John slammed the door of his truck and clomped his way up the steps of 221 B Avenue, Baker, Ontario. Or rather, he tried to. Two feet of heavy snow covered the steps; the only tracks out were his own.
“Dammit, Sherlock,” he muttered, “Of course he didn’t fucking shovel.” Shivering in the February night (easily thirty degrees colder than the inside of his truck) he wrenched the snow shovel from its place in the garage and began to hack away at the solid white mass. His nose and hands were frozen by the time he cleared enough space to get to the door.
“Sherlock!” he yelled, divesting himself of coat and boots and stomping his feet on the mat. “What the hell were you…what is this?”
Sherlock was seated cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a veritable mountain of red Tim Horton’s cups.
“Sherlock? Care to explain?”
Without acknowledging John’s question, or even his existence, Sherlock picked up a cup and, with a large knife, cut the cup open on either side of the yellow arrow. Then, letting the knife drop into the pile, he unrolled the border of the cup. His face creased in disappointment, and he flung the cup aside with some force.
“You could at least have brought home coffee,” John said mildly. He waded through the cups to drop a kiss on Sherlock’s head, then went to the kitchen to see if they had either coffee or cream.
“Rigged. The whole stupid “game”, as they call it, is rigged.”
“It’s just chance.” John peered into the fridge. Two bags of milk were left, but the cream container was nearly empty. He ran his fingers over the surface: greasy. He set it down with a sigh. Ever since the case in early January featuring a victim that drank bulletproof coffee, Sherlock had been testing different blends of fat and cream. The last one--beaver--had been truly noxious, and John had had to put his foot down. The faintly raspberry-flavoured grease slick on Sherlock’s lips had put him off kissing for days, much to Sherlock’s disgust.
“It’s not. It can’t be. I went to three separate locations today, twice each, and I did not win. I also checked every garbage can for winners; no luck.”
“Three locations!”--Baker only had two Tim Horton’s--“You went in to Sault St. Marie? How the fuck did you get out? The steps were covered with snow--which, by the way, I asked you to shovel.”
“I was busy.”
“Is there a case on, then?”
“The case of why a beloved national institution is rigged, yes.” Sherlock seized another cup and scrabbled for his knife.
“Pick up the cups when you’re finished,” John sighed, and went to see if there were any dinner ingredients that didn’t come from giant aquatic rodents.
The next morning, John woke alone; when he went downstairs, showered and ready for work, he found Sherlock asleep on the chesterfield, chest littered with cups. The knife, thankfully, was nowhere near him. John shook his head, kissed Sherlock’s cheek, and, after a brief look at the wasteland that was their kitchen, decided he’d get breakfast at Tim’s on the way. Grocery shopping could wait until tonight.
The drive-through line was long at the Tim’s nearest the clinic, but John waited anyway, reluctant to leave his car in the icy darkness. Even opening the window to place his order (a #5, sausage & egg sandwich on an English muffin, hash browns, and a large double double) was unpleasant.
“You have a nice day, now, Doctor Watson,” said the clerk as she handed his breakfast out into the cold.
“Thanks, Linda,” he replied, and wrapped his hands around the warm cup. He looked at the yellow arrow that indicated where the prize was printed. Hoping to win something was a little spiteful, but he couldn’t help himself. He pulled out of the drive through lane and parked, then took two huge gulps of coffee. He popped off the lid and worried the rim with his teeth until it gave way.
Ha! He had won--a donut. Grinning, he snapped a picture and texted it to Sherlock with the message “I’ll bring you dessert tonight”. He smiled all the way to work.
In retrospect, John should have realized the length of time between the text and the response was ominous, but the clinic was full of people with tonsillitis and midwinter sniffles, and he didn’t have time to check his texts. It was only as he was trying to decide whether to brave the cold for lunch--and whether to go back to Tim Horton’s--that he reached for his phone, but he was interrupted by a brisk knock on the staffroom door.
Before John could stand to answer it, Sherlock breezed in carrying a bag from Tim’s and a tray of coffee.
