The good doctor stood in the deep, ceramic, claw-foot tub, his left hand braced against the wall, the blistering hot water falling over his neck and shoulders. The water permeated his skin, slowly relaxing his tensed muscles. He inhaled deeply, taking his time releasing the breath, concentrating on nothing but the feel of the shower against him.
In his daze, he barely noticed the faint presence of music filtering through the walls. He only vaguely recognized the tune, and his first instinct told him Sinatra. He didn't know for sure, the louder, closer volume of the shower left its identity unreachable. He went back to his thoughts, spinning so the water fell upon his closed eyes and switching his right hand to the wall to hold himself upright, for he felt as if at any moment he could slip and fall. He stayed like that for several more moments before the sound of the bathroom startled him back into awareness, but he needn't ask who enter, for he knew only one person would bother to interrupt him, no matter the reason, no matter the situation.
He waited a considerable length of time for the deep, velvet voice to assault him with a new case or a narrative about how he should stop wasting water, wasting their water. But instead was greeted with the shower curtain being pulled open and was joined by another body.
His arm dropped in an instinct to cover himself but his companion responded with "Oh, don't even bother."
"Sherlock, what—" he managed before the other man closes the curtain behind him. Sherlock interrupted with, "It's not like we haven't seen each other naked before."
And with those words, the last sense of modesty he had fell away without effort, as he simply accepted the man's explanation. His physical vulnerability dissipated, but his psychological vulnerability rose as if to fill the void that was left. In an attempt to hide his red-rimmed eyes—he hadn't cried, nor did he think he would, but that didn't mean his body wasn't trying—he turned his back to the taller man and muttered, "Whatever."
There were several beats of silence before he felt the hands on his shoulders. He began to ask, "What are you doing?" but less than a single syllable had escaped him before he felt a set of lips on his left shoulder blade, where they both knew resided the scar from his exit wound.
The lips murmured, "It's okay, John," and no other words were spoken. They weren't needed.
A/N: I was feeling angsty the day I wrote this. Go figure. The song I had in my mind was 'That's Life' by Frank Sinatra, because I've recently been addicted to the SMASH cover duet by Katherine McPhee and Megan Hilty. I don't know where this would be, timeline-wise (pre- or post-Reichenbach, I mean) and I don't know what was wrong with John. It was just an idea. REVIEWS ARE MY BREAD AND BUTTER.
(Oh, and the line that talks about vulnerability and 'filling the void that was left' was totally a play on one of my AP Chemistry lessons. I forget what it was called, but it was about when you take away some of the reactants, do the concentrations of the other reactants or the products go up, or something. I'm rambling, now. Ta!)