"Broken?! John, please tell this imbecile he doesn't know what he's talking about."
"Sherlock, he's absolutely right. Look at the x-ray. It's right there: your ulna is cracked like crème brulé. Observe," John smirks. Sherlock's face slides between disbelief, contempt, and something that looks a bit like fear.
Dr Richardson rubs his temples and tucks his clipboard under his arm. "Can I have the nurse give you directions to orthopedics?"
"Erm, better—I know where it is. We'll—I've got it. Thank you, Doctor."
With a grim smile, Dr Richardson leaves the room as quickly as is professional.
"Well then, Sherlock, shall we get you casted?"
"John, you can't be serious."
"With you? Always."
"But John, the work, how am I supposed to work with my arm hopelessly immobilized in plaster?"
"Stop being a child. Come on. I'll grab your coat, out the door and to the right."
Sherlock stomps over to the x-ray display, yanks the film off the box, and continues out the room with a petulant scowl.
John rolls his eyes and directs his detective down the hall.
Back at Baker Street, Sherlock scratches at his newly plastered arm. John teased that Sherlock should get some hideously bright colour, but Sherlock utterly refused. He opts for plain black, hoping that it will blend in decently.
It doesn't.
With a deep sigh, John hangs up his jacket and heads to the kitchen to turn on the kettle.
Sherlock flops down on the sofa, clearly having a strop.
"Tea, Sherlock?"
A faint grunt.
"Take that for a no, then," mumbles John. Then louder, "have you really never broken a bone before? Can't imagine in all your mad capping about London you've never broken a bone."
"Of course I've broken bones, John. Two ribs, a toe, and I suspect a clavicle, but I never got it examined. But I've never been sealed inside a horrible plaster prison from it! This is intolerable."
"You'll survive, I promise. Now stop being such a drama queen and do something productive."
Sherlock purses his lips and swings up gracefully to stand beside the couch so that he can properly glare at John. "And what do you suggest I do? I can't tend my experiments; I'm right handed and lack the dexterity to perform careful actions. I'm useless on cases, and I don't want to read anything."
"How are you useless on cases? Pretty sure you can still deduce things with a broken arm."
"But what if I need to do something, John? Augh!" he exclaims.
"Hey. Relax. Here, have a cuppa," John says, procuring Sherlock's favourite mug full of steaming hot tea with two sugars. Sherlock reaches out to grab it with his right hand. Clumsily, he grasps the handle, closes his eyes to clamp down on the frustrated rage building up inside him. He would regret it if he threw his favourite mug against the wall from something as dull as a broken arm.
The next morning, Sherlock learns that his broken arm is not only dull, but utterly absurd to shower with. John tells him he had better wrap his arm in plastic wrap, so he doesn't damage the cast. When John makes it clear that damaging the cast would only mean a new one would be put on in its place, Sherlock swaddles his forearm in plastic and sets about washing himself.
He didn't, of course, think to leave his fingers free ("you said wrap the whole thing, John!") and so finds himself attempting to open the shampoo bottle with his teeth, wedge it against the wall with his hip, and squeeze some soap into his left hand.
The bottle shoots out from under his arm and slides around the bathtub like a toy race car, startling Sherlock and slamming into his toes. With a shout, and a few grumbled curses, Sherlock slams off the water and stands in the shower, dripping for a few minutes.
When he can stand to wrap himself in a towel, he does so, and heads to his room to find a shirt he can wedge his arm through. Sherlock owns almost exclusively well-tailored dress shirts, and so his choices are rather thin. He finds a tee-shirt he normally reserves for pyjamas, and finds a pair of dark jeans to slip on.
Almost silently, Sherlock returns to the front room where John taps something out on his laptop, probably telling the whole blogosphere about how the great Sherlock Holmes has a cast, and would anyone like to sign it?
"John." It's almost a whisper.
John flinches, but recovers quickly with a smile. "How'd the shower go, then?"
"John," Sherlock repeats, more insistent this time.
"Doesn't look like you got very far."
"I need you to do it."
"Do what?"
"Wash my hair."
John flushes dusky pink, and swallows visibly. "And how do you suggest I do that?"
"I suspect the kitchen sink would be the easiest."
John curls his lips in trying not to smile. "Right," he says. A giggle climbs out of his throat, and he tries to cover with a cough.
Sherlock is not fooled.
"John?"
"Yes, yes, alright go get your shampoo. I'll try to set up the kitchen."
Sherlock dashes into the bathroom, ignoring the twinge of excitement in his stomach. Why he finds this exciting, he has no idea. Perhaps it's the promise of making John uncomfortable?