“I brought lunch,” he said. His face was arranged in the type of pleasant mask that made John step back and analyze what he had in his hands before kissing him. It seemed to be only food, though; John set it on the table and wrapped his arms around Sherlock. He tilted his face up and kissed Sherlock’s long neck, then buried his face in Sherlock’s cold coat. Sherlock kissed the top of his head and hugged him back, a fierce yet distracted embrace.
“All right then,” John said. “What’s up?”
“Nothing.” Sherlock flung off his coat and sat. “Soup?”
“Sure.” John replied. “Why the coffees?”
“A little experiment.”
“It’s random, Sherlock.”
“What proof do you have?”
“Balance of probability. Much more likely than it being rigged.”
“That’s not what my study yesterday suggests.”
“Your study? With a sample size of six?”
“My study was controlled.”
John snorted. Sherlock slouched down in his chair and began to unwrap his sandwich. They ate in silence for a while, the warm odour of chicken noodle soup filling the room. Then John reached for a cup of coffee.
“I’ve got to get back soon. Does it matter which?”
Sherlock tossed the paper into the garbage can with a flourish and brushed crumbs from his mouth.
“It doesn’t. But I want you to unroll two, and I will unroll two.”
John rolled his eyes.
“I’m working towards a larger sample size.”
“Okay, fine. But I’m unrolling now.”
“I am ready to record your findings,” Sherlock said, and fixed John with a pale stare. John repeated the actions of the morning: two gulps, several little bites, and a painstaking unrolling.
He won twice--another donut, and a cup of coffee.
“Your turn,” he said, trying but failing to give “smug” a wide berth. Sherlock took out a pocket knife and checked his.
“No, don’t fling your coffee,” John said. “Look, it’s just bad luck.”
“It’s rigged.” Sherlock muttered. “Mycroft will hear about this.”
“Come on. Mycroft has important work to do.”
“He bloody does not. Lieutenant Governor my ass.”
“Come on,” John stood to go. “I’ve got my tenth case of tonsillitis today in a few minutes. I”ll make it up to you at home.” He bent to nip Sherlock’s earlobe, worrying the soft flesh between his teeth the way he’d done with the coffee cup. Sherlock shivered.
“Do you mean that?” he asked.
“Mean what?” John said.
“That you’d make it up to me?”
“In the sense that I will take you to bed so you’ll quit formulating unreasonable theories about the damn coffee cups, yes.”
“Hm.” Sherlock stood and fixed him with a glare. “How about you put your money where your mouth is?”
“Well, your mouth.”
“I put my mouth where my mouth is.” John said flatly. “That makes no sense.”
“You say winners and losers are random. I think they’re rigged. So let’s test it.”
“Test it how?”
“We record who wins and who loses whenever we get coffee.”
“Okay. But where does my mouth come in?”
“Whoever loses has to perform a sexual service for the other for a specified time limit.”
“What if we both lose?”
“Three minutes each.”
“I see,” he said, licking his lips. “But isn’t that a bit, er, fun for your challenges? Where’s the catch?”
“The catch,” Sherlock said, “is that there’s no climaxing allowed.”
“What?” John exclaimed. “Until when?”
“Until the cups are gone. March first.” A sharklike grin appeared on Sherlock’s face. “What, are you afraid?”
“Afraid! Afraid of what?”
“That you won’t be able to make it?”
“Me? You’re the one that fires guns and stabs mantels when things don’t go your way. I remember what you were like before we started having sex.”
Sherlock’s icy stare was almost as cold as outside.
“Sherlock, I spent months in Afghanistan, often too fucking scared or tired or sandy to get off. I have this in the bag.”
“So,” Sherlock said. “Not only is Tim Horton’s conspiring against me, but you think I’m a hormonal nitwit.”
“Not a hormonal nitwit. You just...need a lot of stimulation. Also, can you please lower your voice, because this is my workplace.”
“Fine. I’m a sexually demanding drama queen.”
“You’re ...nope, that is what you are.” John said, barely holding back a laugh. “It’s funny because it’s true. But if it helps,” he said, coming up to Sherlock and cupping his cock through his jeans, “I wouldn’t have you any other way.”
