Summary:
John's had a long day, and all he wanted was a bath.
It started with the jam. It was a very fine jam, homemade, with bits of fruit that came with every spoonful. Very rustic, tasting sweet and of home in another lifetime. It was in a jar labelled clearly that it was John Watson's and no one was allowed to touch it. He even made sure to keep it away from the various undesirable items that were kept in the fridge.
Of course, it was inevitable that he would wake up the next day with half the jar already empty when he'd just received it from Mrs Hudson. John sighed, and read the new label on the jar, changed from 'John Watson's Jam', crossed out, into 'OurJam. Thanks, John'. Never let it be said that Sherlock Holmes didn't know how to read. He just never followed instructions.
John sighed, and calmly slathered his toast with his jam and some butter, and drank his coffee. Something went bang in Sherlock's room, followed by the sound of glass breaking, and then a loud yelp. John paid it no mind, and instead finished his drink. He left the house precisely on time, not a minute more, and got to the surgery just as Sarah had just arrived.
It was as tedious as it usually was, patients coming in with the same complaints and problems. Mr Adams was the third person to complain of migraine, and the fifth to claim that it must be a tumour. Hypochondriacs poured in today, and John was given the job of kicking them out as politely as possible. Patients complained of fever, some coughs, a few colds. Someone had diarrhoea, another was constipated, and there were three who complained of headaches - one migraine, one cluster, and another tension-type. And it continued. Lunch break came and went, and then more people poured in.
Usually, this monotony was a welcome change of pace from being dragged round all over London on Sherlock Holmes's charming adventures. Chasing criminals was fun, but John was still a doctorand he enjoyed practicing medicine, even if it was just at a small clinic.
Well. Until a patient vomits all over him, anyway. John had seen the signs of nausea, but was too far from a trash bin or even a random bowl to save himself. His patient had proceeded to hurl the contents of his stomach on one of John's best shirts. John had merely sighed, brushed most of the sticky yellow curry off his shirt and decidedly ignored the feeling of wetness sticking to his chest.
The man had tried to apologise, but went green before he could say his S's and puked all over John's shoes.
John had a change of clothes in his locker, knowing that these things happen. At least it was vomit, and not blood. He'd had enough men bleed on him for a lifetime; he didn't need a repeat.
It was, however, still unpleasant. John had to take a few minutes to change his shirt and vest, spraying a ridiculous amount of body spray that didn't quite get rid of the curry smell even after wiping himself down. He simply sprayed on more, and went back to work. If the patients started sniffing after him, John wasn't saying anything.
Patients coughing and sneezing on him afterwards felt like nothing after what happened. Spittle held nothing against curry. Dear God, if that was what Sherlock had ordered for takeaway, John's going to hurl.
His shift's end couldn't have come much sooner. His colleagues were asking him to the pub, but he had to refuse. He didn't want to go out smelling like barfed Asian food, and he didn't think he could keep down lager with the odour wafting up to his nose. So he simply headed home.
He was hoping to come home to a quiet flat, preferably with Sherlock safely locked in his room so John would not wonder where he was. Maybe have a nice hot bath to relax tense muscles and get the smell off of him. He reeked of stomach juices and curry mixed with the antiseptic smell of the surgery, and he smelled terrible. Bath is definitely required. And then, maybe, a cup of tea with hisunfortunately half-finished jar of jam and toast, and some mind-numbing crap telly to go with it. And then glorious, glorious sleep.
Know what, a case would actually be nice to break the week's monotony. John had had enough of the clinic, thanks, and being yanked around London by Sherlock Holmes would be absolutely welcome.
Jesus. He was wishing for a case. Sherlock was rubbing off on him, and John was not sure whether if it was a good or a bad thing.
Sherlock was nowhere to be found when John arrived. John sighed contentedly, happy that he didn't have Sherlock's dark moods to contend with today. John decided to have his tea and jam now, and maybe a bit of telly, discarding his clothes in the wash to soak. He wiped himself down with some warm, soapy water, and settled down on the sofa, his dressing gown just within reach in case of visitors. The smell was still overpowering, however, and so John put down his tea and toast, stripped everything off and loaded it in the wash. He wrapped his dressing gown around him, and trudged up the stairs to start his bath.
Warmth bloomed from the tip of his toes as he stepped into the perfect temperature, and he closed his eyes in contentment as he lowered himself down into the tub. The soap bubbles drifted on the surface, covering most of the water that John could see, but not enough to suffocate him. The ambiance was perfect short of a spa's lit scented candle, and Sherlock wasn't knocking about downstairs so everything was quiet and peaceful. It was absolute heaven. He sank into the water, scrubbing himself a bit. The air smelled of soothing lavender, and John poked his fingers through the floating foam, popping a few bubbles. He closed his eyes.
