The last few chapters have been a bit heavy, I've noticed, in terms of the subject matter. Now, I know I lied last chapter, but I promise that this time I'm telling the truth when I say that this one-shot is lighthearted. Sure, there's whump, but it's pretty tame. ;)
Ahem. Moving on.
I would like to thank SaphireInTheSky, Manon de Sercoeur, and a guest reviewer for this prompt.
John woke with a start to his alarm clock, cursing the harsh grinding effect its screeching had on his poor skull.
"Hell," he slurred, rolling over to shut it off.
He clumsily pressed the button once, annoyed when it didn't work. Again he tried, only to find himself faced with the same problem. A third time proved just as useless. Over and over John attempted to shut his alarm off, the beeping seemingly becoming louder and louder as he did so. Finally, out of exasperation and impatience, the doctor reached over and yanked the clock's cord out from the wall outlet, putting a blissful end to the thing's persistent wailing.
Sighing, John sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes, resenting the fact that he had to be up and about at four in the morning because of work. But then again, he thought, Sherlock wasn't going to pay their rent or buy the food; this job was necessary to keep both himself and the detective alive. Of course, Mrs. Hudson was always there to help, but she was their landlady; her services were somewhat limited. So, laying all resentment aside, John stood up and shuffled into his bathroom.
A shower was absolutely necessary after the night he'd had. Stopping an impending bank robbery with only his Browning and Sherlock's wit had proved itself to be quite difficult, especially given the fact that there had been six men against the mere two of them. How he and his flatmate had managed to get out of that scrape was nothing short of a miracle; turns out that two shots in two of the men's kneecaps and poorly executed backfire on the side of the robbers had wasted enough time for the police to arrive before any actual damage to the bank could be done.
Of course, the bad aim of those men didn't mean that their brawn was negligible. Before the gunfight, one of the lookouts had caught John in the thigh with a crowbar; he'd also been the first to have his kneecap destroyed. A well-deserved punishment.
John knew, however, that after that debacle he reeked of sweat and blood. He desperately needed to clean himself before showing up to the clinic.
After shedding his clothes, he went to step into the bath and turn on the shower. But pulling back the curtain convinced him to change plans.
"You're kidding me," he sighed.
There was mould covering the inside of the tub; obviously one of Sherlock's damn projects.
"One of these days, I swear I'll strangle him," John muttered to himself. "But not today."
Grumbling still, he grabbed his robe from the hook on the bathroom door and shrugged it on, frustratedly tying the belt in a loose knot around his waist.
Apparently he was using the downstairs shower now.
He trudged down the stairs, still groggy from a lack of a full night's sleep, all going well until he hit the last step and slipped and fell ungracefully onto the floor.
"Dammit," he hissed, clutching his rump. "I hate these bloody stairs."
"John, I do hope you haven't gone and shattered your tailbone," Sherlock called from somewhere down the hallway, the condescension in his voice hardly concealed.
"Piss off, I'm fine," John responded.
The doctor stood up slowly and brushed himself off with a huff before proceeding to complete his voyage. The bathroom door, he noticed, was shut and locked.
"Hey, get out," he called through the wooden barrier, knocking on its exterior.
"I'm busy," the detective said.
"Does it sound like I'm in any sort of mood to give a damn?"
"My emotional quotient isn't exactly "up to par", as the phrase goes, John, so I've absolutely no idea."
"Imagine that," John scoffed. "Sherlock, open the door; I need a shower."
"And I explained to you that I'm busy."
"Don't make me break this door down."
"You won't."
"I absolutely will."
"You're more concerned with the price of our rent than exfoliation."
"Sherlock Holmes, if you think I'm bluffing-"
"You are."
"-you've got another think coming."
John could practically hear the sound of his flatmate's eyes rolling as the door was, thankfully, unlocked and opened, said man appearing before him wearing protective gloves.
"Might you require me to write a dissertation explaining to you why I am reluctant to allow you to shower in this bathroom?"
"I get it; you're busy. And whatever you're busy with is none of my concern. But my shower is out of order due to the mould you've decided to grow in the bathtub, so I'm out of options."
"Use the sink," Sherlock said.
"Move," John pushed him aside.
With a grunt of frustration, John walked towards the shower and yanked back the curtain, startled when he was greeted by a swarm of bees buzzing about a beekeeping hive.
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what in God's name is this?!" he exclaimed.
