John laid his newspaper flat across his lap and shook his head in exasperation. "You aren't actually going out like that, are you?"
"I was planning on it, yes."
"Of course. This from the man who went to Buckingham Palace in a sheet."
"I'm only going to the corner shop, John. It hardly matters."
"For god's sake, Sherlock, if for no other reason than the temperature, you shouldn't go out like that. You'll freeze your little wee off!"
Sherlock turned and gave John his very best glare of incredulity.
"My ... what?"
"Your little wee. It's below zero out there, and you're only wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown."
"My little what?"
"Your little wee. Your penis."
"I will have you know that there is absolutely nothing wee about my little — about my penis."
"Fine. Good. I don't actually care. It's just an expression. You'll freeze your penis off out there."
"Why are you so concerned about my penis?"
"Why am I ... you know what? No. Just no. I'm not. I was trying to express to you that it is really, really, very much fucking frigid outside, but if you want to go out and freeze to death in your stupid pyjamas and poncy dressing gown," and here John waved his hands in the air in his best fluttering-fairy impersonation, "be my guest. Off you go."
John snapped his newspaper in half and stalked toward the kitchen, muttering, "You and your fucking little wee," under his breath as he went.
"I HEARD THAT."
"And I bet mine is bigger, anyway."
John paused in the doorway, back still turned to Sherlock, and cocked his head to the side. His posture said just-getting-a-cuppa, but when he turned around and sauntered back into the front room his expression was entirely of the you-are-so-going-down variety.
"I know that look, John, and no, I am not about to have my arse handed to me. Or my penis, for that matter."
"Tell me, Sherlock. What on God's precious, green earth makes you think that your little wee of a penis is bigger than my three continents appendage?"
"Oh, so you admit it! You think mine is small!"
"Yeah. You know what? I do. I bet it's tiny."
Sherlock put on his best drama queen face and shouted, "I take umbrage at that comment, John Watson, umbrage!"
"Does your teeny little wee take umbrage, too, Sherlock?"
"Oh! Shall we settle this, once and for all, then?"
John's eyebrows shot up to the ceiling. "Go on, cowboy, let's see what you're packing."
Admittedly, he was expecting Sherlock to growl some sort of "in your dreams" rebuke, storm off to his bedroom, a-la-pouty-adolescent, and slam the door. Instead, to his horror, which he had recently and increasingly been confusing with delight, Sherlock pulled off his dressing gown, flung it across the room, tugged down his pyjama bottoms and pants, and brought his hands to his hips, where those long fingers angled toward what was actually a not quite so little wee.
Not that John was going to give him the satisfaction of saying anything remotely of that nature, of course. Not that he was going to let on in any way, shape, or form, that Sherlock's flaccid wee appeared to be larger than most men's erect wees. No. He would do what any other self-respecting five-year-old who had just been proven wrong would do. He would deny it.
"Well, Sherlock, I certainly hope that you're a grower, because you most definitely are not a shower."
Again with the drama queen face, and then an indignant, "How dare you!"
"Look. It's okay. Some men just aren't that big when they're not erect. I'm sure that when you're all-systems-go you're perfectly adequate."
"It's not like you even use it."
And then Sherlock got it. His face rearranged itself into an expression that spoke of motivations uncovered, rooms unlocked, mysteries solved.
"You're lying. You're lying because you're jealous."
"Well, go ahead, then, let's see."
John mentally flagellated himself for not knowing better. He should have known that there was no way in hell that Sherlock was going to let him get away without revealing his own little wee. He should not have pushed, teased, mocked, prodded or poked. He should have let sleeping peni lie. Instead, he was slowly, literally and figuratively, being backed into a wall as Sherlock encroached on his personal space with his very-not-little wee leading the way. If Sherlock's penis had had an eyebrow, it would've cocked it at him.
The six inches of height that Sherlock had over John was not helping matters. Not until it did. Because right then, with Sherlock towering over him, he saw an escape. Maybe, just maybe, he could still win this. Maybe John's penis was proportionately larger than Sherlock's penis. Back straight, head back, eyes fixed on Sherlock, John undid his trousers, licked his lips, and tugged everything down around his knees.
They stood like that for a moment, locked into a staring contest, and then Sherlock looked away. He looked down. He looked, and then he puffed out his cheeks, blew out his breath, ran his fingers through his hair, and stepped back.
"I'm not sure."
"You're not sure about what?"
"Come over to the windows. We need more light."
John let his shoulders slump, resigned to the analyses to come, and the two of them shuffled, thigh-tied by their pants, to the natural light by the windows.
