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Tightening the lid, John drops the bottle of calamine onto the bed, groaning. The medication barely helps. He looks in the mirror at the mosquito bites covering his upper body. That is the last time I go camping. Rosie can drag his highness along next time.
Breathing slowly, he walks into the kitchen. “Sherlock, I asked you to clean up this mess last night,” he sighs, seeing Sherlock sitting at the table, chemistry beakers with strange liquid everywhere and water boiling on the cooktop. “Have you been there all night?”
Sherlock barely glances up and nods, which does not help John’s mood. “Great, thanks. I’ll just work around you then I guess,” he says, barely containing his anger. Would it kill Sherlock to show him the smallest amount of sympathy?
Just as John sits, Sherlock shouts, “YES! That should do it!” and John nearly jumps out of his skin. He roars, “WHAT are you doing?”
“John! I’ve got it!” Speechless, John watches as Sherlock scoops out a blob of bright, noxious slime and smears it onto one of John’s biceps. The relief is immediate.
John looks up at his husband, eyes softening. “You stayed up all night to make this for me?”
Sherlock smiles. “Of course, John. I couldn’t stand seeing you so uncomfortable. Better?”
John takes Sherlock’s hand. “Much better.”