“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.”
“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.”
I must be fucking insane. “Deal.”
The first time was an accident. John ended up walking home from the surgery in the pouring rain because he’d managed to forget his wallet at work and thus didn’t have his Oyster card. When he got back to the flat, Sherlock was sulking dramatically on the sofa - even just two days of forced celibacy seemed to be putting him in a post-case-funk type of mood - and didn’t so much as acknowledge his presence. John just shrugged and headed for the shower to warm up.
The problem came when he finished and realized that a) he’d neglected to bring down dry clothes to change into, and b) Sherlock was still haunting the living room. There was nothing for it but to wrap the towel around his waist and hope Sherlock wouldn’t look up before he could escape up the stairs.
Sherlock noticed, of course. Actually, noticed might have been a bit of an understatement - Sherlock shot to his feet and charged to intercept him, stopping only an inch before he’d have plowed John over.
“You’re being unfair.”
John blinked. “I’m doing what now?”
“This.” Sherlock’s vague gesture encompassed John’s bare torso and most of what was covered by the towel. “You’re taunting me, and I hardly think that’s reasonable given the rules of our wager.”
“I’m not taunting you, I’m-” It took a moment for Sherlock’s words to click in his head. “Wait - seriously?”
Sherlock’s glare could have melted through steel. “What, playing innocent now? You don’t just get to wander through the flat half-naked, flaunting everything. It’s not fair.”
Ooh, this is unexpected. “I don’t recall saying anything about flaunting in our wager,” John said slowly. “Pretty sure I would be well within my rights to wander around starkers if I wanted to. Hell, I could pull the same kind of shit you’ve been doing for months - flop on the sofa and pull myself off at two in the afternoon, just because. We didn’t set any restrictions on my wanking, just yours.”
Sherlock’s eyes dilated so fast John would have sworn he was on something, if he hadn’t just been acting so like himself moments before. “Yes.”
“Do it.” He latched onto John’s arm and started tugging him toward the sofa. “If I can’t masturbate, at least I can watch.”
“Christ, Sherlock!” John dug in his heels and tried (unsuccessfully) to wrench his arm out from his flatmate’s grip. “That’s not-”
“You didn’t do it in the shower - I can tell. Not flushed enough, not long enough without the sound of the water changing as you shift position. You were cold and out of sorts; it didn’t occur to you to bother. I, on the other hand, have been thinking about it all day long. It’s only courteous.”
“I - it’s not - fuck. There’s nothing courteous about demanding your flatmate beat off in front of you, you know!”
“I know, but it seemed like the argument least likely to make you mad. Please, John.” Sherlock’s voice held a hint of desperation. “Would it help if I turned my back and just listened? I’ll do that, if it makes you feel better.”
“What would make me feel better would be for you to leave off and let me go hide upstairs and die of mortification.”
“Oh, dull.” Sherlock waved off his objection with his free hand and tugged on John’s arm again with the other. John had to choose between overbalancing face-first onto the sofa or letting the towel fall off. He picked the former.
“You know I’d deduce what you were doing up there anyway, so why not just do it here?” Sherlock whined.
“Because I’m not a bloody exhibitionist?” John snapped back.
“Not yet, maybe,” Sherlock countered. “But you could be. Picture it - I’m sprawled here in my chair, desperate to be touching my cock but I can’t.” The sound of creaking leather coming from somewhere in the middle of the room, out of John’s field of vision, confirmed that Sherlock had indeed just flopped into his armchair. “You, on the other hand, are stretched out on the sofa and if you just pull the towel away, you’re perfectly free to enjoy yourself. Roll over - you can watch my back, at least, even if I can’t watch you. You can confirm I’m not peeking.”
John did roll over - keeping the towel wrapped tightly around his waist as he did so - and yes, Sherlock was facing the other way. And now had his shirt off, so his bony bare shoulders were clearly visible over the arm of the chair. John couldn’t see his hands, but from the way Sherlock was squirming, it looked like - yes, there went his trousers too, sailing across the room into a messy heap against the far wall. Sherlock was in just his pants and it’s not like John hadn’t seen it before - Christ, he’d seen way too much of his flatmate recently - but this time was completely different because Sherlock’s razor-sharp focus was entirely on John despite his dramatic posing.
“No reflective surfaces, either, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
He hadn’t been, but the idea probably would have occurred to him halfway through his wank. Christ. He wasn’t actually considering this, was he? One part of John’s brain was two seconds away from saying screw this and stalking upstairs, but a much larger part finally got his conscious attention by pointing out that yes, he was considering this, and in fact already had the towel lying loose over his hips and one hand inside it, fondling himself gently.
“Why?” His voice came out a bit squeaky, which Sherlock would definitely notice, but it was too late to take it back now.
Sherlock just shifted in his chair and shrugged, that maddening if-you-can’t-figure-it-out-yourself-it’s-not-worth-my-time-to-tell-you half-shrug he usually used at crime scenes when Lestrade asked something particularly inane. “Because you turn me on.” He hmmed a bit and wriggled deeper into the cushions. “Do that thing with your wrist and your thumb - you make the best noises when you do that.”
“I don’t even want to know how you know my technique.”
Sherlock tossed his head back, and John knew he was rolling his eyes. “No reflective surfaces here, John. There’s a mirror on the right door of your wardrobe, though, and you frequently leave it at the correct angle to reflect your bed from the hallway.”