"The comparison isn't equitable in this state. We both need to be erect to judge this fairly."
"Oh. My. GOD. You have got to be kidding me!" John pressed his closed fist to his mouth and then stepped back to take a better, longer look at Sherlock's wee, searching for an easier way to settle this. Upon second glance, well, more like a proper stare, he had to agree that Sherlock's was not so very different from his own. The only difference now was that John's was beginning to stiffen, and seriously, what the fuck was that all about?
"Oh good, I see you are amenable."
"That's just, that's not because, don't go thinking —"
"John. It's fine. It's all fine."
John sucked his lips into his mouth and quietly cursed his cock. Meanwhile, to his growing horror-delight, Sherlock had reached down and encircled his own prick with his fingers and was rolling his foreskin back to reveal a very plump, very round, very why-is-this-other-man's-cock-so-aesthetically-pleasing-to-me? head. John's prick jerked with empathy. Sherlock pulled forward, and back, and forward, and back, and after a few more earnest yanks had a very commendable stiffy to show for his efforts.
"I like your technique," John said, trying his damnedest to make this entire clusterfuck seem more like a medical demonstration and less like a circle jerk.
"Thank you. It works for me," Sherlock huffed as he reached down with his other hand and fondled his balls.
Awww fuck, John thought, feeling a healthy throb down below.
"What about you? You don't need any auto-stimulation? Watching me is enough for you?" And goddamn if Sherlock didn't make the question sound sincere, and not at all like a self-satisfied boast.
"I ... well ... I haven't ... you know, masturbated in a few days ... so I'm a bit primed as it is ..."
"Ah, of course, makes perfect sense," Sherlock panted. He was working the complete ensemble with both hands now, and staring rather pointedly at John's hard-on.
"Yeah, so, are you going to, you know, stop that? I thought we were going to compare while erect, not, you know, actually, em ... "
"Of course. Yes. We should get a measuring tape. Do we have a measuring tape?"
"I don't think so. Do we?"
"I don't think so, either. MRS. HUD-SON!"
"What the fuck, Sherlock? We don't want her coming up here right now!"
Sherlock threw his head back and groaned. "Oh, stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid! Quick, John, hide."
Sherlock pushed past him and shuffle-skidded to the door, then called down the stairs, "Don't come up, Mrs Hudson, no need to come up! But, if you have a measuring tape could you just throw it up the stairs and NOT COME UP? THANK YOU!"
He stood there, arse hanging out, boner bobbing toward Mrs Hudson's flat, until he heard her call back, "Let me just find it, and I'll have it up to you in a jiffy!" then he turned back to John, and yell-whispered, "Come on John, the bedroom!"
They skittered down the hall, both trying to get through the doorway at the same time, and then John gave up, grunted, "Oh, fuck this!", and toed off his shoes. He used one foot to step on the opposite trouser cuff, freed that leg, and then repeated the maneuver on the other side. He left his inside-out trousers and tangled pants on the hallway floor and strode into Sherlock's room.
"Where the fuck are you?"
Sherlock's head popped up from the far side of the bed. "Shhhh! She'll hear you!"
"Yeah, well, bit late for that."
John took a dive over the bed and squatted next to Sherlock. "I thought you told her to toss it up the stairs?" John hissed. "Why is she coming in here?"
"I have no idea!" Sherlock hissed back through unmoving lips.
"How is ventriloquism going to help us now, you idiot?"
And there she was, standing in the doorway to the bedroom, tape measure in hand.
"Ah. Hello. Hello there, Mrs Hudson. Thank you so much for bringing that up, not only to the top step, or the landing, or even the front room, but for bringing it right here, to this very bedroom, where Sherlock and I are simply having a nice chat, right here, on the floor next to this piece of furniture that is probably Sherlock's bed. Gosh, Sherlock, is this your bed? Haven't been in here before." John took a good long look around the bedroom from where he squatted at the side of Sherlock's bed. "Very nice."
Sherlock blinked rapidly at John, and then again at Mrs Hudson, and then yelled, "Drop it and go, Hudders. Now. NOW!"
Mrs Hudson did a tiny little tap dance in reaction to Sherlock's shout, dropped the measuring tape, and fled, murmuring, "For heaven's sake, it's not like you're the first boys to compare your little wees!"
"Shit. How does she know that's what we're up to?"
"She's Hudders. She knows everything. Get on the bed."
"Get on the bed? What the fuck for?"
"Your tumescence has shrunk by at least thirty-seven percent. We need to reinitiate the stimulation stage in order to get an accurate measurement."
"What about you? You — aw, c'mon. You're even harder than before! How is that even possible?"
