Like Grave Robbers
Discovery
John discovered Sherlock shaves his legs by accident.
He'd gone for a jog, since he was getting sick of Sherlock leaving him behind when they chased criminals down dark alleyways, and he was relishing the fact that his leg no longer hurt.
But, apparently, he'd downed way too much water in the quest to stay hydrated. So naturally, Sherlock was in the shower when he got home, really needing to go. Of course, he tried to hold it, hopping carefully from one foot to the other, hoping Sherlock would finish up sometime in the next century, but that was one of the many peculiar things about the detective - while he wasn't exactly sanitary in his living habits, he was meticulous about his body being clean and could stay in the shower upwards of thirty minutes.
He banged on the door. "Hurry up! Other people need to get in there!" he yelled.
No reply but the sound of running water.
John felt like he was a kid again, waiting on Harry to finish taking a bubble bath and let him in the bathroom to brush his teeth. It was a foolish emotion.
John waited several more minutes, but when he started jumping up and down, he'd had enough. Hell, he'd showered with dozens of other men in the army, and used the restroom in front of them, so why care if he relieved himself while his flat mate was taking a shower? Surely Sherlock had the curtain closed while he was in there.
He tried the handle and found that the crazy, detail-oriented, observes everything detective, had left it unlocked. Maybe it was something he did every time, or only did this once since John was out. Maybe he intentionally left it unlocked out of some paranoia that if he slipped and fell and hit his head in the shower, it'd be easier for someone to rescue him if they didn't have to break the door down first. Maybe he'd just absentmindedly left it unlocked, like some reflex from living alone. Whatever the reason, it was unlocked.
John barged in. "Sorry, I've really got to," he paused a moment. Sherlock had the shower curtain open a bit, his leg poised upon the side of the tub, soaped up and a simple, two-blade razor, in his right hand. He peered at John with his cold, inquisitive eyes, almost squinting, water running down his bare chest. He didn't look particularly surprised, or alarmed, but the Detective rarely did. Only when he made a break in a case. And when that happened, he was only surprised at the sheer magnitude of his genius.
"Sorry," John said again and stared straight ahead at the wall behind the toilet.
Sherlock pulled the curtain all the way closed with one, swift jerk.
John did his business quickly and left the steamy bathroom.
John had the telly on, not watching it though, in fact the volume was all the way down, and his laptop across his knees, journaling the latest adventure with Sherlock Holmes (no, not witnessing him shaving in the shower, but their latest case), when he finally (an hour later), heard the shower turn off and Sherlock began to mull about his room, doing who-knows-what.
It was two hours later, when John was contemplating dinner but honestly too scared to go into the kitchen (because, well, Sherlock did have a habit of leaving body parts strewn about), when Sherlock finally emerged from his room, as composed and impeccably dressed as ever.
John didn't even look up from his computer (solitaire) when Sherlock stormed across the room and took a fascination to his bookshelf. Even though John had only been living with the man three weeks (and they would not become romantic for a little while longer), he already knew when Sherlock was faking an interest in something. Which he did very rarely (normally only to get a suspect to divulge information), and twice that John was aware of when he'd began to speak of something Sherlock found trivial (and Sherlock's feigning interest would later tip off John to Sherlock's interest in him, because the detective never set aside time for things that were less than important to him).
Sherlock was counting down books with his long, thin fingers, letting the silence form tension.
John closed his computer. That was it, he was walking down the block to try that cafe on the corner. Just as he began to stand, Sherlock spoke.
"I did it originally for a case," he said.
John shrugged. "I wasn't going to ask."
Sherlock turned around and looked at him. Those grey eyes, that stormy sky, staring at him, and was he, embarrassed? That was an emotion John didn't think he was capable of.
"Yes, well, you were not asking very obtusely," Sherlock sneered. The patch of skin by his nose twitched. "I just like the way it feels."
"I don't care," John said. And while he really didn't care (in fact, part of him found it rather sexy but he wasn't ready to admit that just yet), he couldn't get the image of Sherlock, pale, tall, and lanky, with hairless, smooth legs out of his mind.
"Besides," now Sherlock's voice was louder, "why are you barging in on me in the loo anyways?"
"There is only one loo and you take forever in there," John said. "But don't worry, from now, I'll go and bother Mrs. Hudson to use her bathroom when you are taking years in there."
"Good," Sherlock agreed sharply, turning back to his books.
John left the room.