A/N: This chapter has been sitting around for a while, but I thought I'd break it out in honor of the ridiculous heat we're getting now. Anyone else sweltering? Reviews will lower the heat by five degrees wherever you live! I CAN MAKE IT HAPPEN.

Disclaimer: Definitely don't own SH.

Rating: T, barely.

Summary: Summer is hot, and that makes Holmes and Watson sad. Good thing Watson can problem-solve... Movieverse.

"Good Lord, Holmes, is that fire?" Watson asked in disbelief, tearing off his necktie and jacket as he stepped through the door. "It's hot enough outside as it is, don't you think?"

Holmes glanced up from his experiment, then cast a guilty look towards the Bunsen burner on the table. "Yes, I suppose it's quite warm out," he hedged, turning off the flame reluctantly. "How was work today?"

"The work part was fine, but the day was absolutely unbearable because of this blasted weather. Did you get any cases?"

"Unfortunately, no. It seems the heat has kept any potential clients indoors." Holmes stood as Watson removed the last of his outer layers, only keeping on his underclothes. "You sit, and I'll fetch you something to eat."

Watson settled bonelessly into the settee, too tired to disobey Holmes' directions. A few minutes later, he found himself fidgeting. He fervently wished the fabric covering the seat wasn't so warm from the incessant heat wave of the past several days. By the time Holmes returned with a tray of small sandwiches and a chilled bottle of wine, Watson had migrated to the center of the room, where he sat cross-legged on the stained wooden floorboards.

"Here, old boy. This should help." Holmes divided the sandwiches into two portions and doled out generous glassfuls of the Chardonnay.

The first several sips cooled his insides a little, but ultimately didn't provide much aid for Watson's overheated body. Instead of verbalizing that fact, Watson thanked Holmes profusely for taking care of supper and focused on their conversation, which wandered from criticism of Scotland Yard's investigative procedure to half-hearted wishes of attending the Mendelssohn performance the next week.

"I'll take these dishes downstairs so that you can get back to experimenting," Watson offered when they finally finished their meal. "I'm going to draw a bath afterwards, so I won't be in your way. Don't worry about the extra heat if you want to keep experimenting."

Holmes nodded and retreated to his chemistry workbench, already absorbed in it by the time Watson walked past him to the washroom.

The cool water felt blissful, to say the least, and Watson stayed soaking it in until he felt ready for sleep. At that point, almost two hours later, he levered himself out of the bathtub, dried off, and headed for bed—

—where Holmes, evidently, was waiting for him. A browned arm wrapped around his bare torso as Holmes plastered himself against Watson's back, pressing kisses to the nape of his neck.

Watson shut his eyes regretfully. "Holmes."

Holmes sighed and rolled away, giving his lover a wry smile as Watson mirrored his position. "I agree, it's too hot. Perhaps it will be cooler in the morning?"

"There hasn't been any sign that this weather will let up any time soon. We can always wish for some rain overnight, though." Watson lightly brushed his fingers over the back of Holmes' hand, cursing the heat for a different reason this time.

Holmes' response was a frown as he lifted Watson's hand for examination. "Watson," he announced, still frowning deeply, "you are wrinkled."

The ridiculous and obvious statement nearly made Watson roll his eyes. Instead, he snatched his hand away and turned on his side. "Goodnight, Holmes."

A minute later, he fully processed the implications of Holmes' words. Watson suddenly stood and gestured for Holmes to follow as he walked out of the bedroom. Once he reached the washroom, he turned the tub faucet on to full power.

Holmes emerged in the doorway, attempting to flatten his wild hair. "What are we doing in here?" he inquired, eyeing the tub with distaste.

"I am problem-solving." Watson paused for emphasis, letting his gaze linger on the detective's untamed mass of hair. "You are part of the solution, which has the added bonus of making you clean."

Holmes appeared torn between going to his lover and fleeing from the threat of soap. Finally, after Watson slipped into the water and sent an expectant look in his direction, he gave in and approached the tub. "I'll have you know that I am currently under duress," he declared, stripping out of his nightclothes and settling between Watson's outstretched legs. For all his protestations, he let out a relieved sigh as the cool water surrounded him. His irritated mumblings ceased, and he rested against Watson's chest quite contentedly.

The doctor graciously allowed him a few minutes of peaceful rest before reaching for the soap and taking aim at Holmes' hair. He planned on getting Holmes clean, then rewarding his forbearance in a manner that both of them would find gratifying.

Problem-solving, indeed, he thought, and began scrubbing.