Sherlock’s cock twitched under John’s hand, and Sherlock pushed him away, though without real anger.
“See you tonight, then. Bring coffee.”
“Will do. Oh, and Sherlock?”
“If you lose, you’re going to shovel the fucking steps for the rest of the winter. As soon as it snows.”
“Fine,” Sherlock didn’t blink. “But if I win, I don’t touch a snow shovel again.”
“Until next fall.”
“Until next fall.”
Sherlock nodded and left.
It hadn’t snowed that day, thank fuck, John thought, as he pushed open his front door that evening. He did, however, feel a little apprehensive about the challenge. Sherlock had appealed to his competitive instincts, but he still wasn’t looking forward to blue balls for the better part of three weeks.
Ah well. Once more into the breach, he thought, and stepped inside.
“I made dinner,” Sherlock said, appearing from the kitchen, handsome in a pearl-grey shirt, and taking the cups of coffee from John’s hands. “Thai.”
“To what do I owe this honour?”
“Nothing specific. Want a beer?”
They were seated in front of the television in no time, beer and spicy Thai curry in hand. Sherlock set the hockey game to mute, just the way John liked it, and took a big bite of his food.
“I’ve thought of some rules,” he said, “Just to make it fair?”
“Fire away,” John said, taking a sip of his beer.
“The time limit. Three minutes.”
“And those minutes have to occur after the coffee is consumed. No saving it for later.”
“That’s a pretty significant increase in degree of difficulty.”
“No. But I do have one rule to add.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“No more than four coffees a day. My system can’t stand any more than that.”
“There’s always decaf.” Sherlock said, shuddering delicately.
“No more than four coffees a day, then. Spoilsport.”
“I am a reasonable adult human.”
“If you say so.”
The first two coffees were both losers--and cold, as they’d got into a good-natured wrangle about the hockey game.
“Finally, a little justice,” Sherlock muttered.
“Lie back, then, and start your watch,” John grinned. He’d been wanting to get his hands on those shirt buttons.
Sherlock set his coffee down and spread his legs provocatively. John straddled him, but waited until he’d ostentatiously pressed the “start” button on his timer before bending forward and kissing the notch in his collarbone. John sucked a little, until the flesh was soft and tender, then nipped Sherlock hard enough that his body jolted beneath John’s. John rocked his cock against Sherlock’s, and though Sherlock remained silent, the soft huff of his breath told John he was hitting the right spots. He sat back and undid each shirt button, touching the sparse hair on Sherlock’s beautiful chest. When he finally drew the shirt back to expose the full spread of Sherlock’s shoulders, he could see that his time was almost up; wasting no more time, he fastened his mouth over one peaked pink nipple, tasting Sherlock’s bare skin and feeling Sherlock’s cock harden against his own.
“Time” Sherlock gasped, and John pulled away. He looked regretfully at the other nipple, but abided by their agreement. He kissed Sherlock’s mouth, softly.
“That doesn’t count, right?”
“Kissing on the mouth is allowed at any time,” Sherlock agreed, gravely. “Now you sit back. I’ll time.”
Sherlock did not kiss John anywhere for those three minutes. Rather, he made John stand, then drew his shirt over his head with inestimable tenderness, stroking his chest, neck, and shoulders, with his large warm hands until John was shivering and achingly hard. When the timer beeped, it was all John could do not to throw himself into Sherlock’s arms and drag him to bed, but he held firm. Very firm.
In fact, though John had gone to sleep with a tight ache in his balls, he woke with a smile. He looked at Sherlock’s bare back in the early morning glow and felt like the luckiest man alive. Last night had been just the right side of too much--maybe this challenge would be a pleasant source of excitement instead of the helter-skelter rush of their usual excitement.
As it turned out, he could not have been more wrong.
The first day was not so bad. Sherlock had bought cream when he’d gone to the grocery store, so John made coffee at home that morning. An acceptable case had appeared on Sherlock’s website, which meant that instead of spending his day rushing about buying John coffees he looked set to spend it creating complex spreadsheets about the differing tensile strengths of dogsled harnesses and snowmobile treads. John left for work both relieved and disappointed; while providing (or receiving) sexual services on demand and within a time limit was exciting, his workplace was not exactly the place for it.
