A tremendous bang echoed through 221B, shaking the tender walls, sending a cascade of dust down onto John's head as he stood, covered in suds, in the shower. He stumbled back against the freezing tiles and shivered violently. Sherlock had used all the hot water in the pursuit of science, so John had been enduring a supposedly 'lukewarm' shower in an attempt to get the blood out of his hair from a case earlier that day. It ran red around his feet and the cuts on his legs and arms stung as the jets of water hit them. He'd been attempting to enjoy his shower when the dust had fallen onto his formerly clean hair, and the bellow that screeched out of his lungs would have raised the hair of a lesser man.
He wrapped a towel around his waist and struggled with the lock on the bathroom door, a new installation since Sherlock had taken to mounting surprise attacks on him to gauge his abilities to use his surroundings to his best advantage. Sherlock had agreed to install the lock when John had almost strangled him with the shower hose. It had largely been a ploy to save face, because no doubt the detective would have felt inclined to try and get his own back. It was a very good lock, which took Sherlock several noisy minutes to pick, though he'd never tried after that test in the shop.
John stomped along the corridor, praying that there weren't too many splinters sticking out of the dusty floorboards. He found Sherlock in the living room, his laptop on his chest, the still smoking gun held limply in his hand. He let off another petulant shot as John burst through the door. His eyes moved languidly up to regard the flustered doctor and he was barely able to contain his childish grin at the trouble he had managed to rouse from the otherwise tedious comings and goings.
"What", John said, his voice trembling with rage, "are you doing?" Sherlock moved his thin face to observe John without the barest hint of concern at his imminent pummelling from a very short, very angry ex-soldier. His bottom lip was stuck out, pouting, and his brows were drawn together in a little frown.
Sherlock gestured with the gun to the wall above the mantelpiece, which now bore two fresh holes, spiders' webs of cracked plaster spiralling outward from their epicentres, "there was a spider", he said quietly.
John stared at him in confusion, not quite believing what he had just heard, "There was what?"
His pale green eyes surveyed John with hesitant accusation, already prepared to defend their owner from ridicule. Sherlock's mouth moved slowly, reluctantly, "on the wall", he elaborated impatiently, "a great black, hairy…"
"Spider", John finished, laughter gurgling through his lips. Sherlock began to tap furiously at his laptop, no doubt dishing out some horrendous criticism to the forensics department in Scotland Yard for once again obscuring his data with their supremely inept habit of stampeding through crime scenes.
John perched on the edge of a chair, forgetting his scantily dressed state, and surveyed the detective with delicious superiority, "I didn't know you were afraid of spiders", he said, quietly, but loud enough for Sherlock to pick up the amusement in his voice.
"Shut up", his roommate snapped testily, his fingers reaching for a discarded pack of cigarettes, which John nimbly snatched away from him, scowling at the depleted supply inside.
He sighed, "You were doing so well!"
Sherlock shrugged, "Breathing is boring", he quipped, as he always did.
"Yes, well despite your utter ignorance to it: there are people who have a vested interest in your continued efforts to drag air into those lungs of yours, and they would thank you kindly not to speed up your apparent fast-track to death!" John paused after his tirade passed his lips. He walked to the mantelpiece, his head down, lips pursed, heart beating a little too fast, hardly aware of the water dripping from his hair onto the floorboards. "I mean Mycroft", he said.
"Of course", Sherlock replied, stubbornly refusing to allow an awkward silence to ensue as he rose from his position slumped on the couch and set his laptop down precariously atop a stack of obscure tomes.
"I don't like spiders", he muttered as he examined a test tube of fluid John hoped would remain unspecified.
John supressed another giggle "Seems a bit odd, coming from you".
"Everyone is afraid of something John", Sherlock told him sternly. John swallowed hard, and his fingers twitched involuntarily. Somehow, this didn't seem like the right time to pronounce his deepest fear. It was a frail and embarrassing thing, and he could not ascertain whether Sherlock's reaction would be to laugh or to accept it maturely.
"Indeed", John coughed, aware that he was being unnecessarily formal, but he couldn't help himself. He had a habit of distancing himself from certain feelings, emotions better left un-leafed through, like a particularly sad book.
Sherlock began to hunt for his coat, taking an unnecessarily and unlikely amount of time to locate it behind the couch. He looked at John uncertainly, and it occurred to him once again that he was standing half naked in the middle of the living room. He immediately made for the door, but somewhere between the mantelpiece and the solid wood frame that permitted the morning light into the otherwise smoky dimness, he managed to bump into Sherlock, who had wandered almost deliberately into his path. "Sorry", John muttered, and made to walk around his dark-haired friend, but Sherlock's hands clamped down on his shoulders.
His heart set off like a hummingbird's as Sherlock's smoky breath fanned over his face and his long fingers trailed down John's bare, muscled arms. And suddenly they were kissing, and it took his breath away. For the longest time his world was comprised of nothing but the softness of Sherlock's lips on his and the ravenous thumping of his heart.
They broke apart, gasping, and John immediately took a step back, put some distance between them. There was disappointment in Sherlock's eyes, but not surprise, "I'm sorry", he said huskily, "I had thought… assumed… that you…"
John shook his head, breathless, "I do", he gasped, "I absolutely do. It's just, not the right time. I have a girlfriend".
"They've never mattered much to you before", Sherlock said, puzzled.
"No, but I'm still determined to be, if not enthusiastic, decent", he stepped past Sherlock fully and walked from the room, his blood fluttering helplessly in his ears. He felt dizzy, and stumbled along to his to his room.
"I'm going on a case in a few minutes!" Sherlock called after him, "Are you coming?"
John paused in his doorway and looked around at his roommate, with his head stuck out of the living room door, smiling sheepishly. He strikingly resembled a puppy, but there was also shrewdness in his gaze. John smiled, "I wouldn't miss it for the world".