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Joan padded into the kitchen to swap out the hand towel draped around her neck with a fresh one from the freezer. She was already down to just a tank top and her thinnest pair of shorts; the cool wet towel at the back of her neck was the only thing keeping her from heat-induced homicide. The A/C repair guy had sworn he would make it to the brownstone today, day three of the latest record-breaking heat wave, but it was nearly 6:30 pm and Joan was rapidly giving up hope of any relief until at least tomorrow morning.
She threw herself down onto the sofa for the brief sense of air movement from her flop; she immediately regretted the action, however, when she felt how her skin stuck to the leather. She was pretty sure she was less sweaty after running a 10K than she was after spending this afternoon in the brownstone, with the temperature in triple digits, the humidity as close to 100% as it could be without actually raining, and the air conditioning on the fritz.
She had tried at one point to escape to the precinct, but the air conditioning was out there too, and at least in the brownstone she could strip down to a minimum of clothing.
Unable to get comfortable on the sofa, she pushed herself back to her feet and went back to pacing.
Her route took her past the media room, where Sherlock was distracting himself from the heat by working on one of his historical cases, going through digitized microfilm of Victorian-era classifieds. He had three fans pointed at him, and that amount of air movement must have managed to overcome the humidity because the long-sleeved button-up he had put on in the morning to Joan’s horror didn’t appear to be soaked through and sticking to him the way Joan’s tank top was to her.
She made her way through the tangle of cords to stand at his side and steal her fair share of the fanned air.
It did provide a little relief from the oppressive heat, particularly where the cool water from the towel was dripping down Joan’s chest. She closed her eyes with a little sigh.
Eventually, Sherlock’s stillness and silence intruded on Joan’s thoughts. The remote was loose in his hand, and he hadn’t advanced the film in the several minutes that Joan had been standing next to him. She spun to face him, taking in the vacant stare, the flushed skin, the rapid, shallow breathing.
“Sherlock.” No response. “When was the last time you had anything to drink?” He didn’t even flinch as Joan leaned in to check his pulse. His skin was clammy and hot, but he certainly wasn’t sweating the way Joan had been all day.
“Sherlock, you’re suffering from heat exhaustion. We’ve got to get you cooled off and rehydrated. Do you think you can make it to the bathroom?”
He blinked, slow, and his eyes came into focus for a moment, then he slipped away again. Clearly there wasn’t a moment to lose. Joan sent up a quick silent apology for his usual boundaries, then ripped the button shirt open, revealing that he was even wearing an undershirt, the idiot. At least he was barefoot, letting the floor leach a bit of heat out through the soles of his feet.
She tugged him to his feet, thrusting her shoulder under his arm to lever him upright. His movement was slow, uncoordinated, but he did move with her, letting her shuffle him down the hall towards the nearest bathroom. The tub was filled with some kind of experiment that Joan had not yet been brave enough to investigate; without even pausing, Joan pushed Sherlock into the separate shower stall. She hoped for a moment that the walls would be narrow enough to keep him upright; but as soon as she started to step back Sherlock began to sag, so instead she pushed herself into the stall with him.
She took a bracing breath then turned the cold faucet on full blast.
It came out lukewarm at first, barely cooler than body temperature, and Joan groaned; but after a few minutes it began to cool further, as the pipes cleared and started pulling fresh water up from deeper underground. Glancing up to check, Joan found that Sherlock’s face was partially under the spray; she shifted her grip to turn him, then brushed the water back away his eyes. His eyelashes fluttered against her fingers, a brief frantic beat, and then he was spluttering and shuddering, animation flooding back through his long limbs.
“Wha-Watson?”
Joan pushed his hip, turning him a little further under the spray now that it wasn’t hitting him in the face. “You overheated. This was the quickest way to bring your body temperature down.”
Sherlock continued blinking, eyes flicking rapidly back and forth between them, still less purposefully than was his wont.
“Surely this is. Excessive?”
Only the upturned question at the end of that sentence stopped Joan from snapping. “You were almost completely unresponsive. If this hadn’t worked, the next step would have been to call an ambulance.”
“Hm.”
Joan reached up to feel Sherlock’s pulse again, pleased to find it steadier and slowing. He swayed a little under her touch, then twitched back, and she could feel him pull into himself, all his muscles tensing.
She was abruptly aware that they were very close — the shower stall was barely big enough for one person; with Joan squeezed into it as well they were practically on top of each other, touching in more places than Joan could count. She resisted the impulse to jump back, taking the time to evaluate Sherlock again. He was steady on his feet now; the flush was retreating from his skin.
“Stay under the spray. I’m going to get you a drink.”
She trotted downstairs to grab a sports drink from the fridge, disregarding the water she was tracking everywhere. Back upstairs, Sherlock had taken off his belt but otherwise was exactly where Joan had left him. He took the drink from her hand, wrinkling his nose at the flavor (he preferred red to yellow), but quickly unscrewing the top and beginning to drink.
“I do apologize, Watson—”
Sherlock broke off abruptly, his eyes going wide and round, and Joan started forward to catch him in case he was growing faint again. But before she could take a step, he spun around to turn his back to her, ramrod straight with the water pouring down his side.
“I do apologize, Watson.” He was flustered, overly emphatic. Joan watched his back, baffled; the water sluicing down his undershirt, gone translucent and displaying his tattoos—”
“Oh!” Joan grabbed a towel to hold in front of her chest, in front of the pale blue tank that she knew must be just as see-through as Sherlock’s shirt, and the likely very obvious lack of a bra underneath.
Sherlock tilted his head back to drain the rest of his drink.
“I’m sorry Joan. I wasn’t monitoring my physical condition as I ought to have. You should not have been put in this position.”
Joan didn’t roll her eyes only because Sherlock wouldn’t have seen. “You’re right, I shouldn’t have had to drag you into a cold shower because you refused to unbutton your collar and drink some water. After everything with your PCS, I thought you had finally stopped ignoring your body’s needs.” She paused for a breath, and tucked her grin deep down. “But if you’re worried about the accidental show, well. I suppose it’s only fair after all the times I’ve walked in on you with no pants on.”