He didn't notice he'd already fallen asleep until something woke him, and it sounded like the sound of a chair smashing into a wall. Mrs Hudson would get upset if she finds new dents in the wallpaper. Not good. Definitely not good.
Something else smashed into the wall, and John reluctantly stood up from his comfortable position. He should see what the commotion was downstairs, probably. Maybe. He glanced back at the tub, and sighed. There was a sound of the clashing of metal. Maybe Sherlock was trying to cook. He could wreck the kitchen for all John cared right now; he'd rather have his rest and relax a bit and clean up later. He deserved it.
John shrugged, and got back into the tub, ready to sink back down into his watery haven. Sherlock could take care of himself. He was an adult, and whatever the commotion was downstairs, John was sure Sherlock could take care of it. He could handle whoever that unwelcome visitor was; he certainly didn't need John, and nor was John Sherlock's bodyguard. He could handle it.
Then came the unmistakable sound of a gunshot.
John got out of the tub and ran into his room, jerking his drawer open and grabbing the gun inside. John gingerly crept downstairs, pausing at the sitting room door to listen to what was going on inside.
"Any time now, John!" Sherlock croaked from the inside. John carefully pushed the door open, and ducked when someone shot at him. John tucked himself into a roll and stopped behind the sofa. The man followed John with his bullets, breaking anything in the way. John popped up again when the man stopped shooting. He aimed and shot the man in the shoulder. John belly-crawled towards the man and shoved the gun underneath the sofa. John paused to see if he was alive, and after ascertaining that he was, gave him an orange blanket from the sofa to press against his wound.
The intruder's companion was busy trying to severe Sherlock's head with an honest-to-god samurai sword, pressing against Sherlock who was trying to keep the sword away from his neck. The blade's edge was perilously close to Sherlock's face as he lied on the kitchen table. John could see the defensive wounds Sherlock had on his arms from grappling with the intruder, and he spotted the kitchen knife Sherlock had used to defend himself with earlier.
John gave a sigh, and asked the man nicely to drop the sword. "Please?" He tacked at the end, just to be polite.
The man instantly left Sherlock, and ran towards John, raising his sword.
John frowned. Really? This is what he was getting for asking politely?
He wasn't about to shoot a man clumsily going at him with a bulky sword. He would rather disarm the man without any unnecessary gunfire. He placed his gun on top of the coffee table, making a sad note of his broken tea mug and overturned toast on the floor, and turned to his opponent readily. The man slipped from a wet patch on the floor, and that was when John made his move.
John slipped out from under the man's immediate attack area, grabbed the nearest thing he could use - a steel rod with hoops at the end, and slammed it into the man's stomach. The intruder dropped his sword with a grunt, and John felled the man with a sweep of his leg. He slapped him hard on the face with the rod to make the man lose consciousness. John made sure the man's still breathing.
"Phone Greg." John said, watching Sherlock from the corner of his eye. "And an ambulance. Go."
Sherlock already had the phone to his ear even before John finished his command, and John went back to the man that he shot to give a bit of medical aid. The intruder's eyes were wide and staring at John. The wounded man was trying to say something, mouth opening and closing in a silent pantomime, but John shook his head at him. "It's all right, you'll be fine. You'll lose a bit of your mobility in that arm, but it wouldn't affect you too much. I know; I'm a doctor." John said, trying to placate the intruder-turned patient. "It's going to be all right. Just keep the pressure on your wound, the ambulance is coming."
"They're coming." Sherlock said, putting the phone down on the kitchen table. "Thank you."
John gave a small nod and opened his mouth to speak.
"What took you so long?" Sherlock interrupted before he could even say anything. John scowled, and Sherlock waved it away. "It doesn't matter. You're here now. Please put down that spreader bar you're holding, John."
"… The what?"
"Spreader bar. It is bondage equipment used to spread a person's arms or legs apart."
John dropped the rod he was holding and cringed in horror. "Is that… has that thing been used?"
Sherlock didn't answer him, and instead frowned at John. "Are you meeting Greg and the paramedics in your condition?"
"What condition?"
Sherlock shook his head and rolled his eyes at John. He stared him, face conveying impatience, like he was dealing with a massive idiot. "You're naked John." He gestured at John's... everything. "Nude. Unclothed. In your birthday suit. Absolutely starkers." He tossed John a dressing gown, which John caught and hastily put on. "I know that you are not very observant, but really, John."
John reddened out of decency, and sighed. "Thanks, Sherlock. I'm going to go finish my bath now. Please, try not to get into anymore trouble." He turned, and walked away with rather dignified steps.
"Please, try not to display anymore of your penis about the flat," came behind him, and John spun around, glaring at Sherlock.
"Next time, I will pause to put some clothes on."
Yes, I did just write a platonic fic for penis friday. It was a self-challenge, mostly. :D Thank you to airamcg and ShortlockHolmes for the beta work!