A/N: I should have been continuing the last one. Mostly I should have been working on a course that has been taking my time (apologies, you must have known something was up; yes, this and a major professional change ahead, I'm keeping all my fingers crossed) and regrettably did not include these adorable guys. Instead, this absurdity came about. I'll put it here, in case anyone else is starting to crack due to the heatwave. -csf


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London had fallen under a hell grade heatwave. The air was dense, thick and eerily still, the sun rays abrasive and harsh, cooking brick and mortar with no respite. The human populace of the industrious, claustrophobic, densely packed London was responding with its usual mix of much suffering, eye rolling, stiff upper lip pretence and downright feral fightback in countless skirmishes, drunken brawls and domestic incidents.

221B was suffocating, the heavy curtain drapes attracting dust and heat in equal measures. The window panes were open wide to facilitate any wandering draft, but there seemed to be a national shortage of drafts, or fresh air for that matter. Sherlock eyed longingly the desk fan looming behind his armchair, and lazily wondered if catching the Camden Throttling Twins by proving a powerful poison had been administered through the air ducts of a flat had been worthwhile, given that it was now obvious that the narcotic was a concentrated acid and a minor spillage had melted the fan's circuitry. John should have fixed it, of course, but John was unobservant and had not suspected why Sherlock had replaced the fan over the cabinet and not touched it since.

Sherlock flipped over from his prone position on the long sofa, his sweat sheen covered skin sticking disgustingly to the leather at his bare arms and legs. A clump of damp curls flopped inelegantly across his forehead as the desolate detective eyed the empty red armchair.

John was on call as a doctor at one of the local A&Es, due to the declared National Emergency, the red alert from the Met Office, and all that.

Mycroft should have taken care of excepting John, the detective decided, as he tossed and turned towards the back of the sofa. Chocolate brown lumpy surface, and damp at that, was all he saw. He turned again, to face the ceiling, as it better matched his despondency. Of course, Mycroft needed to work the political backstage without John's knowledge, or the strong morally principled former soldier would be frankly upset to be set up as an exception.

But another Prime Minister crisis was underway and Mycroft was likely patrolling the corridors of Westminster and Number 10, giving fraternal support the least of his interest at this pivotal moment.

Lousy big brother, never there when Sherlock actually needed him – with one notable exception that ended up costing Sherlock three years of his friendships. Mixed feelings about that one.

Sherlock tossed some more, ending up doing some acrobatic number on a 360 degree and returning to the original prone position.

Mrs Hudson was visiting an old childhood friend up in Scotland so at least she was spared of the worse of the heatwave.

In the end, even Mrs Hudson had deserted him.

No cases,

no clients,

no experiments at hand.

Sherlock's brain was in danger of spontaneously combusting long before his transport did. And that wasn't saying much at the current temperatures...

Spontaneous—

Sherlock's ice blue eyes snapped open. Nothing like an old favourite pastime to fend off the ennui. He wondered if John kept decent grade Methylated Spirits in his doctor's bag, and where John had locked it this time, or of John had given the pig's trotter in the freezer its last rights and disposed of it.

The consulting detective was about to jump off the sofa – a single burst of energy in his last moments before succumbing to inertia and severe dehydration, surely; John should feel guilty about this! – when his phone pinged, just next to his clammy, pale, long fingers. Sherlock picked it up with a bout of energy that could only befit a heroic effort.

"Drink plenty of water"

Sherlock grimaced. Since when did he need to be parented like this, John?

"Don't blow up the flat"

Sherlock smirked, a picture of the doctor's mischievous grin coming to mind, filling it, releasing some of the pressure found there.

"I'll be home in ten.

On the cab right now – John"

The overheated mad scientist exhaled slowly, feeling some more tension drain away from his very fingertips onto the warm leather underneath.

John could centre Sherlock like a loadstone to his brilliant but frenetic mind.

Any minute now John would walk through the door and lift Sherlock's melancholy. A smile, a joke, it would be so easy for John. Never fazed by a bit of heat.

In fact, it seemed to get him in a better mood. John was potentially suffering from chronic hypothermia and revived by heatwaves. A jumper, the hot sun, a blazing fireplace were always welcome. Sherlock felt a shiver of repellence down his spine.