Sherlock looked at the pillows, the window, the door, everywhere but at John.
"You're kidding. That excited you, didn't it? Being caught by Mrs Hudson excited you."
"I don't know what you're talking about. Get on the bed."
"I'm not getting on the goddamn bed." John stood and looked around the room, considering his options. "Fine. I'll sit on your bed for a minute until we both come back to our senses and forget this entire thing happened and go back to our regular lives, lives which do not, in any way whatsoever, include the measurement of each other's little wees."
"For god's sake, John, stop calling them that. They are not little wees. We are not three years old."
"I'm not making you call yours that. You can call yours whatever you want."
"I plan to, John."
"What do you call yours?"
"I'm not going to tell you."
"Jesus Christ. Fine. I'll let you do the measurements if you tell me what you call it."
"No way. You tell me first."
"Deal. I call it my penis, for the love of god."
John rubbed his hand over his face and shook his head in frustration. "I can't believe I just fell for that."
Sherlock tugged off his pyjama bottoms and pants and crawled around the bed on all fours to retrieve the measuring tape that Mrs Hudson had dropped on the floor. It was the kind that tailors used, non-stretch fabric, rolled into a tidy spiral. Sherlock stood up and walked back to the other side of the bed, flicking his wrist so that the tape unwound in one, long, twirling loop, still tightly wound at the end.
"I wasn't expecting it to be pink," Sherlock said, his nose wrinkled in confusion.
"My cock, or the tape?"
Sherlock leveled his gaze at John's pink prick and John felt himself growing stiffer. Fuck.
"The tape is pink because it belongs to Hudders. Your penis, on the other hand, is pink — and increasingly so, if I might add — because of the changes occurring in the penile vascular system. Your bulbourethral vein is currently flooding, at an alarming rate, I have to say, with blood, supplied by the internal pudendal vein. Holy god, John, you're actually bordering on purple now."
John dropped back on his elbows and tried not to think about why his dick was getting as hard as it was after hearing Sherlock speak so eloquently about penile vascular anatomy.
"Oh good, there you go. Don't move. I'm just going to —"
"Whoa! Watch it!"
"I can't measure it without touching it, John. Do grow up."
"Your hands are cold. You won't get an accurate measurement if your cold hands cause shrinkage."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and threw his hands up in the air, then rapidly rubbed them together and pulled the tape taut between his fingers again.
"I guess. Wait, what are you doing? You're cheating. You have to measure from the root, you git, or it won't be accurate."
"Lower? Don't be absurd. That's not your penis, that's your scrotum."
"I'm a fucking doctor, Sherlock, I know where my penis is. However, to be really accurate, we should measure from the bottom to the top, along the dorsal side. Start where boner meets belly and go to the top."
Sherlock held the tip of the measuring tape to the juncture of penis and body with one hand and slid the fingers of his other hand up John's shaft, making sure that the tape lay flat the entire way up, then ran his fingers back down to make sure that the tape's tip hadn't moved. And then back up.
"God, Sherlock, what the hell? Are you measuring or ... oh god ... oh fuck ..."
"Sorry, sorry. Sorry. Just want to make sure it's accurate. I'm measuring to the meatus, all right? I think that makes most sense." Sherlock pressed down gently at the now weeping slit of John's erection, then swore. "I can't get an accurate result if you're leaking all over the measuring device, John!"
John moaned ever so slightly when Sherlock swept his thumb over the slit to wipe off the fluid.
"Don't — you — even — dare — oh my god, you did it. You tasted it."
"I had to, John, for science."
"Dear god, John, you're getting even bigger. This is crazy. Look at that. You just grew another half an inch!"
"Shut. Up. Are you done?"
"I don't know. Are you? Oh! Oh, of course!" Sherlock clapped his hands to either side of his perfectly O-shaped mouth.
"Do I want to hear this?"
"We have to take the measurement post-ejaculation! That way we'll know that the test subject had achieved its maximum state of arousal. We'll measure immediately after so that there won't be time for any detumescence!"
"Jesus fucking hell, this is ridiculous."
"Tell me, John, what gets you particularly aroused? Besides the sound of my voice, the sight of my hands, and the shape of my lips, that is."
"Just deduced all that right now, did you?"
"Obviously. Hm. Let me see. What did I miss?"
"Sherlock. No. Don't. Sherlock —"
"Oral!" Sherlock exclaimed, delighted with his observations. He positioned himself between John's thighs, place his hands on either side of his hips, and plunged down.
