John Watson let out a low groan as the hot water slid over his tired shoulders. Every damn muscle in his body ached.
There were times when racing around with Sherlock Holmes was harder than anything he'd done in the army, whether during basic training, or humping a pack around under a blazing Afghani sky for Queen and Country.
Today had started so pleasantly too. It had been a delicious, warm, summery morning. Mrs Hudson, regardless of the fact that she wasn't their housekeeper, had made them bacon and eggs for breakfast. It had been a pleasant change of pace to spend some time in quiet domesticity, eating breakfast whilst listening to Sherlock's acid editorials on the crime reported in the papers.
Then Lestrade phoned Sherlock.
That was the moment it all started to go wrong. Every single ache and pain that he was attempting to soak away in the shower's heat was due to that damn phone call.
John rolled his shoulders, allowing the hot water to stream down his arms. He flexed the muscles in his right arm, making them twinge slightly. Gently he made a fist, then straightened out his hand again. John looked at the graze and bruises on his right hand. He could blame Anderson for those.
Anderson had not been happy when they turned up at the crime scene. Never mind that they were there at Lestrade's express request. The problem with Anderson was that he watched too many American crime shows. He thought he was Gil Grissom and Horatio Caine rolled into one. Problem was he was more like Goofy in a forensic suit.
He had eyed Sherlock and John with hatred. When he spoke, Anderson's tone had been sneering. John ignored that. Then Anderson said the word. The one word that John REALLY loathed. And it was directed at his best friend. "Look at him. Poncy great faggot…" The words had barely cleared Anderson's mouth when John's fist had connected smartly with the weasel-featured man's nose.
John had rammed Anderson up against the grimy wall of the alley they were in and glared furiously into his frightened face. Blood streamed from Anderson's squashed nose.
It was Sherlock who had pulled John off Anderson. "Leave him, John." John had dropped Anderson to the ground. The whimpering man curled himself up in a ball.
Sherlock had carefully examined John's hand, long slender fingers gently probing the grazes and rapidly forming bruises. "I don't think you've broken anything."
"He broke my node," Anderson whined.
"Saved me from breaking your neck," Lestrade had snapped. "Stand down Anderson, get that nose you broke against the wall seen to. Then consider yourself suspended from duty until you have discussed your obvious homophobia with one of the police psychiatrists."
John chuckled softly. He was going to treasure the horrified look Anderson had got on his face when Lestrade chewed him out for the rest of his life.
John arched his back, feeling the muscles strain and pop. Oh yes, he could blame Sally Donovan for that one. Silly cow, honestly, wearing high heels to a crime scene. You'd think she'd know better by now. In her rush to get to her paramour's side she'd slipped and twisted her ankle.
Lestrade had revealed an unexpectedly sadistic side, insisting that John carry Sgt Donovan up the alley to the police car, much to the mortification of both parties. Sally was no light weight. John had carried full military packs that had weighed less than a squirming, embarrassed, Sally Donovan.
John soaped his hands, sliding them over his chest muscles and winced. He looked down. Bruises. Several bruises in fact. He slid his hands down to his arse. A little gentle squeezing and probing told him the same story. More bruises and from the same bloody source.
It had been inevitable that with Sally's squirming that John would lose his balance. He had come down on his backside with a hard thump. Sally Donovan had landed hard on his chest, winding him, and leaving him feeling as if he'd been sat on by an irritable elephant.
Sherlock had come rushing to his aid. He had glared at Donovan as he knelt by John's side. "What's wrong Sally?" he had sniped, "Anderson not enough for you anymore?"
John was sure that that snippy remark had been the reason that Sgt Sally Donovan, with malice aforethought, had put her knee firmly in John's genitals as she got to her feet.
John looked down at his rather tender wedding tackle. A rueful smile crossed his face. There was no way he was going to be wanking in the shower for the next few days. And Sherlock was going to be doomed to disappointment.
The water started to run cold. With a tired sigh, John turned the water off. He twitched back the shower curtain and gave a start.
Sherlock leaned against the door jamb watching him with a slight smile on his face.
John reached for his towel, wincing with the effort. "Forget it, Sherlock. I'm too tired and too damn sore. Not to mention stiff." He bit back a chuckle when Sherlock darted a quick look at his groin.
Sherlock pushed himself lazily off the door frame. He took the towel from John's hands, wrapping it around his partner's body. Gently, Sherlock began to dry John off.
Sherlock's breath was warm against the back of John's neck. "Lestrade sent us over a present."
"Do I really want to know?"
The amusement was plain in Sherlock's voice as he replied, "I think you do."
"Okay. What is it?"
"A gift box."
"A gift box? Of what and from where?" Suspicion coloured John's voice. Gregory Lestrade had a deeply weird sense of humour that bordered on the perverted.
"An interesting array of massage oils and creams from a day spa in Kensington. His cousin owns it. He gets a discount."
"It's the thought that counts, Sherlock." God only knew what Lestrade was thinking when he sent that present. John decided he just wasn't going to go there.
Sherlock huffed with amusement. "So," his voice was deep and enticing, "I thought you could use a massage."
Heat trickled down John's spine. "A massage, hmmm? That could be just what the doctor ordered."
"My thought exactly, Doctor Watson."
Clasping John's hand warmly in his, Sherlock drew his partner into the bedroom and shut the door behind them.
Author's Note: This story came about because my friend Emma asked me for a 'Watson takes a shower' story. The plot bunny wanted to make it Johnlock. I attempted to beat the plot bunny to death with Mycroft's umbrella, but to no avail. I would like to thank my friend Andrea for the title...after all other suggestions turned out to be too porny or corny.