Author's Note; a short Sherlock Holmes fill. As usual, I own nothing.
I shifted to the other side of the bed, groaning as I felt an absence of another body. Opening my eyes, I acknowledged the curtains unopened and smile at the sound of the shower running. I groaned as I dragged myself out of bed and peeked out the window. The sound of horns and people scattering about on the street told me it was well into the day.
I shuffled into the kitchen, running my hand through my face as I turned on the coffee maker. I sigh at the mess of dishes on almost every surface, half finished mugs and newspapers and notes scattered around. I gather what I can and throw it into the sink before walking towards the washroom to make my irritation known.
I see the steam escaping the gap at the door and enter without so much as a knock. Turning my head, I notice Holmes' back facing me through the glass shower door. The scolding water bats down against him and I stop; not make it an effort to tell him his skin is growing red, seeing the man deep in his thoughts.
It is a familiar scene, the detective scribbling against the shower wall; notes, equations, whatever happens to be on his mind. I had bought him a box of washable markers not too long ago after seeing his frustration when he tried writing on the vapour against the glass. "How am I supposed to work under conditions like this, Watson!" I recall him saying.
He knows I cannot be mad at him for long when I see him at his work. Enraptured by his skills of deduction, I am filled with a peaked interest instead of anger all too soon. I brush my teeth, leaning against the counter as I watch him work. He fails to notice my presence as he turns around, abandoning the tiles and working onto the glass now. The notes from his latest case, I conclude, trying my best to read his backwards scrawl. The mass amount of arrows pointing to names and places wasn't too hard to figure out. I give a moment to rinse my mouth before returning to my friend.
On occasion, he leaves me a note before he is off. A simple note of where he has gone, a clue he wished to inform me off or a message of affection. They aren't always easy to decode. There are day I give up entirely when he leaves me a message cleverly hidden in his equations, though he was kind enough to give me a simple puzzle of mixing the letters of each word the other day. I smile in remembrance of his message.
'You were snoring again.'
I eventually wander closer, pressing my hand against the glass and he jumps and raises his head, smiling at me. Holmes straightens himself before he writes the opposite way for me to read.
'Good morning.'
He presses his palm against mine on the shower door, and I grin, feeling the warmth radiating through the thin glass.
"Holmes, it's well into the afternoon." I correct him and he chuckles, momentarily poking his head through the entrance. I feel my face warming as I see the water running down his face and coal-black hair.
"But I did not wish to wake you."
I accept his weak excuse and silence him with a touch of my lips against his. I can faintly taste the coffee on him and know he has not slept long. I pull away when I feel my clothing getting soaked and he frowns at the loss of my touch.
He turns off the water and grabs his towel hanging on top of the shower door, wrapping it well around his waist before leaving the stall. I gaze down at his hand now seeing an unfamiliar marker in his hand and finally looked closer to his writing on the glass, I felt my stomach drop as I noticed the ink wasn't running.
"Holmes." I start, almost fearing his answer. "Is that permanent marker?"
"Indeed, I found the washable ones you gave me came out too easily." He replies nonchalantly, grinning at me as if it were nothing. I furrow my brow before placing a hand over my face in new found frustration. Holmes passes me, whistling softly as he goes into our rooms to get dressed as if nothing is wrong.