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swissmargTitle: The Case of the Vanishing Pants; Part Three - The Resiniferatoxin
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
swissmarg
Beta reader: K (formerlysimilarfrowns)
Rating: R
Characters: John/Sherlock. I think we can safely call it slash now.
Word count: 4,500
Summary: Five times John and Sherlock lost their pants in the service of a case.
Warnings: Full male nudity. Tenuous medical information.
Notes: Ironically, while I was writing this, I got an inflammation in my wrist that the doctor prescribed an arthritis gel for. I was disappointed that it did not contain any capsaicin.
Disclaimer: The original Sherlock Holmes stories were written by Arthur Conan Doyle, and are now in the public domain. The BBC version upon which this story is based was created by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. This is a transformative fanwork which was created solely for fun, not material gain.
Part One - The Dehydrator
Part Two - The Plutonium Pellets
It was disturbingly easy for John to slot back into Sherlock's life. Not the other way round, mind. John's life had bubbled up like melting plastic when Sherlock left, and hardened into blackened blisters with hard, jagged edges. Now, the plastic was being shoved and molded back into an approximation of the original form, but with new striations and irregularities, imperfections that couldn't be rubbed out. They took some getting used to, but there was also beauty to be found, unique little patterns and surprising colours when the light hit the surface just so.
Doing the washing at Baker Street was not one of them.
John had only been back a couple of days when he found he needed to do a load of whites. He stuffed his pants, vests, and socks into the washer-dryer tucked underneath one of the work surfaces in the kitchen, then went hunting for the detergent. He'd brought the rest of a package of washing powder with him from his old flat, but he didn't want to have to go up to his room and dig it out of the removal boxes unless it was absolutely necessary.
The plastic container they'd used to store the washing powder in wasn't in its usual place under the sink. Nor was it in any of the other cupboards, in the bathroom, or on the bookshelves. Sherlock must have washed his clothes at some point over the last seven months. Or had he taken everything to the dry cleaners? John was about to give up and fetch his from upstairs when his eye lit on the refrigerator. Surely not... But then this was Sherlock.
John opened the door, rummaged around a bit, and sure enough, behind a tub of ... something grey and slimy, was the washing powder. It even still had 'washing powder' written on it in indelible ink, in John's handwriting. God alone knew why Sherlock had needed it cold, but he'd used it nearly all up. There was only a small amount left in the bottom of the container. John poured what was there into the machine, then had to run up and fetch his after all. He added enough to fill the dispenser in the machine, then dumped the rest into the plastic container and replaced it under the sink.
He was about to turn the machine on when Sherlock's door popped open.
"Oh excellent, are you doing a load? You won't mind if I add some of mine, will you?"
Before John could say anything, Sherlock practically leapt to the machine, opened the door, flung in a handful of (dark) clothing, pressed the door closed again, and pushed the 'on' button. Water started running in.
"You didn't- Sherlock, that was a load of whites."
"Hot, yes, perfect."
"No, not perfect. You just put your black pants in with my white ones."
"John, washing our underwear together does not imply anything about similar contact between our analogous body parts."
John just stared, because how could he not proceed to picture exactly that happening?
Sherlock responded with an expression of bemused innocence.
John was able through sheer force of will to tear his mind away from the question of frottage versus spooning, finally recovering enough to explain: "It's not- My vests are going to come out grey now. And my socks."
"No one's going to see them," Sherlock said, quite reasonably. "Or were you planning on going out wearing only your underwear?"
John sighed, because Sherlock was right, of course. He didn't even have a girlfriend at the moment to worry about having clean underwear for. In fact, although he'd dated several women since Sherlock's return, he'd only slept with one, an ill-advised affair whose sole purpose had been to reassure himself that he was still attracted to women (he was), and whose consequences included the willful destruction of the phone Harry had given him three and a half years earlier, following one texting incident too many at a delicate juncture (it had been time for an upgrade anyway), and the uncomfortable realisation that he was going to need to get Sherlock out of his system before he attempted another intimate relationship.
Which looked like it was going to mean quite a long period of celibacy.