John spent the day treating various winter ailments, with no sign that Sherlock was doing anything other than spreadsheets. At 4, thanks to a cancelled appointment, John finished his paperwork, closed up the office, and put on his coat for a run to Canadian Tire. They needed a new ergonomic shovel, bird food, and wiper fluid. He’d get coffee on the way home, he decided, and a shiver shot down his spine. Maybe today he’d get his mouth on Sherlock’s cock, just for a moment or two. Serve him right for thinking too much.
Once inside Canadian Tire, though, John was distracted. He liked Canadian Tire, and he had time to spare, so he made his way up and down the aisles, adding a pair of snowboots, a new welcome mat (Sherlock had shredded the last one to see if the local ravens would take it as nest material), and a bag of gummy worms to his cart as well as his original items.
He was just standing in kitchenwares, contemplating spiralizers, when Sherlock came around the corner, two coffees in hand and a smile on his face.
“So this gives credence to you having a GPS tracker installed in my phone,” John frowned.
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“Every phone has a GPS tracker now. It’s not 2010 anymore. If you don’t want me to find you, turn off your location.”
“And will that work?”
“I thought as much.” John looked around the aisle--empty. He took one cup from Sherlock’s hand and, taking advantage of their closeness, kissed him briefly on the lips. “How was your day?”
“Frustrating. I need more data but the dog team is out of town. So I came to be distracted.”
“Did you, now? Should I drink up?”
“No rush. Let’s go over to the sports section.”
Their cart had attracted a plastic sled, a new, large knife (John was entirely unsure about that purchase) and some floating pool darts by the time they had finished their coffees, nearly simultanously. John popped off his lid and bit the cardboard open; Sherlock unsheathed the new knife (“That’s very illegal, Sherlock.” “Don’t care”) and sliced two neat lines, as usual.
John’s was a winner. Sherlock’s was not. John drew a shaky breath.
“My truck or yours?”
“Oh no,” Sherlock said. “Remember the rules. Come here.” He tugged John back in to the corner by the bicycles.
“Sherlock,” John hissed. “People have a line of sight right here!”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Sherlock whispered back. “It’s the bicycles. In February. Nobody’s coming back here, at least not for the three minutes you’ve got.”
“You had better be right.”
“Do you hear yourself?” Sherlock cocked his head. “Now back up against that wall.”
John did so. Sherlock pressed the timer on his watch and swooped in towards him with intent. His teeth met at the skin of John’s neck and his hand cupped John’s cock at the same time. John breathed as quietly as he could for someone on the tense line between fear and arousal, but when, about a minute in, Sherlock’s hand pushed his coat aside and slipped his hand into John’s boxers, he had to bite his lip. He was already fully erect, and the tip of his cock was damp; Sherlock slicked it over as much of the head as he could, never letting up with his teeth.
When the timer beeped, Sherlock stood back and smiled, as though proud of the state to which he had reduced John. John shook his head.
“I love you,” Sherlock said, and John knew it was true.
John had the following day off, and though he wished he could find Sherlock and surprise him as Sherlock had done, he knew it was a lost cause to try, especially as Sherlock had left that morning for parts unknown. Instead, he updated his blog and took a nap, and then, when he had exhausted all other options, cleaned his share of the house. There were still some empty cups from Sherlock’s earlier investigations, and John squirreled them away for future reference. Then, he logged on to Sherlock’s blog and began to read cases.
He was still there when Sherlock got home, bright-eyed and disheveled, two large coffees in hand and a mysterious parcel under his arm. John stood and stretched, and went to relieve Sherlock of his burden.
“The game, John, is on. Look, can you take a couple of days off? It looks like there are a string of unusual vandalism cases down towards Sudbury.”
“Sure. I’ll call in. It’ll be fun, a road trip.”
“Bring your old button fly jeans.”
Neither of them won that night, and they spent a delicious six minutes touching each other in turn before John headed to bed, leaving Sherlock hunched in front of his laptops, with maps and about sixteen notebooks.
