"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."
"Sherlock-"
"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."
"Ngh."
"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."