John locked the door to the bathroom and turned on the shower, whistling while he waited for the water to reach a tolerable temperature. He stuck out his hand and waved it a little under the spray, testing the water. Then he hopped in, groaning as the hot water hit his shoulders and neck. For minutes he just blissed out. It had been a long day at the surgery and he his sore and stiff muscles loosening gradually. John scrubbed his hands over his face. He looked forward to some food (maybe Indian?), watching telly, sinking into the sofa cushions and not talking to anyone. Just another spectacular Friday night in the life of John Watson. Wasn't he just seizing the day! Sherlock was away over the weekend. He had not bothering specifying a destination. He'd just left this morning with a bag in his hand and as John had inquired about this, he'd called out something about not expecting him until monday, looking like he reveled in the mystery of his departure. If John was honest, he was glad of having the flat to himself for a while. Sherlock had been bored and consequently insufferable. John had had killer shifts all week and had not had a moment to himself, since when he was not at the surgery he had to contain the ticking time bomb consulting detective and prevent him from blowing up and doing something utterly ludicrous. John was looking forward to a few days off work and off Sherlock.
He tipped his face up into the spray, letting the water wash away the day's stress. A little water got into his eye and stung He muttered a curse, rubbing it out. He should probably get going anyway, he'd been in the shower for what felt like a long time. Blindly, he reached for the shampoo and squeezed some out into his hand and rubbed it into his scalp. It felt really nice. John took a deep, relaxed breath through his nose. It smelled amazing. Subtle fragrances enveloped him, he couldn't make out individual notes but it just smelled luxuriously musky, yet with a sharp fresh sting to it. And with a jolt that he realized that this wasn't his shampoo. His shampoo smelled nothing like that, if at all it had a perfunctory, artficial clean smell to it since John didn't bother to pick out anything fancy at the drug store. But apparently Sherlock took more care choosing his products. Th detective had no trouble spending money on things that looked and smelled great. John rinsed and opened his eyes, taking the bottle, a dark rich brown, and reading the brand description. It looked incredibly expensive. Among the list of ingredients were caraway, anise, patchouli, vanilla, and cedar. Now that he thought about it, he had noticed that Sherlock's hair smelled particularly nice on a few occasions; both of them crowding into a doorway hiding while observing a suspect, John helping him into his coat after dinner at their favorite Chinese place, Sherlock leaning over his shoulder pointing out a clue on John's laptop that he missed entirely while reading the article three times over. He sniffed the bottle, imagining he was standing behind Sherlock and it was his neck. His otherworldy white neck, where a little curl sneaked out and met the expanse of skin. He longed to run his hand over his shoulder, up his neck, touching the skin which he imagined would be absolutely smooth to the touch, and then into his hair, which he now knew for a fact smelled heavenly. Would his hair feel silky-soft or a bit *coarse when he caressed him there? John took another whiff of essence and suddenly got very self-conscious about what he was doing. He was under the shower, sniffing Sherlock's shampoo and... no, that didn't happen just now.
Furtively he clicked the bottle shut and put it back. Quickly, he scrubbed his privates with a cloth (nothing happened here, either, because nothing happened) and got out of the shower.
He prayed Sherlock wouldn't find out. Was it so embarassing that he smelled another man's shampoo? He couldn't help feeling slightly guilty. It was an unspoken code kind of thing. Don't sniff a bloke's toiletries, don't go through his things, don't look in his … well, private sections of the closet. Well, Sherlock was was gone for the weekend, wasn't he, so... John was embarassed at the direction his train of thought had taken. He didn't want to behave like some sort of curious girlfriend. That's what they did to guys, dind't they?
It would have been a lot easier if he wasn't living with the world's only consulting detective who was prone to pay attention to such unimportant details as the last known the position of his shampoo bottle. No, Sherlock could most definitely never find out about this or John would die of shame. Shaking his head, John got into his terrycloth robe and walked up to his room to change. Silly. If Sherlock noticed, he would just claim it was an accident. Got a bit of water into my eye, fumbled about, used your shampoo by accident, sorry about that, it smelled expensive (and it made me think about petting your head and how lovely you smell). But probably Sherlock wouldn't care, right?
John got into his most comfy boxers and slacks and a ratty soft tshirt. He turned up the thermostat in his room, it was turned way down because during the last week he had hardly spent any time here except to crash into his bed, exhausted. But since it was the middle of January, a bit of heating wasn't amiss. Then he padded down to the kitchen and ordered chicken marsala from the well-thumbed Indian menu on the fridge. Was he going to risk looking inside the fridge for a beer? He pondered the pros and cons for a moment, and finally deciding he could take livers and fingers and what not, though tongues even grossed out the doctor on occasion. He yanked open the door, staring defiantly inside. Luckily, he merely encountered a couple of petri dishes with unidentified content, probably mould samples Sherlock avidly collected like an eight-year-old girl would collect stickers. Maybe he secretly met up with other mould-enthusiasts and swapped samples. Giggling at that a bit, John rifled through a section in the frdige which contained the obligatory bachelor "I'm not sure about this anymore" jar of pickles, the near-empty ketchup bottle and dug out a lager, the remnants of a six-pack Greg had brought over for the last soccer night. He binned the cardboard wrapping and opened the bottle. He proceeded to the living room to continue with his plan. With a sigh, he slumped into the sofa and flicked on the telly, taking a large sip of chilled lager. Not caring what was on, he just zapped until he got stuck on something calming with a lot of nature panoramas in it, a documentary about Chile. Whatever, he couldn't process dialoguetight now anyway. The doorbell rang and his food arrived after half an hour of the Andes. Getting up and down the stairs was hard enough right now, so he couldn't bother to get out a plate and just proceeded to stick a fork into his hot curry and shove it into his mouth with gusto. Thank god for take-out, Sherlock and he would starve to death or die of malnutrition otherwise. There was only so much toast you could eat.
Feeling a bit more lively after his system got some energy back, he changed the channel to something more exciting, a movie with lots of cars and explosions in it. When he couldn't keep his eyes open anymore, he crawled into bed and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.