DISCLAIMER: I do not own

The detective's body was splayed out on the floor, the fridge brimming with body parts open just a crack in a failed attempt to cool down, his dark curls pooling over his forehead dramatically as they stuck fast to his sizzling flesh. His whole chest was moving heavily as he tried to lower his body temperature, panting like a distressed animal, his tongue poking out from his plump lips. It was a nearly impossible task as the flat was sweltering with a murderous heat. Sherlock hated when it was this hot. Not only did the heat make his far too tight clothes stick to him with the gross and highly uncomfortable sweat his body produced, but it also made it hard to think, or to do anything of purpose. And if Sherlock was too hot and bothered to move, and to think, so would the criminals of London. This meant one thing; a very sweaty and bored Sherlock.

Sherlock grunted and heaved himself up to his feet, a most satisfying feat as his long limbs felt like lead. He wiped a hand across his forehead, his curls momentarily swept out of the way as a few beads of sweat were removed. He scowled in the direction of the bathroom. The water is running and John is inside having a refreshing shower. He'd been in there for far too long in Sherlock's opinion. John wasn't the only one who needed to escape from the cruel heat. As cold as Sherlock appeared to society his body was still as irritatingly affected by temperature as the next human beings.

With an irritated huff he trudged over to the bathroom doorway. He raised his hand to knock the door and froze. Normally he wouldn't bother knocking, not for anyone else, but John usually got made if he barged into the bathroom. Sherlock didn't particularly want to have to deal with a grumpy John Watson, especially in this heat. But then he felt the heat curling further around his body and he sighed desperately, his hand lunging for the door knob. He needed a cold shower immediately. His hot and sweat coated body was starting to really irritate him. He twisted it. It was unlocked, the door swinging open with a loud creak.

Sherlock crept into the bathroom, pausing to evaluate whether John had noticed his presence yet, the tiles refreshingly cold underneath his bare feet. There was the steady sound of water splashing against skin with a wet slap. He can hear harsh breathing hitching in the hot air and spiralling out through the bathroom. He slipped out of what little clothing he had, the clothes falling to the ground with a dull thud. He froze when he heard the fractional movement coming from the shower and swallowed slightly when he saw the rustle of the shower curtain as small and delicate hands began to pull it back.

His heart began to pound in his chest, like a small creature was inside of him attacking the beating organ, forcing it to pump at an unhealthy pace. He suddenly felt hot underneath his skin as well as on the outer surface. He cursed himself for his bodily reactions and even more so when he looked down to the space between his legs. It's not as though he hasn't seen another man's body before, but then again those he has seen have always been rather dead, and they had definitely not been John Watson's body. He gasped as the curtain was pulled fully back and two hazel eyes poke through the gap, seemingly followed by the rest of a very startled ex-army doctor.


"Yes." Sherlock padded closer, trying to avoid the unfamiliar feeling of humiliation.

"What are you – what the hell are you doing here! I'm having a shower right now! Christ, I'm naked! You're naked! What? – oh god –" John had gone as pale as the porcelain tiles decorating the bathroom.

"Relax, John. I only came in here to take a shower. You've been taking far too long."

"Right, ok. I'll just get out then."

Sherlock studied John's face. He was surprised to see a dash of disappointment there. Of course Sherlock had only entered the bathroom so that he too could experience the revitalising joy of the icy cold spray of the shower pouring onto his tall frame, but somehow between that desire and walking in on a rather soaked and inexplicably exposed John a darker desire has started to form. "There's no need for that. We'd only be wasting water." His voice is deeper than normal. It holds qualities of longing and arousal, Sherlock notes. And then he takes a step. He's standing in the shower now. The water's tipping over his head, soaking his curls, cascading along his sharp cheekbones, flickering off his eyelashes. John's staring at him like he's completely bonkers. Sherlock thinks that John is probably right in his analysis.