"I never imagined that using the names of four rather large Biblical figures in vain so succinctly was possible," Sherlock remarked. "But to answer your rather pointless question, it's a beehive. And those are bees."
"I know that, you git! Why?"
"We haven't a yard."
"Why are you keeping bees at all?"
"Fresh honey," Sherlock shrugged. "And besides, they really are fascinating creatures."
"Why wouldn't you tell me?" John asked, quickly stepping away from the swarm.
"Why would I?"
"Because I live here! And... bees, Sherlock; bees!"
"What exactly is the point you're trying to make?"
"They're bees!"
A lone one of said insects began flying around John, and the doctor instinctively swatted.
"Yes, we've established that. Your point, John, please. Are you hourly?"
John, panicking, swatted at the persistent bee invading his space before balling his hands into fists at his sides.
"If you actually thought to tell me about this beforehand, you'd know that I'm a- son of a bitch!" he cried, clutching his right arm.
"There really is no need for self-deprecation," Sherlock said with a smirk.
"No, no, no. Shite, shite, shite," John swore.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the dead bee on the floor.
"You were stung."
"Thanks for pointing that out." John swore again and pushed past the detective, running down the hall.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and followed him.
"John, there's no pressing need for you to-"
"I'm allergic, arsehole!"
Sherlock was suddenly quite alert.
"How severe are your reactions?" he asked, running up the stairs to John's room where the doctor had fled.
"I've only had one, and that was when I was six! But given the tightness I'm starting to feel in my chest, I'd say-"
"Anaphylaxis. Right." Sherlock ran into John's bathroom and noticed that the doctor was hunched over the sink, trying to control his breathing. "John?"
"Just... here," John handed Sherlock an orange Epipen from his open med-kit.
"What...? I-"
"999. If things get really bad before EMTs arrive... I'm assuming you know... what to do."
"Thigh, ninety-degree angle, then followed by placing you in a horizontal position and elevating the lower half of your body until medical help arrives. I know. But surely it won't-"
"Sherlock, please shut up and help me downstairs."
With a silent nod, Sherlock aided his now wheezing friend down the stairs (had the descent always been this arduous?) into the sitting room.
"Sofa," John said.
"I'm not an idiot, John." Trying to be gentle, the detective set his companion down on the couch, holding him upright in an effort to keep him lucid. "Will you stay conscious?"
John gave the man a withering look.
"Don't," Sherlock scoffed. "I'll be on the phone only a moment."
Keeping a hand on John's shoulder, Sherlock dialled 999 and waited impatiently for an operator to pick up. When they finally had, the detective gave them no time to speak.
"Apitoxin poisoning," he said into the phone, firm and professionally. "The sting occurred exactly seven minutes ago, the location being the right bicep. The victim is John Hamish Watson, healthy male, aged forty-two, weighs approximately sixty-six kilograms, stands at one hundred and sixty-seven centimetres, blood type A positive. His last known allergic reaction was at age six. I imagine I'll be using this Epipen he's given me shortly, so I expect an ambulance here at our address in no more than seven minutes. Is that all clear?"
The operator was stunned for a moment.
"I- yes, of course. I'll dispatch an ambulance. Are you able to give me your name and address?"
"The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." Sherlock looked at his friend out of the corner of his eye. "Be punctual; time is of the essence."
After swiftly hanging up the phone, Sherlock grabbed the Epipen from his pocket and showed it to John.
"This," he said, "When exactly am I to use it?"
John's eyes and lips were already swelling exponentially.
"Now," he rasped.
Sherlock tightened his lips.
"But to save more time-"
"Now."
Refraining from further argument, Sherlock took hold of John's leg with one hand and plunged the pen into the meat of his already bruised thigh with the other, holding it there for ten seconds as per instructions. He then removed it and quickly threw it to the side, proceeding to massage the recently assaulted area of John's thigh, hoping to encourage the movement of the adrenaline.
"'kay," he heard John say.
That was his cue to help his friend lie down.
"Do you have another pen?" Sherlock asked the doctor as soon as the man's head had hit the pillow and he'd elevated his legs.
John nodded his head, shakily pointing in the direction of the stairs.
"If gets worse," he said.
"You mean to say that if your symptoms get worse I should use the other pen, correct?"
This was confirmed with another nod.
"So... now what?"
"Wait."
"That's all?" Sherlock growled. "Very well. Just do try not to lose consciousness. Or, worse yet, die. Death via allergic reaction can't at all be dignifying."