“. . . That would mean you stand at the top of the stairs?”
“Well it’s not like I’d barge in on you - that would be rude. Ooh, your breathing just changed. Do whatever that was again.”
John groaned. “It changed because I’m angry. Spying on me when I think I’m alone is very definitely Not Good, Sherlock.” He sat up and pulled the towel back tight around his hips.
Sherlock turned at the noise, his eyebrows drawn together in consternation. “How is me watching any different than me listening?”
“Yeah, you ponder that. Let me know when you figure it out.” John mustered as much dignity as he could while still only half-covered by a towel and stomped his way up the stairs.
I wasn’t watching for sexual pleasure; I was just curious about your technique. Not attempting to “get off.” -SH
Never had the opportunity to compare my own masturbatory routine with someone else’s and I didn’t realize you’d mind. -SH
Didn’t tell you I was there because I didn’t want to bias the results. -SH
Upon further reflection, I’ve realized your anger is probably a reaction I should have predicted, given you didn’t know my motives were purely scientific. -SH
I’m sorry. -SH
I’ll go out for a walk so you can get some privacy to deal with that erection. -SH
I’m bloody hard. -SH
John snorted at his phone and set it back down on the bed beside him. The mental picture of Sherlock trying to go for a walk while painfully aroused went a good way toward soothing his annoyance at his irritating, socially stunted flatmate.
Need new fire extinguisher. Both the ones in the flat got used up. -SH
Also new kitchen table - structural integrity of old one is no longer reliable. -SH
Do try to find someone who can deliver it by tomorrow - Mrs. Hudson won’t let me finish this experiment on the floor, even though this type of tile isn’t flammable. -SH
The second time was much less of an accident. It was the middle of allergy season, which meant scores of sniffly children wiping their snotty fingers on every conceivable surface at the surgery, which meant John was already in a tetchy mood when he finally got a chance to check his phone and saw Sherlock’s texts. Just what I fucking needed today.
By the time he got back to the flat (had curry spilled on him on the Tube escalator, was sandwiched between two particularly odoriferous specimens of the unwashed masses on the platform, nearly missed his stop because a mob of teenage wannabe-thugs insisted on standing right in front of the car doors and wouldn’t move), John was spoiling for a fight. He was just waiting - itching - for Sherlock to say one damn thing, just one, so he could either yell loud enough to alarm Mrs. Turner’s married ones or just haul off and give Sherlock the split lip he so often deserved. If he perhaps stomped a bit childishly while coming up the stairs, it was his bloody right - especially after a day like that-
“Did you pick up a fire extinguisher? And could you hand me my phone?”
Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa, in his dressing gown and very little else (like sodding usual), looking like a particularly lazy pasha just waiting for a servant to come fetch him some grapes or maybe to fan him with a palm frond. John just stood inside the doorway and stared.
“Right,” he finally said. And headed for his bedroom before he really did punch his flatmate.
“Not in the mood, Sherlock.”
“But my phone . . .”
“Is two feet from your fucking head.”
He may have slammed his bedroom door behind him.
Half an hour later, John realized he was hungry. Starving, in fact - thinking back, he didn’t remember actually ever stopping for lunch. Christ, I’m turning into Sherlock. He briefly considered the idea of going somewhere, getting out of the flat, but even a non-genius could tell he was in no fit state to be around people at the moment. That left takeaway - which would require waiting too fucking long - or actually cooking something. All things considered, cooking was the easiest solution.
And then he had the most perfect idea ever in the history of perfect ideas. It would either provoke Sherlock into a fight - well, into something - or make him disappear into his room and sulk for hours. Either was an acceptable outcome given John’s current mood. It was also dangerous and rash and probably stupid and those all fit his current mood perfectly as well.
It only took a moment of rummaging to find the red pants. They were a sort-of gag gift from Harry, given for his birthday soon after he and Sherlock had moved in together. No matter how many times John swore he was straight and wasn’t interested in Sherlock like that, Harry held out hope that he was at least bi. And since she was actually probably right, and John knew he was crap at lying about that sort of thing, he just generally avoided the topic whenever possible. Which she found hilarious.
But the pants - they were kind of a secret guilty pleasure. Fire-engine red briefs with black edging, a perfectly normal cut but silk. Something silky-smooth and cool to the touch, anyway. John had immediately hidden them in the back of his sock drawer, actually stuffed inside one of the horrendously ugly handmade winter socks his mother had given him once during her knitting phase, so Sherlock wouldn’t find them even if he snooped (which he almost certainly had, at least once - Sherlock bored had absolutely no personal boundaries whatsoever). He only pulled them out when he was absolutely certain Sherlock wasn’t around, and only dared to put them on when Sherlock was actually out of town at least overnight. They felt like they almost weren’t there at all, the fabric was so light and thin, and John knew he looked fucking amazing in them. He certainly felt amazing.
And it was damn well time to stop hiding them, wasn’t it? If the fucking pants make me happy I should bloody well be able to wear them. It sounded so easy when presented like that. John stripped off his work clothes, slid on the red pants (relishing the whisper-silky glide against his legs as he pulled them on), and headed downstairs to cook dinner.
