(Sorry it took so long to post this. I just went through a breakup and didn't feel like doing much of anything.)
The Tipping Point
"...the look on Lestrade's face was priceless when I stepped out and punched that man," Sherlock said, lying on the couch, hands beneath his chin, completely still. It was now early in the night and Sherlock had kept his promise to tell John about some of his former cases.
John sat in the recliner and cracked up, amazed that the detective could actually be quiet funny when he told a story (even at Lestrade's expense). "Lestrade didn't know you were there?"
Sherlock shook his head. "I'd been tracing the man through the tunnels for a week. Lestrade had only remembered London had abandoned tunnels earlier that morning," Sherlock shrugged, "I would have tipped him off but I was too busy keeping an eye on the suspect and there is no phone service down there."
"I'm sure that's a story Lestrade doesn't like to be reminded of," John said.
"Lestrade doesn't like to be reminded of much when he has to call me in. It's amazing Scotland Yard gets anything done when I'm not around," Sherlock said, smirking.
A small silence fell upon the room.
John shifted uncomfortably in it, then got up and stood over Sherlock. "How do your hands feel?" he asked.
The detective looked down at his bandaged limbs like they'd betrayed him somehow. He shrugged. "Ache a bit," he said.
John nodded. "It's getting late."
"So it seems," Sherlock agreed.
"If I go to bed, will you manage to not injure yourself further?" John asked.
Sherlock stared up at him, his mouth twisted slightly. "I don't know if I can make that promise."
"No, of course not. Just yell if you need me," he said.
"Of course. Good night, John," Sherlock said with a nod.
"Night," John echoed and made his way up stairs.
John had barely begun to doze when it happened.
"Dr. Watson! Come here! I want to see you!" Sherlock bellowed from somewhere below.
John groaned, half asleep, the joke lost on him. "It's like living with a big, distracted child," he muttered to himself as he sat up, rubbing his face.
He stumbled down the stairs, stubbing his toe when he reached the bottom, which woke him up. He flung open the door to the sitting room to find it empty. "Sherlock?" he called.
"In here," the voice echoed from the bathroom.
Oh great, John thought. This wasn't going to end well. He wrapped on the door with two knuckles. "Sherlock?"
"Yes, John, come in."
John sighed, rolled his eyes, took hold of the doorknob, braced for the worst and opened the door.
Sherlock was sitting, sideways in the tub, so his feet dangled over the edge and he leaned against the side of it, nearly folding his lanky body in half.
John flinched, then relaxed, realizing that Sherlock had drawn a bubble bath (probably intentionally), and the man was still somewhat modest. "What do you need me for?"
"I wanted to take a shower, but that seemed like a bad idea, so I decided to take a bath and," Sherlock held up his hands, "I seem to have not thought it through all the way."
"Sherlock Holmes hasn't thought something through all the way?" John echoed in disbelief.
"Shut up," the detective sneered.
"That's not the way for a man who wants help to talk," John said, leaning against the door.
The younger man twisted his lips together a moment then said, "John, help me out."
John folded his arms in the doorway and leaned against the frame.
A long moment.
Sherlock looked away from the doctor and stared down at his toes. "Please."
"Alright then," John said and began rolling up his sleeves.
He was going to... he was going to help Sherlock bath. He was going to do it clinically, detached. Just like he'd helped Sherlock undress the night before. The man was injured and even though he was strangely beautiful, John was determined to not let that get to him. He'd helped others bath and dress wounds, this would be no different.
He kneeled down by the tub and soaped up a wash cloth. The man's gray eyes stared at him, bore holes into him it seemed and he got hot behind the ears. When he'd worked up a lather he looked at Sherlock and demanded, "Must you?"
"Must I what?"
"Stare at me?" John asked.
"Can't help it," Sherlock replied.
"Why not?" John asked.
Sherlock didn't say anything. Stared at him a moment longer than looked down.
John took the cloth and ran it carefully along Sherlock's left arm and rinsed the soap off. Than he did the other, water running down his own arm and getting on his shirt.
The detective didn't move much, didn't say anything. His breathing seemed a little rapid but John was determined not to think about it.
"Shall I..." John cleared his throat, "Do your chest?" he asked.
The younger man nodded once.
John leaned over and ran the soapy cloth over white, hairless skin, over nipples, protruding rib bones, clavicles that suddenly seemed so... kissable.
John cleared his throat, set the rag down and washed the soap away.
"Thank you, John," Sherlock said, his voice very low, breathy.
"Are you alright?" John asked and touched the detective's forehead with the back of one hand.
Sherlock (who John was suddenly, intensely, aware that he was naked), locked eyes with the good doctor.
He removed his hand, cleared his throat, "You seem fine. I guess you got it from here?"
"I won't be able to sleep if my feet are dirty," the ever surprising detective said.
"No, of course not, who could?" John half-mocked. He picked the rag back up and now ran it across Sherlock's feet, over long toes and down the soles, trying not to tickle him by accident.
And the detective just watched. Intently. Occasionally, ever so slightly, nibbling on his bottom lip.
John then moved up Sherlock's legs, soaping them up to the knee, afraid to go higher and rinsed them off. Then he found himself (almost like an out of body experience), running one hand down Sherlock's delicate shinbone, feeling his soft skin and the stubble on his legs.
"Stop that, I haven't shaved in days," Sherlock cut through his thoughts.
John looked up. The detective was actually embarrassed about the hair on his legs? Sherlock was capable of embarrassment?
Without a word, John reached over to the edge of the tub and picked up the razor that Sherlock now left out since his secret had been discovered.
He gazed at Sherlock, silently seeking permission and when the detective didn't move, he proceeded. Gently soaping up the man's right leg and snapping the cap off the razor and drawing surgically straight lines down from Sherlock's sharp knee to his bony ankle until any trace of hair was gone.
Sherlock leaned forward slightly. A flush had set over his body and he grabbed the edge of the tub with his left hand.
John soaped up his left leg and repeated the gesture. Sherlock gripped the tub so hard his fingertips turned white. He put the cap back on the razor, set it on the edge of the tub, ignored Sherlock holding onto the edge, patted him once on the leg and straightened up. He grabbed a towel and dried off his hands.
"Well, good night then," he said to his flat mate.
"John," Sherlock said.
He stopped and looked back at the detective.
"Would you pull the plug in the tub? I don't want to get the dressing wet," Sherlock said.
"Of course," John agreed, moved briskly back across the bathroom, reached into the soapy water (the bubbles now depleted to almost revealing everything about the consulting detective), and pulled the plug. The room filled with the sucking noise of the water draining. John handed Sherlock a towel and turned back to the door.
"John?" Sherlock said again. The good doctor wasn't look at him, but facing the door, still hot behind his ears, he could hear Sherlock dripping and didn't want to look at him in nothing but a towel.
"Yes?"
Sherlock went to step out of the tub, but slipped and knocked his shin against the porcelain. He reached out and managed to grab John's good shoulder, almost pulling the doctor down with him, other hand barely keeping the towel around his waist. John turned sharply and gathered the man up in his arms.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
Sherlock nodded, his nose mere centimeter's from John's.
And then he did it, almost naked, dripping wet, hanging onto John for support - he lay one shallow, delicate kiss upon the good doctor's lips and blushed hard.