Chapter Text
Sherlock washed his hands for the third time; he couldn't seem to get them clean. He lifted them to his face even though he knew it was redundant. The smell of gastric acid and semi-metabolised food was in his nose, not on his hands.
He washed them a fourth time, just to be sure, before reaching for the paper towels. He dried his hands and blew his nose – again. He wished his eyes wouldn’t look so puffy, that his nose wouldn’t be so red, but there was nothing he could do about it.
Meticulously, he checked his sleeves for spatter, knowing that he couldn’t do that much about that either. He didn’t find any marks, but cursed himself for not taking off the jacket first. He really should be more careful.
The relief, the short moment of salvation, was already gone. Left was the bad taste in his mouth and the disgust, the self-loathing. Not so much for bringing up the food as for swallowing it in the first place. He was on a case and he should know better. At least it was done now so he could move on.
He washed his hands one last time before he walked out. The very first thing he saw was John who, for good and for bad, always waited outside the bathroom.