John, for his part, shoves the kitchen table up against the worktop by the sink. He looks at it somewhat sceptically, curious to see how his flatmate's long gangly limbs will fit on their table so that he can wash those dark curls in their dubiously clean kitchen.
Sherlock returns from the bathroom and warily eyes the table set up. He hands the bottles to John, who places them on the worktop. With a sigh, Sherlock sits on the table and scoots and shimmies until he's the proper distance from the sink.
"Thank goodness we've got a hose, or this might be absolutely awful," John comments.
"It may still be awful," Sherlock replies sourly. "But you'd best get used to it, because you're the one who insists I keep this cast on the whole six weeks."
"Sherlock, we've been over this. It needs to heal. Now stop complaining and lie back."
The gangly man rolls his eyes and tugs the hem of his t-shirt up, slipping his good arm out first and then dragging his broken arm through.
"What are you doing?" John asks incredulously.
"I don't want my shirt to get wet, obviously." Sherlock rolls up a tea towel to place under his neck for comfort and lies back on the table, head dangling in the sink basin.
John eyes the set up and his shirtless flatmate and decides things could be much, much worse. He turns on the water, letting it run down his hand until it reaches a suitable temperature.
Satisfied, he yanks the hose out as far as it goes, and aims it at Sherlock's head. "Ready?"
"Yes, just get on with it!" Sherlock snaps.
John presses the lever and the water showers over Sherlock's messy hair. He feels a bit like he's watering a very strange plant. But he isn't expected to massage soap into a plant, so there's that.
He has to stand rather close to Sherlock's naked torso, and he tries to push thoughts out of his mind that really shouldn't be there. He tries to switch into medical-mode in his mind, but it's not very effective.
Grappling briefly with holding the hose and wetting Sherlock's hair, John decides it's good enough, and puts the hose down. He grabs the bottle of shampoo first, and squeezes some into his palm.
"Keep your eyes shut," he instructs, and he begins to work the soap into Sherlock's hair.
Sherlock realizes that his broken arm is anything but dull.
John's hands massage his scalp, deliciously working the shampoo into a fluffy lather. It feels magnificent, Sherlock decides.
When every curl is sufficiently soapy, John turns on the faucet to begin rinsing, but Sherlock grabs his arm. "No!" he urges. His outburst startles himself, but he tries to recover some of his dignity. "It has to sit for two minutes. Keep massaging it. That's how it works."
John reaches for the bottle. "What the hell kind of shampoo do you use?"
"Never mind that, just... keep rubbing." Sherlock adjusts the towel under his shoulders and closes his eyes again.
John quirks an eyebrow but cards his hands through Sherlock's hair again, luxuriating just a bit in the softness and the foam. His fingers stroke the scalp just behind Sherlock's ears, and he can feel the hum of pleasure Sherlock lets out, vibrating through his fingertips.
It's certainly a sight to behold, seeing Sherlock practically purring like a cat as John strokes his hair; and John can't help but repeat the actions that Sherlock responded so positively to. He digs in a little harder this time, selfishly hoping for Sherlock to – John freezes.
Is he actually trying to elicit a moan from his shirtless flatmate as he washes the man's hair? John's breath catches as his heart seems to stutter a moment. He comes back into himself when Sherlock sits up, suds dripping down his neck and chest, repeating John's name.
"John!"
"I—wh- sorry. Ready to rinse?"
"John, are you alright? You look a bit... wobbly."
"Fine, fine. Just... It's nothing. Lay back down."
Giving his friend one more look over, Sherlock complies, leaning back slowly, letting his abdominal muscles do the work. John thinks he must be staring, but there's nothing for it. And if Sherlock just smirked, John would never know.
John can't turn the faucet on quickly enough, letting the cold water run over his hands, trying to cool down his blood a bit before turning on the hot water and bringing it up to acceptable hair-washing temperature.
He holds the hose close to Sherlock's hair, trying to shield his eyes from the spray of soap suds. The white lather slides off of Sherlock's hair and into the sink. John tries to remember the last time they washed the sink, and jokes, "This may be the cleanest our sink will be since we moved in."
Sherlock chuckles at that, because he has to agree. "That experiment with those pig's bladders can't have helped."
"Augh, don't remind me of that."
"It was for a case, John."
"Yes, I'm sure it was."
The tension lifts, and John feels like he can breathe again. His hands are more brusquely working to rinse the shampoo out of Sherlock's hair, fingers catching on tangled curls here and there. Sherlock grimaces at a couple of them, but John doesn't want to be gentle right now. He's just a bloke washing his mate's hair. Nothing more.