Even though John was quite close to vomiting from a mixture of stomach pain and dizziness, he couldn't help but roll his eyes. Dignity was perhaps all that Sherlock worried about. But then again, the man wasn't wrong; dying from a bee sting wouldn't exactly look too respectable on a tombstone.
Christ, where was that ambulance?
John was home after about a day of careful examinations and a good amount of rest. Of course, he never ended up making it to work, but that was the least of his concerns. After all, he'd be needing to take it easy for another few days in order to fully recover.
And he still really needed that shower.
Sherlock, who had been frequently in and out during visiting hours, came by at the end of that Wednesday morning to escort John home, both he and the doctor refusing wheelchair transport out of the hospital as they made the effort to check out.
The cab ride home was a silent one, John awkwardly bobbing his left leg up and down, rubbing his right one with his hand as he felt the effects of the abuse it had taken over the course of two days: First the damn crowbar, then that jarring fall on the stairs, and then of course the Epipen.
Finally the cab pulled up in front of the flat, and John was home again, ready to scrub the oil from his hair and body and feel fresh again.
Sherlock made a point to run ahead of him upstairs; why, John didn't care to know. But, inevitably, he found out.
Sherlock quickly stepped out of the bathroom with his hand behind his back, his signature innocent smile etched onto his face.
"The bathroom is in order now," he said.
"What's that you're holding?" John inquired, his eyes fixed on Sherlock's concealed hand.
"Just..." Sherlock held out his palm, the dead bee from the other day lying expectedly motionless. "I neglected to remove him from the room before your return home."
"Right," John said. "So... they're gone? All of them?"
"From the bathroom? Yes."
John narrowed his eyes.
"The phrasing of that leads me to believe that they're still here in the flat."
"That's because they are."
"Dammit, Sherlock," John groaned.
"But that's only because my father is driving into the city tomorrow to take them home with him."
"Your what now?"
John looked nonplussed, slightly slack-jawed after hearing the news.
"My father. Was I not clear the first time?"
John laughed.
"No, it's just... you never look at a man like you and automatically think: "He has parents." You just don't seem the type to..."
"Have parents?" Sherlock questioned, puzzled by the level of John's surprise.
"I mean, that's a poor way of wording it but... yeah, I guess. Parents are just such an ordinary thing. And you're-
"Extraordinary."
"Your humility astounds me, Sherlock, truly."
Sherlock smirked at this sarcastic response.
"So, they're into beekeeping, then? Your parents, I mean."
"Yes. They are rather fond of the activity. Of course, they treat it as a mere hobby; a meditative exercise, if you will. But I, on the other hand, am drawn to it as a scientist."
"And as a man who really likes his honey."
"The honey is merely an added amenity."
John shook his head.
"So the bees will be gone tomorrow?"
"Yes. In the meantime, they'll be in my room."
"Aren't you worried about getting stung?"
"The only reason they would feel compelled to sting me would be if I were to irritate them by swatting at them or interfering with their daily activities in some other way. But since I scarcely do either," he said, making a point to emphasise the 'I' in his flatmate's presence, "I will likely have very few incidents."
"That was a partial jab at me," John said. "Don't think I missed that."
"What are you talking about?"
"Keep in mind that I wouldn't have even been swatting at bees in the first place, had you not decided that growing mould in *my* bathtub was a good idea. You might have even been able to slip the bees past me for a while before I even noticed." John crossed his arms. "Which brings me to my second point."
"If I might anticipate your second point and respond pre-emptively: a thousand apologies, John. Had I known you were so severely allergic to bee venom, I would not have brought them into the flat in the first place."
"Yes you would have."
"No, I wouldn't have. You seem to believe that I have no regard for your health, John, but I do. I resent the fact that I was nearly responsible for your death Monday morning. I don't enjoy watching you suffer."
"You know, in its own way, that's kind of sweet."
"However from a medical standpoint, observing anaphylaxis so closely is quite fascinating."
"...and now it isn't." John rolled his eyes. "I'm assuming that I'm safe to wash up in there?"
"Given the fact that the bees are locked away in my bedroom, I'd say so." Sherlock gestured to the bathroom. "At your leisure."
And with one last amicable smile, the detective resigned himself to the sitting room, perching himself on his chair and sinking into his own thoughts.
And John was free to, at last, take a shower.
Hell, after the Monday he had had, he was entitled to one.