“Keep your hands to yourself now,” John said, kissing Sherlock’s nape. He wished he could put his hands all over Sherlock, but the contest didn’t allow it.
“I should say the same to you.”
John snorted, and went to bed.
The road trip was, from the beginning, madness.
The first case was at an ice fishing village on a nearby lake, and John spent four hours freezing outside while Sherlock ran from cabin to cabin, measuring fish and looking at fireplaces. Then, when Sherlock told them to have a closer look at what their godson had been doing three nights before, their grateful hosts pressed two Tim’s coffees into their hands and told them to warm up.
Neither of them won, and they spent a very chilly six minutes jerking each other partway off in a municipal port-a-potty, since Sherlock said going back to the truck would be, in his words, “cowardly and cheating.”
The next vandalism incident was at a deer farm outside of Sault Ste. Marie; several fences had been pulled down, and the deer had escaped. Sherlock, trying to see just how fast deer could run, nearly got trampled. He only evaded it by taking a flying leap into the next pen over, which contained a bottle-fed moose. John thought he’d die laughing when the moose--very clearly not interested in trampling Sherlock, but rather in rubbing up against him until he fell over--licked Sherlock’s face. The moose, of course, was the culprit, and the relieved owner gave them a Tim’s gift card in addition to their fee.
Sherlock won, and as they drank their coffee actually in a Tim Horton’s this time (Sherlock felt that moose drool was not the best product for his curls), John dragged him into a single-stall bathroom and proceeded to suck his nipples for the full three minutes.
They stopped for lunch at a poutine shack. John got into conversation with the owner, but Sherlock, within two minutes of their lunch arriving, deduced multiple health code violations and John was dragged away from his steaming plate of poutine towards yet another Tim Horton’s.
They had soup for lunch, and Sherlock sucked John’s cock for three minutes in the bathroom, after. John had trouble walking back to the truck.
When they pulled into the sugar shack that lay exactly midway between Sault Ste. Marie and Sudbury, John felt like he’d been pulled backwards behind a snowmobile. He was shaking, and he felt as though his hair was standing on end. Sherlock, who had had more time to recover from his three minutes, was all excitement, and he bounded out into the snow before John had even had a chance to put snowshoes on. The vandals in this case were not squirrels, as the owner thought, but the neighbourhood teenagers, who had been systematically siphoning off maple sap to try and make moonshine.
They left, this time, with a big jug of maple syrup (John had to physically restrain Sherlock from drinking it neat) and $500.
That night, they slept in a tiny motel in Blind River, where there was no Tim Horton’s. John sank gratefully onto the bowed mattress and pulled the cheap sheets over his head.
When he woke up, Sherlock was standing there, fully dressed, with two Roll Up the Rim cups in his hands. John pulled the covers back over his head in the hopes that he was hallucinating, but when he peeped back out he was not.
“Fine,” he snarled, and held out his hand. “But I hope you win.”
“It’s what I want,” Sherlock replied, and began to sip his coffee with equanimity.
John won again. He was starting to wonder if Sherlock was losing on purpose.
“Mmm,” Sherlock whispered, now free of his coat and insinuating his hand up John’s thigh. “You’re so warm.”
“You are an idiot.”
“But you love me.”
“I do love you.”
“Are you ready to give up?” Sherlock asked, trailing his hand across John’s balls. John arched up.
“No, for fuck’s sake. I’m just… this is probably the most romantic and comfortable we’ve been so far.”
“You are a romantic.”
“A romantic who likes to be comfortable.”
Sherlock shrugged. “Such is life,” he said, and proceeded to brush whispery kisses all around John’s cock for three minutes without touching it once.
John took a cold shower before going out into the -20 morning. He was glad he had, because somehow, in addition to his mysterious Tim Horton’s find, Sherlock had located a local pancake breakfast. Yesterday’s maple syrup had clearly given him the taste for more, and they paid their $10, collected their loaded plates, and sat down in the corner. Then the local Lions Club came by and handed out coffee. In Tim Horton’s cups. John glared at Sherlock, who was dipping bacon in maple syrup with the most innocent face in the world.
