A/N: Apologies it took so long. I was caught in the big NE stormy-thing. Gave me the idea for this. :)
We were fairly prepared for the storm when it hit. Not that Sherlock had really taken to caring that we'd probably be without power or heat, but I made sure we'd be stocked up on food, blankets, and candles. Which was a godsend when the power did go out.
I decided then that I'd hook up the generator to the hot water tank and the refrigerator so we could at least be mostly comfortable. I wasn't sure if it'd also be able to support heating the entire place, so I thought it was best not to over do it.
And after doing that, I felt I deserved the reward of a nice hot bath; after all, it would keep me warm, and pass the time. I'd be stuck in the Brownstone for some time alone with Sherlock, and I thought I might as well make some nice comfortable time alone.
The progress concerning physical touch had been stilted, apart from his occasional tests on my reflexes. He's been after me about it ever since, but his requests have become fewer and further between; but there's still a sense that he hasn't given up.
I'm rather glad to have discovered he knew all this time, and didn't consider our relationship changed.
I've stripped off and stepped into the bath by now, lost in thoughts of Sherlock, his progress, and how I could further my efforts to keep warm and feed us both (gratefully, our stove top is gas, and only requires an ignition source to function).
The moment between the door opening and Sherlock stepping into the now well-steamed bathroom is entirely lost to me. I genuinely can't recall hearing the door open, though I felt a chill over the exposed parts of my anatomy. I cross and arm over my chest, my knees brought up to hide myself from him.
"Ah, excellent," he says as though it is perfectly fine to walk in on your flatmate in the bath and exclaim the excellency of it. I stare up at him for a moment in abject horror.
"Sherlock, get out of here. I am trying to take a bath," I protest.
But Sherlock seems to ignore that, which is twice as irritating as anything. Although, it should be noted, he doesn't even look at the "interesting" bits, so much as he gives a cursory glance to my ankle, kneels down beside the bath, and lifts the razor from where it is held nearby.
"May I?" he requests, as though shaving my legs would be more of a violation than kneeling here while I bathe.
I can't help but sigh at that as I lean back and hold my leg out for him, moving my calf into his palm, "May as well," I exhale and adjust in the bath to watch him.
The pressure of the razor is so slight, I wonder if he's ever actually shaved before (and considering the lack of hair on his back, in comparison with that on his chest, I very much doubt that). But he is carefully considering my flesh as he draws the razor down in slow strokes.
I begin to wonder what made him decide to enter the bath. Quite probably not for the sake of voyeurism. After all, we live together, he could have found dozens of ways and reasons to walk in on me naked, not to mention, he's most certainly seen naked women. He has the internet and prostitutes for that, I suppose. Considering the lack of heat, I wonder if maybe he's joined me for that reason. It is rather warm in here, the condensation from the hot bath water has begin to cloud the images in the mirror above the sink.
Some part of that makes him more like a needy puppy; which I must admit I find greatly annoying. He's meant to be a fully grown man; he should be significantly less adorable to me. But God, the way his face contorts when he is considering something intently, as intently as he is currently considering the hairs on my right leg, is rather obscene.
As he finishes with that leg, which is something I hardly noticed, he takes my other. I slip slightly and end up splashing his top. And for fuck's sake, why is he wearing a tee shirt in this weather? Perhaps he's not actually English, but from the North Pole itself. That would explain the adorableness and the ever absent father (as all well learned adults know; Santa isn't actually real).
Sherlock considers this problem solved by pulling off his tee shirt. I wonder if maybe he's just decided to shirk the notion of abdominal clothing all together in favor of his, and I can not really deny it, appealing physique.
My foot and ankle brush his chest, which is firm and warm. The dirtier part of my brain almost considers taking over and suggesting Sherlock strip off and join me. But, gratefully, I've enough sanity not to say that at all. And Sherlock is still, blessedly, focused on my leg and removing the hair from it.
His hands are impossibly gentle as they manipulate and move across my ankles, heels, and calves, as though somehow I were made of china. Which, really, just conjures in me the idea of Sherlock caring for wounded birds or something of the sort. I suppose I should have considered his hands would feel that way considering his normally gentle manner.
When he is finished with my left leg, I am rather surprised as he takes my wrist and lifts up my arm to draw the blade there. Although it is a significantly less…suggestive area, it seems almost therefore more intimate. It is a small tiny place that I do not think on, but when Sherlock draws the razor over me and places his attentions on me, it feels…well, it feels rather romantic.
I'm not sure how many women Sherlock's really tried to romance, but God, who would expect this to be such an effective method? And still, when he is finished, he merely rinses the razor thoroughly under the tap and moves to his feet.
"I ought to get a top on, I suppose," he says in a hum as he moves to the door.
The fact that neither of us really commented on the curiosity that just occurred should strike me as something more important than it does, because all I manage to say as he leaves is, "Yeah."