Sherlock’s reaction was everything he could have hoped for and more. A shuffle on the sofa, a loud intake of breath as he started to issue yet another irritating demand - and then blessed, beautiful silence. Broken only by the sound of Sherlock’s phone clattering against the wooden floorboards.
John smirked a bit to himself and wandered into the kitchen.
“You.” Sherlock’s voice was almost quavery, which was very nice indeed. “You - pants - John?”
“Mmmm?” John turned to lean against the doorframe and cocked his head to the side, perfectly attentive. It was a bit posed, of course, but fuck, it seemed to be working. Sherlock’s eyes were about to bug out of his head and he was having trouble stringing two words together.
“What-” Sherlock sat up a bit straighter on the sofa, phone entirely forgotten. Mouth still hanging open in shock. “What’re you doing?”
“Cheating, I suppose.” John flashed him a bright smile and went back to rummaging in the fridge. “Is this cheese still good, do you think? I could do something in the skillet.”
“Is that a no? Oh, never mind - we’ve got some leftover pasta. I’ll just reheat that.”
“Ngh.” The noise came from much closer this time - Sherlock now just inside the kitchen doorway, eyes still wide. Ogling John’s arse as he leaned over to dig through the bottom shelf of the fridge. “They’re red.”
“Yeah, they are.” He pulled out the pasta and transferred some to a plate he was relatively sure was still clean. “Brilliant deduction, really. Amazing.”
“Also true. You are clearly the most intelligent man to have ever observed anything, ever.”
“But you’re heterosexual.”
“Straight men can’t wear red pants?”
“Yeah, well, I’ve got a bet to win.” John shot a glance over his shoulder back at his flatmate - he wasn’t aiming for sultry, but Sherlock’s quick intake of breath seemed to indicate it was being interpreted that way. “I’m also bloody pissed at you, by the way. You can buy your own sodding table. And fire extinguisher.”
“If this is you angry at me, John Watson, I swear I will do my utmost to annoy you every single day for the rest of my life.”
He couldn’t help it - he laughed at that. At the words and at the sight of Sherlock so completely undone. Pupils so wide they nearly overtook his irises, flush staining those delicate cheekbones, practically panting. For him. It was absurd, for someone as gorgeous and well-put-together as Sherlock to be so totally knocked on his arse by something as simple as his flatmate in pants. Absurd and wonderful and amazing and flattering as hell.
“I want to touch you,” Sherlock growled.
“You’re trying to refrain from coming for another week and a half, remember?”
“Yes, damn it,” he snapped back. “Not me - you. If I can’t come yet, at least I can back you up into the counter and kneel at your feet and pull your cock out from that divine red silk and swallow you down until you come. I want something of you inside me.”
Fuck. It was all John could do not to tear off his pants and take Sherlock at his word - what had he come down here for, anyway? Oh, right - angry. He was angry and Sherlock was Sherlock and this was supposed to be making Sherlock go sulk and then John could eat some supper in peace and not ever admit he wasn’t completely as straight as everyone (well, everyone except Harry, apparently) assumed.
“Can I touch you, please?” Sherlock flexed his fingers like he was imagining already curling them around John’s cock.
It took all John’s strength to keep his voice light and even. “No touching.”
“Can I touch the pants, then?”
“The . . .” John allowed his tight-wound nerves to escape in the form of a sigh. “Fine. Yes, you may touch the pants. Why the hell not.”
“John.” It was almost a whisper - and before John could react, Sherlock was right there, on his knees between John’s legs, gazing reverently at the bulge which did absolutely nothing to hide the state of his cock and the effect Sherlock kneeling had on it. So much for keeping my attraction a secret.
Although this wasn’t entirely a giveaway, was it? It wasn’t completely unheard-of for straight blokes to get hard just from proximity and nothing else, it didn’t really matter the gender of the person involved. Especially when the person in question was - Christ, now Sherlock was leaning forward and breathing on it.
“Not touching, John.” Sherlock let out another long, warm breath, closing his eyes as he did so, already looking like he had been thoroughly fucked and bloody hell, John was in for it. “I’m only going to touch the fabric. Not touching your skin.” He leaned forward fractionally, allowing the tip of his nose to trace feather-light up the length of John’s cock through the thin silk. “Although I intend to make you come anyway.”
“Can’t without taking these off, I’m afraid. Maybe another time.” Sherlock reached up to gently fondle the underside of John’s bollocks, lifting their weight with one elegant hand and pressing a kiss onto them from above. Something slammed into John’s tailbone, and he dimly realized it was the edge of the counter. Or more accurately, he had tipped over backward and staggered into the counter, and it fucking hurt, but he couldn’t be arsed to care because now Sherlock was licking slowly, tonguing little wet spots into the fabric, warm under his mouth and growing slowly cooler the longer he kept his tongue moving.
“It’s working, you know,” Sherlock murmured. “You did this to make me bloody miserable, and now I’m aching. I blame that on you. The least I can make you do is ache, too.” His free hand moved up to swiftly capture John’s cock, squeezing it through the fabric in a grip which was just a shade tighter than was comfortable. “I may call you an idiot sometimes, but this may be the most brilliantly evil thing you’ve ever done.”
