A/N: Hello readers. Thanks again for all of your kind words and favouriting etc, and especially to all you lovely people who have left me prompts. I'm working on them, but Life is all getting a bit busy at the moment, so there may be a bit of a delay... I'm writing as fast as I can here, people! This is inspired by 'Sic Fic' by LittlePippin76 (thanks!) and also a spoof Sherlock suncream poster I came across on t'internet. I can't find it again to credit it, so if it was you, I'm very sorry, and thankyou! I hope you enjoy!

As usual, I don't own them. All credit to the BBC, Moffat and Gatiss. Except for the ludicrous analogies- they're MINE!

7. Sunburn

It was a rare occasion when Sherlock Holmes was up and about before his flatmate, excluding, of course, the times when the detective never got to sleep in the first place. So when John sloped into the kitchen, stifling a yawn, on that particular Sunday morning, his first surprise was to find a rather rumpled looking consulting detective adorning the worktop and watching the toaster with an air of great expectation. That, however, was nothing compared to the second surprise.

The moment that Sherlock turned to face him, John underwent a brief but fierce internal struggle between the urge to giggle and the need to keep Sherlock in a good mood until at least 11.30 am. For, instead of the usual alabaster skin, there was a definite pink hue to the detective's complexion. Normally, John would be amongst the first to admit he didn't share his friend's capacity for extreme logic, but even he could deduce that, a) the peeling, reddened skin on the detective's nose indicated very recent sunburn, and b) the very recent sunburn would not make Sherlock a happy bunny. John shook his head, smiling.

"What?" his flatmate shot back immediately, his eyebrows furrowing.

"Sherlock, I did tell you to put sun cream on when we went to chase those burglars around what felt like half of Kent yesterday."

The detective looked petulant.

"Oh, come on, there's no point denying it. The skin's practically falling off your nose in sheets."

"Really?" asked Sherlock in what could only be described as panic. "God, I didn't realise it was that bad!" And without another word he left the room, the door swinging shut behind him.

Unfazed, John helped himself to the toast which had somehow synchronised its escape from the toaster with Sherlock's exit, and sat down to await his flatmate's return.

After 20 minutes, he went to investigate.

The detective was quickly located as being in his bedroom, and a quiet tap on the door was all that was needed to produce a response.

"Go away. I'm asleep."

John made a quick executive decision to ignore this- something told him it might just be a lie- and opened the door. Sherlock, it became apparent, way lying in bed with the curtains fully drawn, as if in an attempt to stop any more of that dangerous sunlight damaging his skin. The doctor cleared a space on the desk and perched on it.

"Come on, Sherlock. What's wrong?"

"I can't work like this," the detective moaned. "No one will ever take me seriously with a face like a… like a… like an embarrassed tomato!"

John tried very hard not to roll his eyes.

"Sherlock, you think this is bad sunburn? You should have seen me that first week in Afghanistan. In fact, there's probably a photo somewhere…"

There was a pause.

"Did you look worse than an embarrassed tomato?" came the eventual reply, in a small voice.

"Much, much worse. The favourite analogy of my comrades was 'like a beetroot who'd spent all day marinating in red wine mixed with food colouring before developing heatstroke."

"Well, I suppose that's reassuring," Sherlock smiled. "And quite a simile. You should probably write it down to use in one of your stories…"

"Hmm, oddly enough I can't think of too many of your cases it would be applicable to…" John mused. "I tell you what, though. I could be wrong, but I think there might be half a bottle of Army-issue after-sun at the back of the bathroom cabinet. Would that help?"

Sherlock grinned at him and leapt out of bed, with a cry of, "Give me half an hour!"

Sometimes, John couldn't quite believe how vain his friend actually was.