At least, he needs to believe that.
When all of the shampoo is bubbling around the drain and no longer in Sherlock's hair, John turns off the water and starts to towel off his hands.
"John, you have to do the conditioner, too. My hair gets unbearably dry without it."
John licks his lips and does his best not to curse or make a face. "Right."
At least conditioner doesn't lather so much, he thinks hopelessly.
"And John? This one stays in for three minutes."
Shit.
"Why can't you just buy normal things like everyone else?" John grumbles.
"I have sensitive skin, John. You know that."
Yes, John has spent far too much time thinking about Sherlock's pale, smooth, sensitive skin. He pours the conditioner into his hands aggressively, and sets to working it into Sherlock's scalp.
Christ but that really shouldn't feel as good as it does, and John is already thinking about the next time Sherlock needs his hair washed because it's an excuse to touch the oh-so-untouchable man.
The conditioner doesn't lather quite as much as the shampoo, but it smells delicious and it mixes with Sherlock's own unique scent that John realizes smells like home to him. 221B smells like Sherlock; or perhaps Sherlock smells like 221B. In either case, it makes John's nerves dance.
Sherlock is humming faintly again, and John tries to focus on that.
"What are you humming?" he asks.
Sherlock doesn't respond, just keeps humming.
Two minutes til rinse.
John leans closer, trying to keep his hands working the conditioner through Sherlock's slick and smooth hair, but mostly trying to recognize the song.
"It sounds familiar. Is it something you've played on violin before?"
Sherlock doesn't make any indication that he's heard John's questions, just keeps humming.
One minute til rinse.
John leans in closer, hands still in Sherlock's hair, and finally recognizes the tune. It's not classical music at all, but the Doors. Sherlock is singing Touch Me. After recovering from his initial shock that Sherlock knows the song at all, John finds himself humming along.
Sherlock's left arm tentatively reaches out to John's hip, finding the place just above John's waistband. The touch is light and hesitant; Sherlock's fingers twitch against John's body, the heat from his palms radiating through the thin material of John's shirt.
Sherlock opens his eyes, meeting John's somewhat confused gaze. John brushes a curl off of Sherlock's forehead.
"Sherlock..." he creaks.
"Come on, come on, come on, come on, touch me baby. Can't you see that I am not afraid?" Sherlock doesn't sing the lyrics so much as he mouths them, all the while still humming.
John realises he's leaning over Sherlock quite intimately at this point, and he remembers with a purpose what he's doing.
"Sherlock, I... I need to rinse your hair."
"Oh." His eyes dart away from John's, a flush creeps across his neck and chest. "Yes, I suppose you should."
John turns the water on again, too impatient to let it warm up properly, so he starts washing out the conditioner with the too-cold water. Sherlock inhales sharply, and John mutters an apology as he turns up the hot water.
John rinses Sherlock's hair purposefully, concentrating solely on the task at hand. When John turns the water off, he return the hose to its original position and Sherlock sits up.
Slowly, John turns toward Sherlock, who glides off the table. John is determined to look anywhere but Sherlock's face, but he ends up looking at the water droplets that run down his torso, falling into the top of his dark jeans that are just that bit too tight.
Sherlock dips his head down to catch John's eye and he guides John's chin up so they can look at each other properly.
John swallows audibly, and licks his lips. His hands fidget at his sides.
"Relax, John." Sherlock's casted arm comes to rest awkwardly on John's arm, the other shifting from under his chin to cup his jaw.
John gives a curt, military nod and wills his muscles to relax.
Sherlock drags his fingertips down John's arm until he can grab his wrist and guide it to his waist. John's fingers flex as he realises what Sherlock is doing. He brings his other arm up to Sherlock's waist, too, wrapping around the man's narrow body.
With droplets still dangling down from his cork-screw hair, Sherlock leans in to brush his lips over John's.
John thinks about what he's doing for a split second, and decides to hell with it, and surges up to kiss Sherlock back properly.
Sherlock grabs at John's t-shirt and drags it over the man's head, their lips breaking only as long as they need as greedy hands trail across skin. They exchange deep, wet kisses, and John reaches into Sherlock's hair and ruffles it, trying to dry it out. He pulls back and laughs huskily. "You're getting me wet," he complains.
"That rather was the idea," Sherlock says breathlessly.
"Not like that," John chides.
Sherlock drags John toward him and perches on the table again, opening his legs for John to step inside, crowding in close.
By the time they're quite finished, the table is arguably more of a mess than before this whole endeavour. "John," Sherlock says, barely suppressing a giggle, "I think I need another shower."