The signals from John’s hand finally reached his brain - wet, slimy, cold - and he somewhat belatedly realized he had been leaning his weight on his palm which had, in turn, been planted solidly in the plate of not-yet-warmed-up leftover pasta. It still didn’t seem as important as what Sherlock was doing to his cock. “Evil?” he managed with a tiny groan.
“Despicably evil,” Sherlock answered. “Positively Machiavellian. Because you know I can’t possibly delete this, can’t delete the sight and smell and taste of you in these delectable red silk pants, and I still have a week and a half to go. You are a terrible person.”
“Not the first time you’ve called me nam-oh!”
Sherlock pulled away with a self-satisfied smirk, the saliva-wet stain still encompassing the majority of John’s cock and making the silk cling to his skin like a caress. He admired his handiwork for a long moment, then stretched forward to swallow John down once again.
“Fuck.” It was too restrained, too delicate to be quite enough friction, but it was a close thing. The fabric kept Sherlock from being able to actually get him all the way inside his mouth, but he definitely got enough to make John piston his hips in a completely reflexive reaction. Any other partner would have complained and pulled away, but Sherlock just let out a dirty moan and did something with his lips and tongue to ratchet the sensation up that much more, a little dart and a flick and gentle pressure with his hand on John’s shaft and then he was coming, Christ he was coming, the silk pants now warm and sticky and probably would never be the same again and fuck, he was a horrible person for thinking about laundry at a time like this.
“Mrphglf.” It was all his brain was capable of vocalizing.
“It’s not fair - I can’t taste you.” Sherlock drew back and pouted, actually pouted there on his knees in between John’s legs. “If I make you come, the least you could do would be to let me lick you clean again. But I can’t taste your ejaculate with those stupid red pants in the way.”
The sudden Sherlock-ness (for lack of a better word) of that little rant went a long way toward bringing John back to the realm of the not-just-shagged-senseless. He glanced down at his crotch - a soggy mess at this point - and took a few deep breaths. Right. “What would you want to do that for?” It was probably a stupid question - why did Sherlock do anything? - but it was the only thing in his head right then so he said it.
And Sherlock frowned. “Because I want to?”
“This wasn’t supposed to be about your wants, Sherlock.” John took another deep breath and extricated his hand from the plate of cold pasta. “You’re still not going to come for another nine days. Unless you want to forfeit the wager?”
Sherlock blinked, then blinked again. He looked dazed enough to pass for being high. And it was doing wonderful things for John’s ego to know that he put that look there.
“Fuck,” Sherlock finally said.
And John grinned. “Can’t without taking these off, I’m afraid,” he said, mimicking Sherlock’s inflection from earlier. “Maybe another time.”
Poor Sherlock! I've wanted to write this scenario for a while, actually, but it suddenly hit me it would fit well here . . .
The third time was totally deserved.
“Can’t you play something more . . . tonal?”
Sherlock twisted his torso as he played, just enough to shoot John a peeved look over his shoulder. “I’m not in the mood for tonal.”
“We just finished a case an hour ago!”
“And it was boring.” Sherlock drew the bow sharply across the strings, producing another harsh screech. “I don’t know why Lestrade bothered to call us in - it was a clear suicide. Even the Yard could see that.”
“You spent an hour interviewing the other staff.”
“Yes, because I was bored. Wanted to see if I could concoct at least a half-plausible scenario to fool everyone with. But it was pathetically obvious from the start that she poisoned herself on purpose, no mystery to that. Boring.” He forewent the bow altogether for a vivace pizzicato cadenza, a near-random assault of plucked notes with only a hint of musicality behind them.
“You bloody well kissed the upstairs maid,” John hissed.
“Not that it did any good; she was as clueless as all the rest. Honestly, John, what’s the point of all this anyway? I might as well be back on cocaine.”
“Don’t you fucking dare.” John growled. “You know you’ve got the ability to forfeit this little wager any time you feel like it - don’t blame me if you’re in a strop.”
Sherlock grumbled something unintelligible and doubled the volume of his cacophonic scrabbling.
And John suddenly felt like it was the most natural thing in the world to stand up, wander over to stand behind his flatmate, and plunge his hands into Sherlock’s back pockets.
Sherlock stiffened, the bow falling away from the strings with a scraped whisper.
“Keep playing,” John murmured in his ear. “If you stop, I stop.”
“Do it.” John punctuated the command with a bit of a squeeze, cupping Sherlock’s delectable arse through the thin fabric lining the trouser pockets. “You’re bored, so I’m going to endeavor to be interesting.”
“Oh,” breathed Sherlock in a small voice. He had to take a moment to suck in a breath - a moment in which John tightened his grip again and had a moment of what the fuck is my life seriously because damn - and then put the bow to the strings again in some semblance of a tune.
It was permission. John didn’t even bother trying to hide what he was sure was probably a predatory expression - he was behind Sherlock’s back anyway. He shuffled closer, close enough for the noticeable bulge in his own trousers to just barely brush Sherlock’s arse, and slowly brought his hands around to hover over his flatmate’s hips.
“You don’t even realize, do you.” It was a statement of fact. “You were kissing that maid today in the pantry like some sort of regency rake, and she had her eyes closed, but you were watching me. I did notice. Were you thinking of kissing me, then? Wondering what my mouth tastes like? Or were you just that desperate to get off?”