John was a walking talking contradiction in his best days. The man who fought wars and saw the worst of humanity in desert hot Afghanistan did not get nightmares or flashbacks in the summer as one might expect. No, no. A cotton crisp bedsheet, the sounds of 221B with the ageing woods cracking and adjusting in the middle of the night, the scent of Sherlock's violin rosin, they all anchored John in the safety of London during his sleep. His mind was, therefore, free to roam exotic sandy landscapes, fight injustices under a national flag for a superhero's cloak, revisiting lost friends that could only be found in his sleep and memories. John hadn't resented going to war; not when he, sleep deprived and overworked, saved lives in the medical tent nor when he went on active missions such as the one that nearly cost him his life through a sniper bullet. To John it was all part of his duty, and he defined his worth through his contribution. Like all else in life, John gave it his all, never held back. Much until he met the bullet carrying his name in invisible letters, John had become a veteran with several deployments under his belt, and he craved being at the war; where he was needed, he counted, he excelled his own beliefs in his abilities. John's memories of that time carry hurt for lost friends and carry sadness for the senseless violence of war, no doubt. But when John is asleep through a heatwave, his mind delves back to when he was his own kind of hero. Sherlock knows – and respectfully awes at it – that John misses the war. Not for what the war was (a dreadful, painful reality) but for the devious opportunity it created for John to do heroic deeds, to give and to matter so much. John valued himself through the eyes of the fellow soldiers and the cohesive family he had finally got, the commanding officer's praise and medals to write home about (if anyone ever read those letters; Sherlock doubted Harry did, as John's sister was much too distracted by distilled oblivion, ironically proclaiming later that it was to dull the fear for Johnny's safety). Captain Watson, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, knew he was very good, sharp, loyal and an overall asset to his military family. He felt full acceptance in the sandy landscapes of Afghanistan.

In hot nights, when John dreams and believes himself back in the War, John is surrounded by his mates. He sleeps soundly as he couldn't before. No imminent insurgent attack could take away John's peace of mind, such like more often than not 221's front door is unlocked (in an unruly city brimming with criminals holding a grudge over the two of them) and John sleeps like a baby in 221B, because Sherlock has his back now.

Actually, it's stormy nights that get John waking up with a desperate, strangled sound. Like a wounded animal in pain, and it is pain of a different sort, Sherlock can sense that much through his lack of basic skills in Feelings and Emotions. Sherlock's database is forever incomplete. John assures him often that Sherlock is a natural at Emotions, he just gets in his own way, overthinking everything, dissecting every smile, categorising every twitch, checking for patterns, comparing against personalised baselines of reactions.

Love isn't a science, John once told him at a crime scene, with a knowing headshake and a bit of amusement that somehow didn't trigger Sherlock. John was like that, he could be friendly with a stern lecture, and deadly with sass. Always a contradiction, always.

Footsteps pound the seventeen wooden steps leading up to the flat. Then the door opens wide and John's grinning face lights up the room. He is sweaty and there are tired bags under his faithful eyes, yet he proclaims with a content look about:

'Nice and cosy in here! So what have you been up to, Sherlock?'

And he dumps his shoulder bag on the rug as he beelines to his armchair, where he drops himself with a satisfied grunt.

'Spontaneous combustion, John.'

'You'll never manage to set yourself on fire in a pool of your own sweat, mate. Shall I get that fan down?'

The consulting genius rolls his eyes, thus communicating that the equipment is broken.

John ignores the advice and stubbornly heads towards the cabinet.

'Just drop it, John. It's useless, after the formic acid...'

John grabs the fan and grins. 'Call yourself the most observant man in London? Trained yourself to see what others can't see?'

'John?'

'I bought a new fan, Sherlock. It's not like we weren't foretold about the heatwave in the news.'

John bends to plug the fan and clicks it on. He almost jumps as Sherlock materialises by his side, looking like a contented cat, his curls waving in the artificial flow. The fan starts to rove around the room, then like a pendulum returns to the other side of the room. Sherlock follows the stream with narrowed eyes, swaying to accommodate to the fan like a playful Labrador.

John scrunches his face, clearly wondering how he compares Sherlock with a cat one instant and a dog the next, and Sherlock loses balance in his crouch by the desk and the fan, bumping into John as a pet begging for more fan speed. John chuckles at the greatest mind of the century, overheated and in danger of spontaneous combustion.

'I'll make you tea and cool it down with some ice, Sherlock.'

'If you must.'

'And we'll defrost that pig's trotter and see if we can set it alight spontaneously, given that nature is giving us such nice head start.'

'John?'

'Hmm?'

'I'm glad you're home.'

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