Hello chaps, finally got round to writing again, although rather than finishing off my old works I wrote this one instead after getting heavily into the Sherlock fandom. You may have noticed that I have quite a few not-recently-updated WIPs, which may appear abandoned but I just haven't had any inspiration for them for a while. Anyway, don't let that put you off as this fic is completely finished and so I will not be even nearly abandoning it any time soon
This started off as a PWP but the smut doesn't actually come until the 5th chapter or so. I don't know how that happened. I guess the first two chapters could be labelled plot, but 'sexually charged tension building' is probably a more applicable term. Yay.
Anyway, enjoy!
Chapter warnings: Non-graphic undressing and nudity.
Chapter One
Sherlock was unresponsive as, shoulder protesting, I finally deposited him in the armchair, trying not to think about the mud stains I would inevitable have to clean later.
"Do you need any help, dear?" Mrs Hudson chimed from the doorway, looking rather concerned at the lump of mud that was barely recognisable as Sherlock Holmes.
"No, I can take it from here, thanks Mrs Hudson."
"OK, call me if you need me," she flashed her usual comforting smile and departed. I took another look at my ridiculously dirty flatmate.
"See, Sherlock. That's what happens when you go non-stop on only a bite of toast and adrenaline for five days with no sleep," I said, using my best I-told-you-so voice. He was too far gone to respond and I shook my head at him redundantly.
It had been a trying case. We had spend all day searching for a killer who deposited all his victims on the South Bank and all night switching between running after and running away from his associates. Finally, when the case was cleared up, Sherlock had managed to scowl for a press photo before promptly falling into the Thames. I sighed as I flicked the kettle and set some tomato soup to heat on the hob.
"Only an idiot ignores his doctor," I mimicked in a poor imitation of Sherlock's deep rumbling baritone, thinking of when he uses my vain attempts to maintain his health as excuses to escape Lestrade once the fun has gone out of a case. "I know everything. I'm Sherlock fucking Holmes."
I was, of course, aware that Sherlock could probably hear me. He hadn't the strength to stand, talk or walk as he shivered against me on the walk home but his breathing was slow, telling me he was unconscious, and that hadn't changed since he had been slumped on the sofa.
I looked back at him again. He was still trembling.
I grabbed a tea towel, wetting it roughly, before heading back to the front room. After wrapping a blanket around his slender shoulders I began wiping the mud off his face so he could at least open his eyes if he awoke. I couldn't help but giggle as his eyes appeared in two pale circles, contrasting the rest of his face, making him like a strange-looking owl. He blinked at me.
"Hungry?"
He blinked again: a ha-ha-very-funny-now-get-me-some-soup blink. I chuckled and headed back to the kitchen to collect the soup.
"Can you eat this by yourself?"
Blink. Translation: "I'll try." His left hand twitched, purple fingers making a valiant attempt to reach for the spoon I was holding out. Blink: "no."
I sighed and filled the spoon with soup, blowing it momentarily before holding it out before him. With some effort his blue, quivering lips parted enough to make way for my spoon.
It took a full half an hour to finish the soup, but after that the only mud-soaked consulting detective in the world had stopped shivering and was beginning to be able to move his arms legs and mouth, albeit weakly.
"Jugh," he said, and I assumed he was aiming for 'John.'
"Yes."
His mouth opened and closed without any sound coming out and his eyebrows furrowed in frustration. He wriggled – barely – to show his discomfort.
"Shower?" I suggested.
"Mm, he managed, the same frown still creasing his brow.
I held out a hand which he reached for, and missed. I tried not to smile, and failed.
"Come on then," I sighed, looping my forearms under his armpits and feeling his hands bounce off my back uselessly. I dragged him to the bathroom and balanced him on the edge of the bath, before running the taps – mostly hot.
"Bath or shower?"
"Mm."
"Was that bath?"
"Mm." Affirmative. I couldn't help but feel he was putting it on a bit now as I slid the plug into position.
"Would you like some bubble bath? Candles? A fluffy towel? Your Highness?"
"Mm."
I shook my head again. "Alright, I'll leave you to it."
"Jugh..." I couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy then – he sounded so helpless and vulnerable.
"What is it?" I asked, concern lacing my tone.
"Uh – I... c-"
I could tell the communication difficulties were frustrating the usually ever-so-eloquent detective, but I just waited patiently.
"Can't. Move."
I looked at him curiously, his bottomless eyes staring through me. I went pink as I realised his meaning.
"You need ... more help?" I said, tone a little flustered. I wasn't sure if I imagined the flicker of amusement across his eyes as he gave a shy, embarrassed nod. I don't know why I was getting so embarrassed. I'd spent nearly a year in Afghanistan, as an army doctor, for God's sake, seeing men in all different states of undress. I'd even seen Sherlock in just a sheet before and it hadn't bothered me one bit (I told myself) and he was forever walking around in that dressing gown – and nothing else, though I didn't think about that detail. (Much.)
"Alright," I said, trying to keep my tone casual and comforting as I began searching through the mud for the buttons on Sherlock's shirt. "You okay?"
"Mm."
"Yep. Good. Me too," I said, not feeling 'okay' at all as I pushed the stiff material off his shoulders. All this no-eating, no-sleeping business had taken its toll on Sherlock's body, I could see his ribs and collarbone poking out at me as if trying to breach his pale, fragile-looking skin.
"You really need to eat more," I chided.
"Mm." He sounded a bit more urgent now and the trembling was beginning again.
"OK, OK! Keep your pants on..." Or don't, I couldn't help but think as I reached for his belt. I slowly but surely unfastened the buckled and pulled the belt through the grungy rings on his trousers. "Better stand up for this bit," I said, pulling him back up onto his feet. He managed to lift one hand to brace himself against the bathroom wall but his forehead lolled against my shoulder. I could feel his breath ghosting through my shirt and onto my cool skin. My hands reached for his fly.
This was not how I imagined this would happen. If it would have ever happened. Not that I imagined it. Ever.
"OK, in you get," I said, feeling like a mother bathing her child. A mother with a penis. A Penis that was making itself known against the stiff denim of my jeans. Brilliant.
Sherlock turned to face the bath, with my help, and wobbled as he lifted on leg over the side. He used me to steady himself until he had both feet firmly under the hot water. Luckily the amount of mud that had accumulated on his body covered most of the bits that he wouldn't want me to see.. And that I didn't want to see. Obviously. I didn't.
As I carefully helped him lower himself, the water turned black with grime. Sherlock sighed as he became immersed in the hot, now muddy water.
"Thik yugh," he mumbled.
"You're welcome." I replied, standing there for too long before I realized that this was a dismissal and turned on my heel, desperate to get away from the soaking Sherlock Holmes in our bath.