Neither of them won, and John took a fierce pleasure in sucking just the tip of Sherlock’s cock of the dingy community hall bathroom until it wept salt tears in his mouth and Sherlock shook above him. It made the three minutes in which Sherlock pressed him against the very unsteady wall with their bare cocks slotted together almost bearable.
By the time they reached the Sudbury Interprovincial PeeWee hockey tournament, three days later, John was sure he would never drink another cup of coffee again. He was starting to sweat a little just looking at the cup, and his shoulder was aching from being jammed into the back seat of the truck to be jerked off or sucked for a frustratingly brief time. His only solace was that Sherlock was starting to look a little frayed around the edges as well; his curls were in disarray, and, this morning at least, his coat was buttoned incorrectly. John had no intention of informing him of this fact .
There wasn’t a single Tim Horton’s on the road between their last motel and the arena where the tournament was taking place, to John’s delight. There were no visible sources of those damned cups either, so he relaxed, marginally, and let himself soak up the atmosphere. Arenas hadn’t changed much since he was a kid, and neither had hockey tournaments. The noise level was utterly amazing, and the mingled smell of fried onions and hockey equipment pervaded the place. Groups of players, in identical coats and hats, roamed the halls and stands, and parents stood in clumps, chatting.
“So why are we here?”
“One of the coaches contacted me. He suspects the referee for the final game has been taking bribes from the opposing team or teams.”
They sat in the back of the stands and watched a team called the Timber Wolves beat another team called the Timber Wolves.
“Big timber area, eh?” John whispered, and felt Sherlock emit a silent but gratifying giggle. He squeezed Sherlock’s thigh under his coat and felt him tremble.
“Shall we get coffee?” Sherlock whispered back. John couldn’t decide whether to punch him or to slide his hand back and pinch the most sensitive spot on his thigh.
They left the arena for lunch, as Sherlock wanted to watch the referee in question travel to the arena. John drove them straight to a Tim’s.
“We’re getting this over with,” he said.
“Fine,” said Sherlock.
“But I’m not getting coffee.”
“If I drink one more cup of coffee, Sherlock, I will float away.”
“No, but I’m ordering tea. Same cup.”
“Wait, you can’t!”
“Why the hell not?”
“You get two cups!”
“Hey, it’s better science because it’s a bigger sample size. Plus, honestly, it gives you a greater chance of winning, because I’m so frustrated I’m likely to go off like a shot if you have six minutes to put your hands on me.”
Sherlock considered this.
“Very well. Have tea.”
“Thank you. I will.”
They had only just collected their cups and their sandwiches when Sherlock’s mobile buzzed.
“We’ve got to go!”
“Now. The referee is on the move.”
“Okay,” John said, setting down his tray and reaching for the keys. It wasn’t until they were in the truck that he thought to ask.
“Who’s texting you?”
“And who’s he?”
“Number 10 for the Timber Wolves. Very observant.”
“Ah,” John said, and subsided.
They followed the referee to the arena without apparent incident. Once inside, Sherlock went to lean casually by the snack bar; within moments, a gangly twelve-year-old appeared, and Sherlock dropped a five-dollar bill into his hand.
“Jaren. Now, let’s look for the only unused storage room.”
“Because that’s where the handoff of the bribe will take place, if there is such a thing. Which,” said Sherlock, tracking Jaren with his eyes, “Is something I’m starting to doubt.”
The room they were looking for was back behind the stands; to get there, John and Sherlock had to climb a set of rickety stairs and go through two sets of roughly painted white plywood doors before fetching up in a rectangular space about eight feet by four. The only furniture was one sad, wooden chair.
“This is the place? There’s nowhere to hide.” John said. “Won’t we look rather suspicious?”
“There doesn’t need to be a place to hide, John.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I dropped a microtracker on Jaren. It’ll record his meeting with the referee, which is all the proof that’s needed.”
“Then what are we doing here?”
“Proving a point.” Sherlock cut his cup.
“That I’m not a sexually demanding drama queen. And that the Tim Horton’s cups are rigged.”
John bit at his cups.