“Hush.” John slid his hands around the rest of the way, tugging Sherlock’s shirt up just enough to insinuate his palms underneath, flat against Sherlock’s taut abdomen, then pulled Sherlock backward with a steady pressure until they were flush against each other from shoulders to thighs. “Keep playing. If you stop, I stop.”
The melody from the violin turned plaintive.
It was as close to explicit consent as they were likely to get, and John took a moment to just relish the feel of Sherlock’s body against his own. Comfortably warm, all long angles and sharp corners, but lithe and graceful for all that. Sherlock stood perfectly still except for his bowing arm, his elbow gently rocking back and forth as he drew more notes out of his instrument. John didn’t have to look to see that Sherlock’s eyes would be closed. Waiting.
Sherlock’s abdomen tensed slightly under John’s palms as he slid them downwards. He had to work by feel, unbuttoning Sherlock’s trousers and opening the flies, but there was a tantalizing tickle of body hair against the backs of his knuckles the lower he went on Sherlock’s stomach and finally he had the trousers open and free access to the boxers underneath. Probably just some normal cotton not-at-all-sexy pants, but John couldn’t see and was therefore free to imagine whatever he wanted. Red, perhaps? No, purple - royal purple, the same shade as that ridiculously sexy shirt Sherlock wore sometimes.
Not that the shirt Sherlock had on now was all that terrible. A plain black button-down, open at the throat, a triangle of pale skin visible if only John were in a better position to see-
Yeah, fuck that. John palmed Sherlock’s cock, just gently shifting up and down with infinitely light strokes, but he brought his other hand up to Sherlock’s throat and started teasing the buttons free one-handed. Sherlock made a strangled noise, almost a whimper, but he didn’t actually speak. Instead, the plaintive melody grew more intense, darker, more haunting. He was communicating through music instead of relying on mere words and it was just about the sexiest fucking thing John could imagine. The rest of the buttons came free quickly, one right after another, and then Sherlock’s shirt was hanging loose at his shoulders and John could touch anywhere he wanted.
Which he took advantage of. Ruthlessly. Sherlock did let out a bit of a squeak when John pinched his right nipple - gently, but firmly - but John slipped his other hand through the slit in the boxers to wrap around Sherlock’s warm cock and the squeak melted away into a sigh and a long glissando of high notes. Absolutely bloody beautiful.
“You probably don’t need me to tell you how amazingly sexy you are right now,” John whispered into the hollow between Sherlock’s shoulderblades. “I don’t even need to be able to see to know what you’ll look like - you’ve got your blissed-out face on at the moment, I can tell. You keep arching back as you play, exposing that long neck of yours, and I just want to suck a nice big mark onto it, right where everyone could see. You’d have to hide out here for days.”
Sherlock moaned, the low sound an actual physical vibration from his chest cavity straight through to John’s lips at his back. John tightened his hand around Sherlock’s cock, one firm squeeze and a stroke, then back to the gentle caresses.
“Think you could come like this?” he pressed. “My hand on your cock, slow and steady? Not even really moving, just . . . touching? I bet you could. I bet you’d freeze up and your melody would falter and you’d shiver as you came. I could press up against you like this -” - he fitted himself to Sherlock’s back, his hard cock pressing into the cleft of Sherlock’s arse - “- and I’d feel your whole body just fucking come apart. Would it be worth losing the wager, do you think? Do you want to come?”
“John - please!”
“Please stop, or please don’t?”
“Mmmmph.” Sherlock arched his back, grinding against John’s erection, but he seemed to be beyond anything except for groans and the instinctive slow spray of notes issuing forth from his fingertips.
Another little hitch. “I’m going to come, John,” Sherlock gasped. “I’m almost there - oh please -”
“Not yet, you don’t.” John tightened his grip on the base of Sherlock’s shaft, squeezing his bollocks firmly and withdrawing his other hand altogether, wringing a despairing cry from his flatmate. “Not for another week. Writhe and moan and beg all you like - all you’re doing is making it better for me.” He reached down with his free hand and unbuttoned his own flies, dropping his trousers and pants down to his knees with practiced ease. “How about me - think I can come like this? I’ve barely touched myself, you know. And yet I’m so fucking hard I can’t see straight, because I’ve got you desperate like this.” He flexed his hips slowly and carefully, his cock nudging against Sherlock’s arse through the material of Sherlock’s trousers and pants.
“Yes.” Sherlock arm dropped suddenly, the music cutting off in the middle of an arpeggio.
“Hey.” John sank his teeth into Sherlock’s shoulderblade - not hard enough to hurt, not enough to break the skin, but definitely hard enough to get his attention. “You stop, I stop. That was the rule.”
Sherlock hastily brought the bow back up to the strings and started sawing away as if his life depended on it, tonality and rhythm be damned.
Like that - with Sherlock shifting and grinding slightly against him as he played, with one hand clenched immobile around Sherlock’s cock and the other frantically pumping his own - it didn’t take long at all. John closed his eyes, listened to the way Sherlock was desperately drawing long strings of jumbled notes from the violin, felt the way Sherlock was hot and heavy and hard against his palm, and then he was shivering his way through a spine-tingling orgasm and his cock was painting the small of Sherlock’s back with stripes of come. John gasped and panted and had to lean forward and drape himself against his flatmate’s bony shoulders for balance for a long minute afterward. The notes slowed, transformed back into an actual melody, then slowed further until they were just a gentle musical whisper in the otherwise-silent room.
