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."

"Fuck."

"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.