“So?” Sherlock said, holding out his cup. He’d won potato wedges.
John looked at his. One was a loser. The other...he hesitated. He looked at Sherlock. He looked back at his cup.
“Both losers.” he said. “That means I owe you six minutes, correct?”
Sherlock frowned. “Is that fair?”
“What,” John said, unbuttoning his coat. “You can’t take it?”
“I can. Lock the door.”
John stepped over and locked it. He was going to end this now.
“Take off your coat,” he said, “lower your trousers, and bend over the chair.”
“Oooh, scary,” Sherlock said, but he complied, settling himself slowly over the back.
“Legs wider,” John said, giving him one or two light smacks on the inside of his thighs.
“That’s cheating,” came Sherlock’s muffled voice.
“I’m in charge now,” John said, and pinched Sherlock’s buttock once, then twice.
“Go on,” Sherlock said, and John heard the beep of his watch.
John knew that Sherlock was very determined, but so was he. He had six minutes, and he had every intention of using it all to his advantage. He did not, however, intend to tip his hand too early, so he spent the first twenty seconds, as he counted it, stroking lightly over Sherlock’s buttocks and back. It was only when his balls began to tighten and his breath to shorten that he went in for the kill.
Placing both hands at the curve of Sherlock’s incredibly lush bottom, John broadened his tongue and licked a very wet stripe from the base of Sherlock’s testicles to his sacroiliac. The noise Sherlock made in response was unreal, a low moan that made John fully hard. He did it again, relishing the quiver under his mouth. Then, slowly, he traced the same route a third time, this time infinitely slowly, exploring each millimetre of musky skin--but this time, he did not overshoot his target. Instead, he stopped licking, and began to drop miniscule, infuriatingly light kisses on the curve of each buttock, working from the outside in, never touching Sherlock’s pink puckered hole until Sherlock was pushing back towards him. John could see Sherlock’s cock was pressed uncomfortably up against the back of the wooden chair, and he could smell Sherlock’s arousal, but still he continued in his deliberately slow approach until Sherlock was very nearly begging under his breath.
“All right there, Sherlock?”
Sherlock did not respond.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” John said, wickedly. “Because I will.”
Sherlock said nothing, only pushed his bottom back towards John.
“If you’re sure,” John said, and began the main event.
The first time he had rimmed Sherlock, John was sure he had been going to lose an eye, or a tooth. At the first touch of John’s tongue, Sherlock had bucked back towards the slick, wet pressure with such speed and enthusiasm that John had been caught off guard. This time, though, he was prepared. His tongue was sharp and pointed, and as Sherlock heaved back towards him, John let him sink back, for one brief and delicious moment impaled on John’s body. Sherlock cried out.
John drew away before either he or Sherlock was ready, returning to little, light licks around the soft slick flesh. Sherlock writhed impatiently, but John held his hips immobile and forced him to take his pleasure at John’s rhythm. It was only when John knew that his time had nearly elapsed that he penetrated Sherlock with his tongue once more, and then, as the last few seconds ran out, seized Sherlock’s heavy, aching cock and stroked him until, as the timer rang, Sherlock came, his body stiff, then limp with pleasure.
John could deny himself no more. He snapped the buttons on his jeans, freeing his cock to the cool, semen-scented air. He stroked once, then placed his hand on the wall for support, but before he could continue, Sherlock turned and took him in his mouth. Then, it was only a brief minute before John’s orgasm hit him, and Sherlock clung to him as he shuddered.
“So,” Sherlock said lazily, when he could speak again. He nodded towards John’s second cup. “Shall we keep the car or sell it?”
John looked at him, mouth agape.
“Am I as bad a liar as that?”
“You are a bad liar and a worse dissimulator.” Sherlock said, reaching out for him.
“At least I can make you come in under six minutes.”
“I could have done the same.”
“Yes, but you didn’t.”
“Because Roll Up the Rim is rigged.”
John, still too muzzy-headed to do anything else, groaned. “You’re such an asshole,” he said, affectionately.
“And so are you.”
“True.” John had to concede it, and he held Sherlock close as they both laughed.