“Bloody hell,” John breathed.
Sherlock’s only answer was a long, low hum.
“Last chance to change your mind?” John was pretty sure Sherlock was enjoying their little wager, despite his current state, but it was only polite to check-
“New rule,” Sherlock murmured, his tone uneven. “When I win this wager, I get to be inside you when I finally get to come. If you don’t kill me with blue balls first.”
“That’s . . .” John eyed Sherlock’s ruined shirt with a primal sense of satisfaction. Gorgeous. “Yeah, I suppose we could amend the wager, if you like. I’m probably going to keep cheating, though.”
Sherlock dropped the violin down to his side and let his head sag forward, taking several deep breaths. John stayed right where he was, standing close enough to touch but without actually touching, letting Sherlock regain his composure. “All right,” Sherlock finally said. “Fine. Good.”
“Good,” John echoed. And then - on impulse - reached forward and ran a single finger through the messy spot at the small of Sherlock’s back. “You were begging to lick this off me last time, you know,” he murmured. “Might not be able to reach it back here, but I certainly left you as much as you want.”
Sherlock stayed there, immobile and silent, while John escaped to his room.
“Three days, seven hours, and twenty-two minutes left.”
“Yes, Sherlock, I realize that.” John didn’t bother to glance up from his crossword. “Two hours less than the last time you mentioned it. Two hours ago.”
“Twenty-one minutes, now.”
“Ta, I can tell time.”
“How do you want me to take you?”
He did look up at that, just a quick twist of his head to confirm that Sherlock was still sprawled on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. It seemed like the kind of rhetorical question which would get him snapped at if he bothered to answer, though, so he went back to wracking his brain for an 18-letter answer to “invisible wind, to Michaelson and Morley.” It ended with an “R”, he knew that much, and the fourth letter was probably an “I”-
“I was thinking we should just go with wherever we happened to be standing, three days and seven hours and twenty minutes from now,” Sherlock said, “but everything I’ve read seems to indicate it’s polite to give one’s partner some input into these matters.”
“That’s unusually generous of you.” If 12-down was “Fiji,” then the sixth letter of the wind clue must also be an “I.” Which didn’t help all that much, since he had no bloody idea who Michaelson and Morley were (singers? politicians? sailors?) but he was determined to last as long as possible before consulting the internet, which rather took the fun out of crossword puzzles in the first place.
“You’re stuck on 8-across. It’s ‘luminiferous aether,’ also known as ‘aether wind,’ which Albert Michaelson and Edward Morley disproved the existence of in 1887. 19-down is ‘coelacanth,’ 28-down is ‘Urdu,’ and 32-across is ‘RDA.’ Now that I’ve solved the words you were most stuck on for you, could you please pay attention to more important things?”
John tossed aside the newspaper and glared at where his flatmate’s eyes would be if the man hadn’t been watching the ceiling instead. “No way you could see my progress on the crossword from way over there.”
“Course not - I just know you. And I solved it already this morning.”
“Without touching it?”
“Why would I need to write anything down?”
John closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose. “You know enough American actresses and odd geography to solve a crossword puzzle, but you have to read up on whether it’s polite to include your lover in discussions about your joint sex life?”
Sherlock sat up quickly, swinging his feet down to the floor with a muffled thump. “Is that what we are? Lovers?”
“Um.” Were they? Partners, certainly - the term covered enough of their platonic relationship to apply. And by the “have you had orgasms in the presence of each other?” measure, they’d technically had sex together (albeit at separate times). John realized he didn’t even mind the idea of being “lovers” with Sherlock, other than for the idea of-
“You’re not still refusing to label yourself as bisexual, are you?”
Yeah, that. “Not really something you change overnight, you know.”
“Why not?” Sherlock frowned in confusion. “You weren’t attracted to me at first but now you are. I’m male, and your previous experience has been with females, therefore you’re bisexual. That’s kind of the definition, John.”
“I - yeah, I know.” Trust Sherlock to be so bloody straightforward about it. “Harry will laugh her head off at me, though.”
“She’s got no high ground - she checked out my bum that day you first introduced us. She’s bisexual too, at least a little bit.”
“Everybody checks out your bum, Sherlock. I’m pretty sure even the queen has checked out your bum at some point. You’ve got a magnificent bum. Not really an indicator of sexuality, though.”
“So if I ‘don’t count,’ what’s the problem?”
Bloody hell. John sighed and closed his eyes. “I just don’t know if I’m ready to come out of the closet with my pride flag waving, is all. I kind of didn’t realize I was in the closet at all until very recently.”
“Then we won’t come out.” Sherlock shrugged. “Half the Yard assumes I’m asexual anyway, and it’s not like we have to snog every time you tell me I’m brilliant. I’m content to just shag you silly every time we get back to the flat.”
“It’s hardly unreasonable,” Sherlock continued, ignoring John’s interruption. “If you want me to masturbate less, it’s only fair you make it up to me with sex. And since you seem to be amenable to that, there’s really no issue.”
“Yeah - no. I’m really too old for five times a day, ta.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t have to be a substitute for every time, obviously.”
