know how to describe it. You’ve been depriving the world by doing that solo all this time, I can say that.”

“Not the same,” Sherlock murmured, pressing their foreheads together. “I thought - I assumed this would be messy. But it’s not.”

“Your sheets would say otherwise.”

“Not that.” Sherlock pulled away and flopped heavily on the mattress at John’s side. “This. Us. Involving someone else in one of my biological processes, and me being involved in yours. I predicted the rush of sentiment, but I anticipated it being . . . I don’t know. Constricting, perhaps.”

John levered himself up on one elbow, the better to see Sherlock’s face through the heavy shadows. “Sorry - was that Sherlock Holmes, cleverest man alive, admitting he didn’t know something?”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Mmm, pretty sure you just did.” John pressed as much of himself against Sherlock’s body as he could. “And I’ll admit I assumed that wouldn’t appeal to me. But Sherlock?” He stretched up to press a kiss against Sherlock’s lips. “I was wrong. And you’ve got all day to prove me wrong again and again and again.”

“God, yes.” Sherlock returned the kiss, awkwardly at first but with gathering confidence. And then he suddenly broke off and frowned. “John?”


“Did I win the bet?”

“As long as all your experiments involve sex with me, I don’t fucking care.” And John dragged his head back down for more.