Sherlock had just exploded a beaker, spilling its content everywhere. John was assured it was not toxic or harmful in any way, just... wet. And to demonstrate how wet it actually was, he was taking off his clothes.

"Sherlock," John hissed, glancing around to make sure no one was looking, despite being alone in the flat. "You can't just take your clothes off."

"John," Sherlock said with disdain, ignoring John's pleading expression to stop what he was doing. "They're wet."

John only looked at him helplessly and his shirt was undone and shrugged off his shoulder. He moved on to the pants.

Sherlock had been caught in the rain before and had pushed on, pursuing a suspect, tackling them, and sitting on them until Lestrade arrived, (because someone had confiscated his handcuffs), returning to the flat only to fall asleep on the couch, still in his damp clothes. Why was this time any different?

Sherlock answered for him. "The Work, John. It's all about The Work."

And with that, Sherlock finished removing his clothes and skipped towards his bedroom, hopefully to put something on before Mrs Hudson came to see what John was making all the noise about.

Because there would be no convincing her they were not a couple after that.

God help them.