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John sighed as the sound of broken glass, followed by a foul smell and a string of curses broke his peace and quiet, if such a state was ever truly achievable when living with Sherlock Holmes.
He lowered the morning paper to give his flatmate a tired glare, silently wondering how much more of this he was willing to tolerate before some drastic measures needed to be taken.
“Should I invest in a hazmat suit or are you able to keep the experimentation down to a minimum?”
When there was no reply he drew a tired hand across his features while he contemplated if he should risk entering the kitchen to see the damage himself or if he should continue to play ignorant a little while longer.
Sherlock had been climbing the walls for almost three weeks straight now, not only because there was a severe lack of cases coming their way but also because temperatures were soaring and Baker Street, like many other old buildings in the city, was not well-equipped to deal with the oppressive heat.
In the beginning John, like most Londoners who usually spent a substantial time of the year suffering from unpredictable weather changes, had rejoiced in the fact that the sun had decided to stay put for a change and grant them with unpredictably high temperatures. But as days had turned into a full week followed by another one and now was closing in on the third straight week of oppressive heat with not so much as a cloud in sight, John’s initial delight had turned sour.
But if John was displeased by constantly feeling his clothes clinging to his body from sweat and finding it difficult to sleep during the nights because of the high temperature, it was nothing in comparison to how his flatmate had reacted to the unexpected and seemingly never-ending heat wave.
Sherlock was a person who usually wore a lot of layers when he deigned to put some clothes on. It was dressing gowns over shirts and dress pants, or Belstaff and scarf over a suit and then a shirt as well beneath that. And on a windy day in London such attire was perfectly fine, but now, when temperatures were hitting above 35 degrees Celsius, he had began to shed his clothes all over the place and then decided to forego any garments at all.
The nakedness was not exactly unpleasant, Sherlock was after all a very good-looking man with a trim and lean body that many would envy, John included. But when it seemed that clothes were never going to make an appearance again and other people still frequented the flat, at least in the beginning, it was both highly embarrassing, not to mention awkward for everyone involved, except for Sherlock apparently who did not care one bit who he exposed his private parts to.
But if John had thought that the involuntary closeness to a naked arse and dangling genitalia at the breakfast table was uncomfortable, it was nothing in comparison to the terrible tetchiness Sherlock was suffering from on account of the oppressing heat.
If Sherlock normally was a person who tended to have mood swings fairly often, it was nothing but a walk in the park when compared to how he behaved now, with the exception of joy and happiness never making even the briefest appearance.
Constantly edgy and irritated, he swept the flat like a restless ghoul, literary climbing the furniture, performing the most hairbrained experiment after another, doing his outmost to drive not only John but also Mrs Hudson insane with his antics.
Mrs Hudson had made the good decision to escape the flat on the second week and left to stay with her sister and John had considered that same option during the most trying evenings locked up with his decidedly insane flatmate, but then he had decided against it because Harry most likely was drinking herself to oblivion right now for the very same reason Sherlock was unravelling.
This bloody summer would be the cause for many ruined lives if this infernal heat continued.
As he now made his way over to the kitchen, he saw his flatmate frantically rummaging through a cupboard and as he noticed John approaching, he waived with his arms to prevent him from getting any closer.
“What the bloody hell is going on here?”
John no longer bothered with hiding his annoyance whenever faced with Sherlock doing his outmost to destroy their shared flat and the level of frustration had only increased during the past couple of weeks.
Without replying, a hand pressed to the lower part of his face while he continued to search through the cupboard, Sherlock finally found what he was looking for and pulled out a large kitchen towel that he tied over his nose and mouth before he turned around to face the mess that John was staring at with increasing alarm.
One of the glass beakers from Sherlock’s homemade chemistry set was lying in tiny pieces on the floor and blueish powder was scattered around it while something liquid from a tipped-over Erlenmeyer flask was burning a hole into the floor.
The smell from the mess was almost overwhelming and John actually gagged before he turned away from the sight just as he heard Sherlock tell him from behind his self-made face mask to hold his breath and get out. He also managed to catch the words “poisonous” and “acid” before he made his angry exit out of their flat, slamming the front door with as much force as he could muster.
The heat outside was even worse than inside which was the reason why he had opted to stay in the flat for as long as he had, but finally even his limit had been reached and with angry steps he marched towards Regent’s Park in the search for a place to simply breathe and calm himself down for a moment. Otherwise there was a risk of him throttling his flatmate right on the spot and he wasn’t sure a scorching heatwave could be used as good excuse in front of a juror.
All the places that offered even the smallest portion of shadow were occupied of course and this just managed to increase his already agitated state, and as sweat was beginning to trickle its way down his neck and armpits while the sun was stinging mercilessly into his eyes he decided that desperate times called for desperate measures and whipped out his phone and dialled a number he nine times out of ten felt weary about even having among his contacts.
The reply came almost instantly and to John’s surprise it was actually the man himself who was on the other end, something that rarely happened as he was someone who delegated most mundane tasks to his assistant.
“Dr Watson, how may I help you?”
Cutting straight to the point seemed like the fastest move to get out of this tortuous situation and Mycroft was always one to appreciate efficiency so he blurted it out without any useless greeting phrases.
“You need to retrieve your brother from our flat or there might soon be a murder to investigate and I’m not sure he will be available to solve it himself this time.”
