221B Baker Street was, for all intents and purposes, a very normal flat. It was quite a nice place to live, when it wasn't overrun with ghastly experiments, brooding men, and criminals from all corners of the world. John and Sherlock had been almost surprised by how much they liked living there, and how much they enjoyed each other's company. Even the most tedious of Sherlock's mornings brightened when he saw his friend squinting at a new blog post, and after a time John began to laugh instead of scowl when he heard violin music at three am.
Sharing between the two mates wasn't usually an issue. They each had their domestic roles around the flat – John was clearly the quieter of the two, and more likely to do "boring" tasks like dusting and laundry, while Sherlock might engage in bouts heavy cleaning when in the right mood. The housework wasn't always divided equally, but with a little help from Mrs. Hudson it got done. Simple things, like making tea, grew to hold significant meaning as time wore on. If Sherlock had offended John and bothered to notice, he might make several cups of tea and leave them in conspicuous places for him to find. The way that John accepted an apology from his flatmate was to drink it wholeheartedly, no matter how it made him choke or gag.
Some parts of 221B were more dominated by one bloke or the other, while in some spots it was difficult to tell who occupied it more. The usual rules of privacy were frequently bent, and John would sometimes wake up to find Sherlock curled into a ball on his bedroom rug, staring at him as the rising sun painted streaks on his face. They would stare at each other for the longest time before one or the other jumped up with some pretext of fixing breakfast, breaking the tranquility. Other parts of the place were more obviously Sherlock's or John's, like the kitchen table regularly strewn with half-completed experiments, or the lower part of the bookshelf devoted to works on military history.
But their shared flat, like any, was also needed for practical reasons. The two shared a small bathroom in their home, behind the kitchen and next to Sherlock's room. This room, like all the others, was decorated in rich dark colors. It had a claw-footed tub along the edge of one wall that matched the narrow sink and delicate wallpaper. The first time John had seen it, he was struck by how tranquil it looked, even on the not-so-rare occasions when wet towels and toothpaste was flung across every surface.
At first, John tried as much as possible to keep his things to one side of the bathroom: his toothbrush, comb and razor in a mug to the right of the sink faucet; his towel on the far right side of the rack. It was when he'd begun noticing that Sherlock paid no attention to who's items were who's, electing instead to just grab whichever was closest, that he'd given up. Things quickly lost ownership in 221b, becoming not "Sherlock's" or "John's" but "ours." The bathroom was no exception.
The medicine cabinet hung over the sink housed the items most commonly used in the flat; plasters, medical tape, burn cream. For a while John had tried to keep the first aid supplies tucked neatly into a bin under the sink. After he'd ignorantly tried to drink from a mug the thought held tea but actually was a dangerous chemical experiment of Sherlock's, he'd had second thoughts. Really, though, the amateur scientist had saved John's life by knocking the mug away from his mouth, even if it had resulted in bandaged hands for a week.
Sharing a loo with Sherlock was as surreal as one might expect. The man had absolutely no respect for personal space. Sadly, John never remembered to lock the door, naively expecting the human civility of privacy. Sherlock walked in whenever he felt like it, and for whatever reason. On one particular occasion, John had been just stepping into the shower when the bathroom door was flung open to reveal an excited Sherlock, flanked by Lestrade. Before John could compose himself and slam the door – or at least cover up – both had gotten an eyeful of all he had to offer. To be perfectly fair, DI Lestrade looked almost more surprised than John did. Only Sherly was suave, yelling, "Prostitute serial killer" at the small man before dashing away, leaving the exposed John and the DI staring at each other.
"Don't just stand there!" John had howled. "Close the bloody door!"
One would expect Sherlock to be and utter slob in the bathroom, but that was surprisingly far from the truth. He was meticulously clean when it came to his body. In the many years John would spend in 221B, never a night would pass when Sherlock wouldn't carefully brush his teeth, wash his face, and shower. If asked, he would have claimed that being clean helped him think, but after a certain discovery John wouldn't have believed that.
John had been on his hands and knees, rooting under the sink for his missing phone. He'd been searching for an hour, and while the loo was an unlucky place for it to be, already searched the rest of the flat. His search was halted when he grasped a long hard tube. Hesitantly, he pulled it out – what if Sherlock had put a bomb in their bathroom? – Before glancing at it and roaring with laughter.
"Sherlock!" He coaxed. The taller man materialized in the doorway with an air of superiority. His face fell when he saw the silver object John was holding. "Drop it," he warned his friend, who only snickered and rocked back on his heels to better examine Sherlock's expression.
"A hair dryer? Really?" When Sherlock's face flushed and he tossed his head slightly, something in John's mind clicked. The perfectly rounded fingernails . . . the tight shirts . . . and now the hair dryer . . . he stared at his flatmate curiously. Was Sherlock . . . vain? "What else have you got in here?" He wondered aloud, reaching in once again.
"Stop it," hissed Sherlock, a deep blush now forming. His words were no use. John pulled a black bag about the size of his hand out from under the sink and opened it.
"What the bloody –"
"Give it here!" Sherlock cried, exasperated. John dodged his arm and stuck one hand in the bag. "You've got –"
"Stop," panicked Sherlock. "Just – you want your phone? Here," he fumbled with the pocket on his dressing gown and flung the phone at John's head, missing. He was ignored and John started to pull something out of the bag, staring at it.
"I said to stop." Sherlock swung one long leg over John, effectively trapping him under his body. John twisted his torso, clutching his prize, but Sherlock snatched at his hand and grabbed the bag. He snapped on his heel, stalking into his bedroom. John was left laughing on the bathroom floor.
"Fuck you, John," came Sherlock's shaking voice. It was the first time John heard the reserved man swear, and for some reason it made him laugh harder.
Sherlock said it again, more forcefully this time. "Fuck. You."
The two didn't speak for many days after the incident. Although John never brought the subject up again, he would always wonder why Sherlock had kept a bag of makeup under the sink.