John thought about it. He’d always tried to dismiss his little crush on his flatmate as an anomaly, but during this last absolutely surreal week - getting off twice with Sherlock’s help, seeing Sherlock so bloody desperate for him - it was starting to look like more than a little crush. A great bloody gaping void in his life, more like. And if Sherlock was offering . . .
“Bent over the sofa, kneeling facing the wall, you naked except for that bloody Belstaff coat,” John finally said. “If you want to picture it ahead of time. And assuming you can keep from losing our wager until then, of course.”
Sherlock’s mouth fell open and a tiny groan escaped him.
“That’s just what comes to mind now, of course,” John continued, affecting a casual tone they both knew was a lie. “May change my mind between now and then, obviously, but you asked how I want you to take me and the exact spot you’re sitting now seems like as good a place as any.”
“Flat on my back in your bed, knees drawn up to my chest, propped up on a pillow so I can watch as your cock enters me.”
Sherlock froze for several seconds, then bent back over his microscope.
“Sprawled over the new kitchen table, hands tied down over my head so you can position me exactly the way you want me.”
“I’m making tea - want a cup?”
“Sprawled under the new kitchen table, quick and frantic and messy, my mouth around your cock until you’re bursting with it and then your tongue in my arse until I’m bursting with it and we’ll come the moment you push all the way inside me.”
Sherlock blinked twice and licked his lips, startled out of whatever he was doing in his mind palace.
And John grinned. “Or not - we’ll just have to see, won’t we? In three days and eleven minutes?”
John woke up the next morning to the smell of bleach and the absolutely unprecedented sight of Sherlock mopping the floor. He stood in the doorway to the kitchen and stared for several minutes, full bladder forgotten, just watching Sherlock clean.
“I’d ask what you’re doing, but you’d tell me it was obvious.”
“And it would be.” Sherlock turned to dunk the mop in the bucket and John realized his flatmate was wearing his dressing gown and only his dressing gown, not even belted at that. “You suggested we have sex on the floor under the table, but the floor was filthy. I don’t want you to abrade your back.”
“Ah.” John nodded toward the table itself. “You cleared off everything from on top, too.”
“That was your previous suggestion. I wanted you to have options.”
“And those gory photos are gone from the wall above the sofa.”
“I couldn’t risk them ruining the mood if we were to have sex there instead.”
“Mmm. You cleaned your room then, too, I take it?”
“Swept and mopped in there first. I was waiting to launder my bedclothes until you and Mrs. Hudson were both awake - didn’t want the machine to disturb you.”
“Because you want us to have options.”
Sherlock stopped and pinned him with a bright look, just this side of manic. “I want to be inside you.”
“Right. In that case . . .” John closed the distance between them and slid his hands around Sherlock’s hips, under the dressing gown, cupping his bare arse. Sherlock hissed at the sudden contact as his cock came up against John’s through John’s thin pajamas. “Picture this,” John murmured against Sherlock’s neck. “I’ve just come home and have decided to take an evening shower. I lock the door of the loo behind me, but of course you’ve got no problem picking it. You step into the room and it’s warm with steam, the mirror fogged up with condensation. I’m singing quietly to myself, not paying attention. You close the door so the cold doesn’t alert me to your presence and you just watch for a moment. Seeing me soaping myself up on the other side of the frosted glass. Can you picture it?”
Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobbed and he nodded once, a sharp jerk of his head.
“I arch my back under the spray of the water, letting it run through my hair and over my body. Everywhere you want to be touching, licking. My eyes are closed and I’m still humming and singing, a bit, so I don’t hear you. The first I realize you’re in the room is when you’ve stripped off all your clothes and you’re stepping into the shower with me. I jump a bit, surprised, but then I’m angling the shower so the warm water is hitting you square in the chest, running down over your stomach and your groin and your thighs. And I kneel down, the better to let the water reach you, and my mouth is just in front of your cock. It would be easy, so easy, for you to just reach out and grab my wet hair and thrust forward into my open mouth, to use me as a masturbation aid. Is that how you’d want to do it? To come for the first time inside my mouth? I’ve never done that before, you know - you’d be the first. I promise I’m a quick study.”
“Fuck, John,” Sherlock groaned.
John couldn’t help caressing Sherlock’s bare bum a bit, gliding his hands over the firm muscles. It felt every bit as good as it looked. “I’m going to be thinking about that as I have my morning wank,” he whispered. “I’ll be right there in the shower and thinking about what you’d taste like, in two days and twelve hours and some-odd minutes. But you might want to clean the bathroom today, just in case.”
There were a little less than twenty-four hours left on the wager, and it was killing both of them. Sherlock had abandoned all pretense of composure at the forty-eight hour mark, bluntly slamming the door in Lestrade’s face when he came by with files for a new case. John would have pegged it at about an eight, on Sherlock’s usual scale, but everything else seemed to have been eclipsed by Sherlock flopping on the sofa and moaning forlornly like some swooning medieval maiden. John finally gave up trying to ignore it and slammed his laptop closed.
“Right, time for bed.”
Sherlock sighed in response and flung his forearm over his eyes.
“You too. Bed.”
“Sleep is boring. It’s not even eight.”
“If you go to bed now, I’ll come tuck you in.”
Sherlock cracked one eye open to study him, but John kept his face blank. After a long, silent minute, Sherlock finally swung his legs around to the floor and stood.