“Do I deduce the hint of a threat in that sentence?”
“No, simply stating a fact. He’s driving me barmy in there! When I left ten minutes ago I’m pretty sure he was trying to cook his own methamphetamine in the kitchen!”
There was a heavy sigh on the other side.
“Ah, I see. I should have figured that the heat was going to cause some issue, my brother doesn’t deal well with being subjected to such high temperatures. Has he begun shedding his clothes yet?”
John snorted with disbelief.
“Is your surveillance team on holiday or something? He ditched the clothes over a week ago!”
“Forgive me but I arrived from Brussels last night, I have not had the time to catch up on my brother’s latest shenanigans yet, I do actually have other matters that demand my attention, you know.”
“Mycroft, I don’t bloody care if the EU Parliament is on fire and you are the one in charge of calling the fire brigade, your brother is trying to drive me insane and there is a huge risk that you’ll be the only Holmes sibling alive when this heatwave is over! So do your brotherly duty and retrieve him. Now!”
And with those words he ended the call and strode off towards a man selling ice cream from a trolly, ignoring the que that snaked its way more than a few meters in font of him.
After all, he had to give Mycroft some time to arrange the kidnapping of his brother and an ice cream was as good a reason as any to be wasting his money on right now, while waiting for this situation to be handled.
As he arrived home several hours later, the flat was empty and the kitchen clean again, not so much as a trace of the acid burn left on the floor, so assumingly Mycroft had stepped up to the task and retrieved his mad sibling as well as ordered the place to be inhabitable again.
A sting of guilt made itself known as John contemplated where Sherlock might be right now and in how much trouble he would be when Sherlock eventually returned.
Calling Mycroft was considered a last resort, not to be used lightly and John was pretty sure he would be hearing about this for a long time to come.
But as he reclined in his chair, a cold beer in his hand and a rerun of Midsomer Murders on the telly, he decided that it might be worth hearing Sherlock nag about this if he was just allowed to enjoy some peace and quiet for a little while longer.
The next couple of days were uneventful but at least manageable despite the scorching weather and he enjoyed his own company as well as the silence of the flat even if he slowly began to ponder what Mycroft might have decided to do with his brother and where he was being held.
On the third day curiosity got the better of him and he sent a text to Mycroft asking if everything was going ok.
Two hours later his phone beeped with a reply but when he opened it there was no message available, only a picture.
The picture showed a hand resting on what looked like a very bright turquoise piece of clothing, nothing else.
John stared at it, trying to figure out what it was that he was looking at, but however he turned the picture around and tried zooming in on it, he didn’t manage to conclude what exactly it was that the hand was resting on and what this message was actually trying to tell him.
If it had been anyone but Mycroft he would have guessed that it might have been an intimate part of the human anatomy that was dressed in something tight, like a pert buttock or perhaps a breast, as it had a familiar rounded shape to it, but no, that idea was simply absurd.
Why on earth would Mycroft send him something like that? And whose hand on whose behind for that matter?
He waited for an explanation to arrive but nothing more came and as he went to bed later that night, he found himself staring at the picture while a myriad of questions still swirled inside his head.
Almost 250 miles away from London in a cosy but comfortable summer cabin in the lake district, Mycroft enjoyed the view of his brother spread out naked on a large king size bed, sweaty and panting on the white satin sheets, his cheeks flushed and eyes glimmering with anticipation.
Discarded on a chair over by the window were a pair of tight swimming trunks in a dreadful turquoise colour with the words “Sexy ass bitch” written across the back that Mycroft had bought for his brother in the village gift shop that very same morning before heading for a swim in the nearby lake.
The colour was a bit of an eye-sore to be honest but they had clung enticingly to his brothers well-defined buttocks as well as embracing the mouth-watering package in front and the image of Sherlock stretched out in the grass, skin glistening from the water, the swimming truck revealing every intimate little detail that his body had to offer and only Mycroft was allowed to enjoy, was still etched to Mycroft’s memory with every piece of precious detail.
When the nosy doctor had disturbed their peace by sending a question of how things were going, Sherlock had snatched Mycroft’s phone out of his grip and over his shoulder he had taken a picture of Mycroft’s hand resting possessively over his arse.
Mycroft had managed to persuade him not to send it, but later on, when Sherlock was busy in the shower, cleaning himself up from their previous activities, sending semen mixed with sand and grass down the shower drain, Mycroft had for once allowed the mischievous side of his personality that he normally only allowed his little brother to witness, for a second take charge and he sent an edited version of the picture for the doctor to ponder over.
He knew that it was ambiguous enough to only show his own hand as well as a small part of one turquoise-clad buttock and nothing else, but still, with the right mindset it would be easy to deduce what the picture communicated.
He highly doubted John Watson would be able to see it though.
He would probably scratch his head and spend the following couple of days staring at the picture while trying to figure out what it was he was looking at and what it all meant.
Mycroft turned his attention back to the lean, beautiful creature stretched out in front of him and with a wolfish grin he joined him on the bed and devoured his smooth naked skin with his tongue while his hands searched for his erect cock.
They had four more days to spend before the first rain in several weeks was going to shower the country in a well-needed downpour and Mycroft was planning to make the most of his time with his brother before that happened.
The doctor had asked him to take his infuriating flatmate away from Baker Street after all, so he was only following orders. And enjoying himself immensely while doing so.