Which, again, was fine; it was only what he'd expected, after all. He didn't have such a high libido that he'd become unpleasant to live with if he went without. Masturbating a couple of times a week was sufficient to take care of the physical side of things. He really only sought female companionship for the emotional side of the equation. It was just nice to spend time with someone who didn't make him feel stupid or leave him standing in the rain at a taxi stand or use his email address to register for some very questionable forums indeed.
Admittedly, Sherlock hadn't done any of those things in the months since he'd been back. John had the suspicion that this was entirely due to lack of opportunity, however, which had largely contributed to his resistance to returning to Baker Street.
Now, after three days back, John was cautiously optimistic. Sherlock had been surprisingly circumspect in his comments - in fact, now that John thought about it, he couldn't recall Sherlock directing a single derisive remark at him over the last few months. Nor had he abandoned him, forgotten about his presence, or misappropriated his belongings.
The thing with the laundry was no big deal, really. It wasn't as if he'd taken John's clothes on purpose and used them for an experiment with lemon juice and epoxy sealant (which, in the event, had turned out to be rather interesting, even if had meant the loss of John's second-favourite cardigan).
They didn't have an active investigation going at the moment, so they'd spent the last couple of evenings in, John watching telly and slowly repopulating the living room with his things, and Sherlock occupying himself with some experiment or other. It was disgustingly domestic.
The first day, it was true, had been slightly awkward. Sherlock had been downright solicitous, shifting piles off the second desk, stuffing a set of nunchuks down under the cushion of his chair, opening the window to air out the lingering scent of burnt hair, and hovering in the doorway and talking a mile a minute about a cold case (apparent heart attack, but he thought it was a poisoning) as John started unpacking his boxes.
John was careful not to read anything into Sherlock's behaviour other than excitement and relief at having someone to once again act as a sounding board and buffer to the world of normality. He was very careful not to look Sherlock in the eye for more than a couple of seconds, or to brush against him as he walked back and forth, or to grin too stupidly when Sherlock said the spaghetti he made for dinner was 'good'.
It was like they were just two regular blokes sharing a flat. A flat with biohazards in the kitchen, full-colour 8x10s of a bloated corpse pinned up in the living room, one flatmate playing the violin at all hours, and the other taking apart and cleaning his gun every night, then reassembling it and sleeping with it next to his bed. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.
As part of the whole just-two-flatmates thing, John felt that it was important to maintain other contacts and friendships, particularly those who had stuck with him through the entire terrible two years of Sherlock's absence. So, once the washing was running, he texted Mike and arranged to meet him at a pub.
He felt a twinge of guilt at leaving Sherlock alone, especially when he settled down at his microscope, avoided looking at John and mumbled, "Right, I'll just... Right. Have fun." He almost invited Sherlock to join them, but he knew that: a) Sherlock did not hang out at pubs, and b) he needed to have at least a part of his life that didn't revolve around his flatmate.
So he went out, met Mike, had two pints, only texted Sherlock three times (victoria line's down; bloke here with a rat on his shoulder; on my way home now) and received exactly three replies (Car broke down, they're switching it out now; Black one? That'll be Tommy; Good, flat already feels empty).
He took a deep breath to quell the tingling in his chest and read that last one again as he sat in the Tube station, waiting for the train. All it meant was that Sherlock wanted an ear for his poisoning theories, he told himself. It wasn't personal. Well, all right, it was personal; Sherlock and John understood each other in a way no one else did, and Sherlock wouldn't put up with just anyone, and he'd said that their friendship was important. But it wasn't personal personal.
When he got home, Sherlock was sawing away on his violin - he'd apparently got bored with or finished his experiment - but put it down as soon as John came in and launched into a monologue on obscure African plants. John smiled and nodded as he turned on the drying cycle on the washer-dryer, then relaxed onto the couch. As he'd suspected: Sherlock had needed someone to bounce his theories off of. That was all right, then. John understood this role and didn't need to put any effort into filling it.
Under the disinhibiting influence of the beers, while Sherlock talked, John allowed himself to enjoy the smooth rumble of Sherlock's voice, the intensity with which he expostulated his thoughts, the quasi-balletic way he moved around the room, putting his hands on his hips, waving them in the air, running them through his hair.
At some point, Sherlock stopped mid-sentence and peered at John from where he was standing near the wall with his notes and pictures pinned to it.
"Are you following all this, John?" he asked with a suspicious tone.
