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From his perch on his armchair (hands together at his lips, elbows tucked, knees bent, shoes on the leather in the way that always earns a look from John) Sherlock listens, waiting out the remaining time of the doctor’s shower.
Two minutes left.
Then a brisk ninety seconds for toweling off.
Then and only then may Sherlock enter the bathroom. Earlier in their co-habitation, there had been…discussions.
Boundaries. Sherlock sniffs. How tedious.
Still, he needs to retrieve the pertinent sample of canine follicles (Alsatian: male, 2yrs, summer coat) for the piffling little case he’d taken as a favour to Mrs. Hudson – and if he barges in on John (again) the good doctor might take exception, become more stubborn about other indiscretions on Sherlock’s part.
Like teeth in the mayonnaise jar.
Sherlock makes a mental note to suggest they lunch out before John takes it upon himself to make a quick sandwich.
Ah – there.
The shower stops, and the dull and distant thuds of bare feet reverberate down through the floor boards.
Ninety seconds start – now.
Sherlock stands, straightens the cuffs at his wrists, not one to tolerate chafing. Sure strides carry him across the floor and moments later he is ascending the stairs, not with his usual speed, but with a careful, measured tread – it’s been two months since his last creak-check on the steps to the shower (and John’s room), and with the changing humidity, the data could prove fascinating.
And there – yes, a new creak as a swollen board shifts in its alignment.
Sherlock only looks up from his careful cataloguing when his feet have carried him right to the door. The air here is damp-laden, a curl of heat dissipating into a cold cling of moisture; the bathroom door is old, ill-fit, and fingers of light and steam slip past all too easily.
Ah. Time’s up.
Sherlock lets his hand fall to the doorknob, grasps, and twists. No locked doors in their flat – John’s concession to Sherlock’s promise not to ignore what a closed door is for. Besides, locked doors are as good as an invitation, a tempting challenge – but as long as he doesn’t barge in during certain activities – like showers – there’s no need for locks, and peace will reign.
The door swings open.
“John –”
“Sherlock!”
Sherlock pauses as steam and light shift and his eyes adjust. Steam is expected, and so, also, the over-bright yellow of the bathroom lights. John, too – expected, expected – but not – not –
John naked.
Sherlock gapes.
“I hope you brought a bloody towel, you great prat, since I assume you are the reason they are all gone from the closet!”
“Uhh.” Sherlock, to his horror, feels the heat rise in his cheeks. Could be the steam, the overbearing heat of this small room, cramped with only one occupant, now absolutely crowded with two – and yes that must be it, the steam, the heat, the closeness – but John might jump to the wrong idea, and no. Not acceptable.
“Um.” And any second now, Sherlock will manage some utterance beyond monosyllabic drivel.
John is waiting rather patiently, not covering himself or ashamed – no of course not: army life, no cause for modesty, and John, certainly no cause for shame –
“I.” Christ, hopeless.
A curious look slides into John’s features as he watches Sherlock sputter through what must surely be a hitherto un-diagnosed aneurism. Perhaps a stroke. Temporary insanity – something.
“For the blood. Last Wednesday,” Sherlock manages at last.
“Ah, yes – that makes sense then.” John’s face switches to bemusement, understanding, and Sherlock finds he is frowning, for the first time realizing that no, that doesn’t make sense at all. That’s not even on the same scale for measurement as sense. “What was it you needed then?” John asks, and the slight twitch to his lips tells Sherlock that he has dawdled so long now that even John has managed to notice his lingering.
And to make matters worse, he’s staring, can’t tear his eyes away –
“Dog hair,” Sherlock blurts, flings his left hand haphazardly to the side, grabs the first three stoppered glass bottles from the rack – and thank god for alphabetization; there’s a good chance Alsatian (male, 2yrs, summer coat) will be one of the three in his hand – and then Sherlock turns and flees from the close confines of the bathroom, from definite curl of John’s knowing smile – knowing? knowing what? – and his own flushed and flustered faux pas.
(If, later, over lunch, John has a bit of a smirk playing about his lips – well. At least he has the good grace not to talk about how Sherlock managed to walk into the door-frame on his way out.)