"Sherlock?"
John shut the door to the flat behind him and looked around the living room and kitchen. "Hey, Sherlock? I'm starving, let's order out."
John hung his coat up. "Sherlock! Your coat is right here, I'm hungry, its late, I'm ordering for myself if you don't answer!"
John stood still, listening. Episodes of heavy silence in the flat had always been something to expect at any given moment… but right now, John was filled with dread.
Sherlock had been increasingly reckless lately. Last week he came home from work to find two assassins being escorted out of the flat by Lestrade and the Donovan. Nobody knew exactly where Sherlock managed to acquire a chainsaw with a flamethrower attachment, and he refused to give a helpful answer.
The sequence of events of the conflict weren't unusual, but Sherlock took a bloody beating after they disarmed him, landing him in the hospital for 3 days.
The 'thrill of the game' was one thing, but John truly worries about him, whether it's neglect of taking care of himself, or personally inviting assassins into the flat for tea.
John's thoughts were interrupted by a very faint noise. It sounded like a splash of water and… a squeak?
He moved towards the source of the sound and heard another small splash coming from the bathroom. The door was cracked and the light was on. He approached the door cautiously, knowing far too well that this could be one of Sherlock's infamous experiments.
John made his way into the hall and was lifting his hand to knock when he breathed in an odd combination of scents. 'Cigarette smoke, lavender, and… disinfectant?'
"Sherlock are you in there?"
"Of course I am." John felt himself relax a little hearing that familiar baritone voice, knowing Sherlock was safe. He sounded slightly annoyed as if he'd been interrupted.
John tried to resist the urge to peek through the crack in the door. It wasn't that he wanted to see anything, but Sherlock was always doing experiments and (Although he would never admit it) John was curious.
"What are you doing in there? I smell disinfectant, did you bring body parts into the bathroom? We've talked about this!"
Sherlock let out a rumbling sigh. "I'm taking a bath."
John straightened up in surprise and his eyebrows creased together. He repeated the last words with confusion. "A bath?"
"Yes, John, a bath. A large container filled with water, used for immersing and wash-"
"Sherlock, I know what a bath is." John heard another splash and the sound of skin rubbing against the side of the tub.
"Then why did you feel the need to repeat the word 'bath' in such an incredulous tone?"
John shook his head, smiling. "I'm sorry Sherlock, I just never would have pegged you as someone who would enjoy bathing."
Sherlock let out a soft hmf. "Are you claiming that I have poor hygiene?"
John rolled his eyes at the wooden door. He cleared his throat before continuing, "No, I'm just saying that you might be okay with getting all sorts of gunk on you for a case or experiment, but you have high standards of hygiene in general. Sitting in a tub of your own dirty water doesn't seem very…"
"Very what, John?"
John chuckled. "Very Sherlocky."
Sherlock snapped in response. "That's because I don't."
John jumped a little. It was the tone Sherlock used many times before whenever he felt the urge to insult creatures of lesser intelligence (usually Anderson).
"The pleasure of taking a bath is to soak in hot water and relax in the enveloping liquid. Why would anyone wish to take a bath in filthy water?"
Sherlock's response only served to further confuse John. "But isn't that what you're doing in there? You're in the bathtub."
This time it was Sherlock who chuckled. His tone was imperious with his response. "No, John, I'm taking a proper bath." John heard some water drip over the edge of the tub and onto the tile floor. "Sherlock, I still don't follow. What exactly is a proper bath then?"
"Ahh, finally a decent question. A proper, enjoyable bath starts with a thorough shower. Next, one cleans the tub to remove any undesirable substances, hence the disinfectant. One then rinses the tub, fills it with hot water, and prepares for a relaxing bath." Sherlock rambled off the list of instructions as if they were a regular routine for any 'normal' human being.
John bit back a laugh and leaned against the edge of the door frame. He knew that even behind a door, the detective would likely have deduced John's expression, as well as his thoughts. 'Probably by my breathing or something.' John gave in and giggled.
"What is so amusing this time, John?" John heard him moving in the tub again. "Oh nothing. I guess I really shouldn't be surprised that you could take something simple as a bath and make it complicated."
Sherlock huffed. "It's not complicated, it's perfectly logical and effective, but it is becoming far less enjoyable with you pestering me."
John shuffled his feet for a moment. "How much longer are you going to be in there? I could use a shower too, long day at the surgery."
Sherlock splashed more water around. "Can it wait? It's only been eleven minutes and fourteen seconds since I started my bath."
"Fine, but don't be in there forever." John shook his head as he walked away. He might as well have a shower when Sherlock's done in there. John jogged up the steps to his room to grab some clean clothes.
...
For visual reference, this is an alcove bathtub. the bottom of the tub is inclined enough at the opposite end of the tub from the faucet, so he can rest his neck and shoulders against it almost comfortably.
...
"Fine, but don't be in there forever."
Sherlock smirked and sank back down into the bubbles, his left arm resting on the side of the tub. His smirk was soon replaced with a frown because he was struggling to get comfortable again.
John's interruption really wasn't the worst aspect of his bath, the size of the bathtub was. Sherlock may be tall, but the tub was inadequately suited for any person slightly larger than Mrs. Hudson by his estimations.
Sherlock flexed his toes against the cool porcelain under the faucet that was still warming up from the hot water. He just barely was able to lay down with his knees bent. His neck and shoulders were flush against the back of the tub and his head was tipped back slightly, resting on the edge.
It had been a very, very long and tedious day. Sherlock was following a suspected terrorist throughout the city all day. He confronted and chased the woman through the streets and down alleyways until she hit a dead end and he blocked her in.
Sherlock hadn't known when or where she had planted the next bomb, but after he observed her while she was cornered, he correctly deduced every minute detail and she confessed that he was correct, of course. Well… almost correct. She had a pastry for breakfast, not toast. Sherlock shook his head. 'There's always something.'
It was when she realized that Sherlock was unarmed, he spent the next ten minutes running away from the confirmed terrorist and then hid in a dumpster for another half hour.
Sherlock had tried to call John, but John was at work. 'Why does John even want a boring position he's ridiculously overqualified for? He could easily have a higher paying position somewhere other than the clinic, preferably somewhere with less restricting hours.'
Sherlock shook his head again, harder this time. He closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. 'Mmm lavender.'
He thought back to his childhood. Unlike Mycroft, Sherlock had been a fairly energetic child. He would play for hours, pretending to be a pirate, running around the woods near his home. Mummy would always tut at the mud and dirt he would track through the house and make him shower.
Sherlock had hated showers as a child, they were noisy, the curtains made everything dark, and the water would splash over his face.
He was about seven years old when he realized he could take a very quick shower to get clean, then he could lazily recline in the bathtub for as long as mummy would let him. He then discovered that he could add soap while the faucet ran and the water would be covered with scented bubbles. Lavender was his favorite.
To young Sherlock, the large tub felt like a small, bubbly swimming pool, but it wasn't nearly as comforting at the moment. 'Is this just too confined of a space, or am I too old for baths now? I don't see how one could 'outgrow' baths in a non-literal way. It's not something that a change in maturity should affect, however a difference in height certainly would.'
Sherlock's frustration was continuing to rise so he attempted to shut out the thoughts. He squeezed the floating yellow bathtoy for the fourth time that evening and was rewarded with a quiet squeak. Sherlock couldn't stop the reverberating laugh that worked its way out. 'Definitely have not outgrown baths.' He ran his fingers through his wet hair and softly began humming. It was no song in particular, just a flow of combinations of baritone notes. He let his mind wander with the tune.
...
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