John nodded. “Off you go, then. I’ll be in in a minute.”
“When you say ‘tuck me in’ . . .”
“I mean I plan to cheat, of course.”
“Of course.” Sherlock eyed him a moment more, then stalked off to the bathroom with his head held high and a noticeable erection tenting his pajama trousers.
John gave him five minutes - long enough to finish in the loo and do whatever else he normally did before sleeping, when he did deign to sleep - then stripped off his jumper and shirt before knocking on the door to Sherlock’s room. Sherlock was already lying in his bed, perfectly still. In a fresh pair of pajamas, John noticed. He turned off the overhead light, leaving the door open so the diffuse light from the hallway could filter in, and moved over to sit on the edge of the bed. “Ready for a bedtime story?”
“I’ll never get sick of seeing you shirtless,” Sherlock murmured.
“Good, because I rather like going around half-naked, at least when the weather’s decent. Less constricting.”
“And yet you wear those jumpers.”
“Do you want your bedtime story, or not?”
Sherlock bit his lip, his gaze jumping back up to John’s face. “Please.”
“Bloody hell, do you even know how hot it is when you do that?”
Sherlock bit his lip again, letting it slide out slowly from between his teeth, his eyes dark and sultry. John shifted uncomfortably on the bed.
“Right. So. Bedtime story. The Consulting Detective, the Army Doctor, and the Endless Fuck. I think you’ll like this one.”
Sherlock let out an amused huff of breath. “Sounds promising so far.”
“Oh, it is.” John dropped his hand to Sherlock’s chest, stroking lightly through the fabric of his pajama top. “The army doctor was magical, you see. His consulting detective liked to piss him off, liked to flaunt his gorgeous body whenever he could, but the army doctor had a secret. And one day, he’d had enough. He slammed the consulting detective back against the nearest wall, yanked his trousers and pants down to his knees, knelt down, and swallowed his cock in one long movement.”
Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed and he arched up silently into John’s touch.
“What the consulting detective didn’t know,” John continued, still rubbing small circles against Sherlock’s sternum, “was that the army doctor had a secret magical power hidden in reserve, one he only pulled out in times of dire need. He brought the consulting detective right to the brink of orgasm, past it, even, but still the detective didn’t come. He was desperate and aching and nearly incoherent, but his body wouldn’t let him fall over that final cliff until the doctor chose to let him.”
“Oh, not yet.” John let his fingers brush against Sherlock’s nipple under the shirt, tracing and caressing until it was a hard little peak under the fabric. “When the detective couldn’t stand anymore, when his legs wouldn’t hold him, the army doctor turned and walked out without a word. He didn’t come back until the next day. And no matter what the consulting detective did, he stayed just as hard, just as aroused as he’d been the day before. He had to cancel all his cases and hide in his flat, desperately trying to wank himself to completion, but nothing worked. He couldn’t get himself one bit harder or softer than he was when the doctor left. That was the doctor’s magical power, you see.”
“Sounds dangerous,” Sherlock murmured. “Medically inadvisable.”
“Mmm - it was magic and he was a doctor, remember. And he did come back the next day. The consulting detective nearly knocked him over in his haste to get off, but the army doctor calmly manhandled him around until he was against the nearest wall once again. Facing the wall, this time. And this time, when he got the consulting detective’s trousers down around his ankles, the army doctor held him in place by his hips and licked at him until the detective was literally sobbing with need. The texture of the wallpaper was almost too much against his poor cock, so achingly desperate, but still he couldn’t come. He got harder, though. He felt the army doctor’s tongue inside him and he couldn’t form words anymore, not even inside his own head. He tried to paw at his erection, to do something, but the army doctor caught his hands and held them tight against the small of his back and kept up the assault with his tongue until the detective tipped over and fell on his side on the floor. And so the army doctor left, again, and didn’t come back for another whole day.”
“John.” Sherlock squirmed under the sheets, color high in his cheeks even by the dim light.
“Hush.” John pinched Sherlock’s nipple gently, rolling it between his fingertips, and Sherlock let out a choked sob. “I haven’t gotten to the best part.”
“Where the consulting detective finally gets to come?”
“No, that’s the twist.” John lifted his hand abruptly, leaving Sherlock straining into empty air. “He never does get to come. The army doctor visits him every night, always ratcheting his arousal higher, never letting him slip over the edge. The consulting detective literally can’t function in his chosen career anymore - he can’t concentrate on anything except his cock and the way the army doctor has taken complete control of it. He does everything he can think of - wanking, toys, even hiring a rent boy - but the only thing that can affect his arousal is the army doctor, and the only thing the doctor deigns to do is to keep him hard and aching and wanting and desperate. For the rest of his life. And as he’s lying on his deathbed, rock-hard and half out of his mind with lust like he’s been ever since the first day the army doctor sucked him off, the doctor comes. He palms the detective’s cock -” - John rests a hand lightly over the bulge in the sheets - “-and leans down to whisper in his ear. Want to know what he said?”
Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobbed sharply.
“He said, ‘You shouldn’t have pissed me off.’” John squeezed Sherlock’s erection, just once, then slid back off the bed. “Goodnight, Sherlock. Sleep well.”
Sherlock’s wide eyes followed him all the way to the door.
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.”
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.
“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.