"SHERLOCK! You can't just — ohsweetbabyjesusholymotherofgod —"
John frantically scrambled to grab Sherlock's head and push him off, but once his fingers were firmly entangled in Sherlock's curls he found himself thrusting up instead of pushing off. His insane, previously asexual, high-functioning sociopath of a sexy-as-fuck flatmate was giving him the best head he'd ever received in his life.
After several delirious minutes Sherlock cupped John's testicles in one hand and rolled them, then pulled off, saliva glossing his lips and chin, and said, "John, your scrotum is preparing for ejaculation. We completely forgot to consider the —"
John pushed his hips up off the bed and Sherlock's head back down. "Later ... later ... one experiment ... at a ... time ... oh yeah ... that's it ... that's it ... oh fuck yeah ... get the tape .... get the ... oh jesus ... uh ... fuh ... fuh ... FUCK!"
Sherlock pulled off half-spurt, either unaware or uncaring of the come landing on his cheek and in his hair as he reached for the tape and placed it along John's still pulsing penis.
"John, I'm quite impressed. At your most erect, from pelvis to meatus, you are nineteen-point-two centimeters long." Sherlock closed his eyes and made a few quick calculations in his head. "Nineteen-point-two ... multiplied ... three nine four ... decimal point ... John, you are seven-point-five-six inches long, which as a percentage of your height is twelve-point-six percent. Now me."
Sherlock threw himself back on the bed, turned to look at John, and gestured vaguely at his mostly-erect penis.
John, still shuddering through the aftershocks of the most intense orgasm he'd experienced in months, turned to his side with his eyes closed, and hummed. "Go ahead. Finish yourself off. I'll measure when you're done."
"What on earth is wrong with you? How did you ever pass the science courses necessary to get into medical school, let alone become a doctor?"
"We can't use a completely different methodology on the next test subject! That would be neither valid nor reliable!"
"I thought it was about ejaculating?" John muttered into the bed sheets.
"Yes, well, who knows if different methods of stimulation will create a variance in the potential erection size before ejaculation?"
"You don't know? Are you admitting that you don't know something?"
"John. For the sake of science, you need to suck me off."
"Science. Again with the sodding science." John started giggling, still riding the high of the post-climatic endorphin surge. "Where's the bleedin' tape?"
Sherlock groped around on the bed, tossed it in John's general direction, then crossed his hands over his chest and stared up at the ceiling, a perfect picture of the world's only consulting detective waiting patiently for his scientific blow job.
John giggled a bit more, kneeled at Sherlock's side, bent low, and took Sherlock's never-really-was-that-little-wee in his mouth, where it immediately jerked repeatedly against his tongue. Above him, Sherlock made an unintelligible noise. John chuckled.
Within seconds Sherlock's placidly folded hands were grabbing at handfuls of sheets, his legs were splayed, and his hips were jolting off the bed.
"Easy there, tiger. The experiment is ruined if you impale the researcher's oesophagus." John pressed his forearm down over Sherlock's hips and continued where he'd left off.
It was almost over before it began, but John had experienced enough people approaching orgasm in his life to know what it meant when Sherlock stopped writhing and sighing, began to tense up and groan, and then went completely rigid and yelped. He pulled off just as Sherlock began to pulse stripes over his belly. John wiped his mouth and aligned the measuring tape up the length of Sherlock's shaft.
"Twenty-three centimeters. You do the math. Sherlock?"
Sherlock curled into a ball and pressed his face into John's hip, but John could feel his mouth moving, so he assumed he was doing the calculations.
"Bit over nine inches. But. John, as a percentage of height, we are exactly the same. Twelve-point-six percent."
"Bloody hell. Are you kidding me? What are the odds?"
"Approximately one in ten thousand."
"You are totally making that up, Sherlock."
"I am." Sherlock pushed himself up on one elbow and pulled John down beside him. "I hope that you will agree with me when I say that, in conclusion, we are both well-endowed, and that neither of us has, as you are so fond of saying, a little wee."
"I would have to agree. Shame you don't use yours, lovely specimen that it is."
"That's not true. I just used it. Just then. Right now."
"For science. It's not the same."
"As what? For enjoyment?"
"I must admit, it was extremely enjoyable."
"It was. That's true."
"It was enjoyable to, em, prepare you for measurement, as well."
"And you seemed surprisingly comfortable preparing me."
"Well, to be honest, I think I would have enjoyed it more had it lasted longer. You were off like a shot."
"I was quite pent up. It had been a while. I wonder if that influences the size of the erection?"
John and Sherlock looked at each other for a long moment, then looked at the pink measuring tape on the bed between them.
"For science?" John asked.
"For science," Sherlock answered.