Murder by Flatmate, Metaphorically
John had no warning, really.
One minute, he was relaxing back into the hot water, candle light flickering across the bathroom from the lit candles, the smell of coconut fresh in the air.
The next, the bathroom door had opened unceremoniously and Sherlock strode in, calm as day and seemingly oblivious to any problem with the arrangement.
John didn't know if he was more embarrassed or angry. Or annoyed that Sherlock didn't even seem to notice that he was in the bath.
"What are you doing?!" he demanded, sinking a little lower in the water. He had the cover of bubbles, so there was absolutely no chance that Sherlock was going to see something that he shouldn't, but honestly.
Sherlock glanced at him. "I have to-" His eyebrows arched up as he took in the bath tub, the candles, the bubble bath.
John felt his face grow hot. He vainly hoped that he wasn't blushing.
"Do you have a woman in there?" Sherlock asked dryly.
"What? No! Get out," John said.
Sherlock's eyebrows did not fall. If possible, he just looked more subtly amused. "Isn't that rather feminine?" he asked, moving past the bath.
"Sod off. It's relaxing, which is something that I can rarely say when I live with you- What are you doing?" he demanded as Sherlock reached for the button on his pyjama pants.
Sherlock looked over his shoulder, eyebrow arched again. "This is the toilet. We only have one, and I have to go."
John rolled his eyes and grabbed the shower curtain, pulling it open.
"Your modesty is touching, John, but I don't care," Sherlock said.
John (in vain, again) tried to tune out what his flatmate was doing. "I wasn't doing it for you, you prat. You shouldn't be in here, anyway!"
Sherlock probably rolled his eyes, but John couldn't see him. "You've been in here forty minutes. You were making no move to vacate the room and I was tired of waiting." He flushed the toilet; John was glad that he wasn't taking a shower. "Don't blame me for your... inclination towards bathing."
"Hey!" John peered out from the shower curtain. He pushed it back when he found Sherlock was only washing his hands now. "You take stupid long baths, too."
"I take long baths because I think while I'm in the bath," Sherlock said matter-of-factly, turning as he dried his hands. "But I don't have coconut bubble bath and unscented tealight candles when I do," he said, giving John's bath a pointed look.
"Would you stop staring and get out, you great clot? I'm trying to relax."
"I can see that," Sherlock said, throwing the hand towel onto the countertop. "Obviously."
"Sherlock, hang that up!"
"I thought you wanted me to leave."
"I do, but pick up the towel!" John said, sinking impossibly lower in the bath. The bubble bath was starting to thin out.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Enjoy your bath," he said dryly, leaving without picking up the towel.
"Sherlock!" John protested. "I am not your housekeeper!"
"No, Mrs Hudson is," Sherlock said, closing the door as he left.
"Sherlock- oh!" John snatched the tealight out of the water after it fell in. "Damn. Bloody intrusive flatmate!" he said, loud enough for Sherlock to hear him in the kitchen.
"Do try to not burn down the flat, John," Sherlock called back. "I believe that you always tell me that while I'm working with fire."
John rolled his eyes and set the wet tealight aside, looking at it forlornly. He had a sneaking suspicion that Sherlock was never going to let him live this down.
And, of course, when there was a mysterious murder of a man who was taking a bath surrounded by tealights, Sherlock brought it up. Naturally.
John very much would have liked to tell Sherlock just where he could put those tealights.
I've written something like this before, but The Deadly Tealights on John's blog totally lends to fanfiction. I just threw the bubble bath in for fun, because that's a favourite- especially Sherlock taking bubble baths.
I do not own Sherlock or any of its affiliates. Thank you!