"Sherlock –" John breathed. He looks notably nervous. Not nearly as nervous as he himself felt though.

"John –" He whispered, his voice a deep and bumbling buzz. He hasn't a clue as to what he's doing but something is dragging him closer to his flatmate. Suddenly they're pressed against each other. Each breath they take seems to be amplified by a million. And if the heat hadn't been scorching enough before it certainly was now, even with the downfall of cool water spilling down onto them.

John swallowed thickly. He tried to edge away from Sherlock but there was nowhere to go. He gasped, hitting the tiles. Sherlock took another step towards him, looping an arm around his friends waist so that he wouldn't fall. His legs were shaking dangerously. "Are we – is this really happening?" John's question comes out as a frightened squeak. Sherlock's lips twitch into a smile in response.

"And what would this be?" Sherlock was barely able to get the words to escape his lips, a growing lump in his throat making the process of talking painful.

"I think you – um – know what's going on. And it has to stop. I'm not gay."

"And I'm asexual, yet here we are." Sherlock retorted to John's rather standard response to any intimate moments between them. It was true that Sherlock had self-labelled himself as asexual. He hadn't found a preference, hadn't even bothered with the dating and sex malarkey. Which made him question exactly why he was in a shower pressed up against John with a rather hard to ignore erection pressed up against John's equally hard to ignore erection.

"Where do we go from here?" John whispered timidly.

"I have no idea but I've seen enough crap television to know that this is the part where we kiss." Where did that come from? He didn't want to kiss John. He didn't want to kiss anyone. That was just who he was. He'd accepted that years ago. John didn't answer him for a long while and they were caught in an intense stare off, kaleidoscope coloured eyes gazing into soft brown ones. Then suddenly John moved his head and stood on his tip toes. Sherlock closed his eyes and awaited for the inevitable.

"Can I wash your hair?" A small whisper trickled into his ear, causing the detective to shiver.

Sherlock frowned. His eyes snapped open and he went back to staring at John, trying to decipher what had just happened. Not really knowing how to answer he simply nodded dumbly. Sherlock wished that he was more clued in on the art of sexual acts such as kissing. Perhaps this was some sort of foreplay, working up to something more. Sherlock was suddenly filled with dread. What had he gotten himself into? John smiled at him. It was a lovely smile. Sherlock wished John smiled like that more often; it suited the doctor quite delightfully. Sherlock went back to closing his eyes. There was the definite sound of a shampoo bottle being opened, mixed berries my the smell of it. Then John's hands were in his hair, running through his raven black curls, fingertips scratching his sensitive scalp. Sherlock felt himself melt into a puddle of goo and he could barely supress the small moans that were now slipping past his plump lips.

John chuckled. It was a light, bubbly sound and it made Sherlock's stomach flip in a way that scared him. For a moment everything stopped. And he was fairly sure that he had died from his heart giving out on him due to John's ministrations. His body felt like it was on fire, like he was ablaze, like his skin was boiling. It was too much. He couldn't stand it. He opened his eyes and looked at John, his pupils fully dilated, their usual colour taken over by a hungry black. John stopped washing his hair, pulling back his now shampoo covered hands. Sherlock smirked to himself, noting John's equally black with desire pupils. Without thinking he lunged forwards. In all honestly he'd stopped thinking rationally the moment he stepped through the bathroom door. His lips swallowed down John's, pressed against them, gently prised them open. They became entangled with each other; their hands ran everywhere, exploring each other's bodies with curiosity. Their tongues flickered against each other, tasting, discovering, and learning. When Sherlock pulled away a loud gasp broke out of his exhausted lungs. He licked his now bruised lips and hummed. Kissing John had been marvellous and from the goofy grin plastered across the good doctor's face the feelings were most likely mutual. "John," He murmured against his flatmate's shoulder.


"I'm hot."

"No arguments there, Sherlock." John panted, huffing out a laugh.

Sherlock decided that the heat wasn't so bad after all.

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