"Yes, sixteen billion Scoville units," John said, because he had actually been following; it had only been two beers after all. "Very, very hot."
"Mm, yes." Sherlock didn't look entirely appeased. "Come here and tell me what you make of this." He tapped at a paper on his desk.
John heaved himself up to take a look at the post-mortem photo. Sherlock stayed close so that he could indicate a large area of redness on the upper left quadrant of the dead man's chest. He was practically hovering over John, the front of his shoulder brushing against John's back.
"Skin's inflamed," John said, ignoring the urge to lean back just a bit. "Hard to say much more without seeing it in situ. What's the autopsy report say?"
"He suffered from arthritis. This was supposedly a side effect of the topical cream he was using." He shuffled some papers around until he found the reference. "Capzasin."
"Sure, could be," John said. "But you don't agree?"
He turned his head toward Sherlock. He was very close. John couldn't help his gaze first going to Sherlock's mouth before rising to his eyes. He could smell him, his deodorant and the light undernote of his sweat, familiar most recently from their night in the dehydrator and now indelibly associated with a well-formed, pale chest decorated with a smattering of fine hairs, and two long legs cradling a darker swell of hair and flesh. Shit. This was going all sorts of pear-shaped very quickly.
"Certainly," Sherlock said, and John might have imagined the breathy quality of Sherlock's voice, but he was definitely not imagining it when Sherlock's eyes flicked down at John's mouth. John's heart thudded heavily in his chest and his cock reported an interest in the proceedings. He froze. This was exactly the kind of situation he'd promised himself he wouldn't get into.
Sherlock had stopped talking. His lips were slightly parted. It would be so easy. If he'd been standing here with one of his dates, John would have just leaned in... But Sherlock was not interested! John reminded himself firmly. John had told him how he felt, and Sherlock had been relieved when John said he didn't want to take it any further than being friends. Sherlock had stated that he wasn't interested in a physical relationship. He was, at most, curious as to what John would do. Mirroring, he was just mirroring. John took a steadying breath.
"Sherlock. Capzasin," John finally prompted him.
Time restarted. Sherlock snapped back into himself, frowning and looking down. He leaned back fractionally and moved the papers on the desk around without really seeming to see them. "Sorry, yes. Yes. The concentration was much too high. He'd been using it for years, never had a reaction before."
John slipped away from the desk and retreated to the safety of his armchair, making serious sounds at appropriate points as Sherlock went back to his elucidations.
When he went up to bed later, feeling both frustrated and vaguely guilty while grimly congratulating himself on not making a fool of either one of them, he lay on his back and crossed his arms over his chest and thought about old, bloated, dead bodies until his cock got the message that nothing was going to come of its insistent twitching. Nothing at all.
======
The next day, John needed to be at the clinic, so he got up early and went down to the shower, taking his work clothes with him so that he could get dressed in the bathroom. He made a detour through the kitchen in order to get some underwear out of the washer-dryer. As expected, his things were all now a filmy off-white, although honestly not as bad as he'd expected.
Sherlock was already in the bathroom, but John didn't have to wait long before the door opened and Sherlock rolled out in a cloud of steam, pink and fresh and with his dressing gown only loosely tied around his waist. As far as John could see, he had nothing on underneath. John directed his greeting at Sherlock's shoulder and stood carefully back so that there was enough room for Sherlock to walk past without them brushing against one another.
It was bad enough that he was now going to be unable to avoid picturing Sherlock in the shower he was about to enter, remembering what he had looked like at the nuclear reprocessing facility: the water glistening down his back and the curve of his arse, dripping off his nose and his lush lower lip, beading on his chest, around his nipples, and caressing the sinfully long stretch of his legs.
He didn't indulge in a wank, although he knew he wouldn't be able to put it off much longer, what with all the input he was getting recently, if he didn't want to awaken to an unpleasant surprise some night soon. He was painfully aware that Sherlock could very well be listening out in the kitchen, able to deduce what he was doing from something like the sound of the water droplets hitting the tiles, or the fact that he missed shaving the corner of his jaw.
When he went back into the kitchen, Sherlock was just coming out of his room, checking the weather on his phone and dressed in one of his come-fuck-me shirts and trousers that clung to his every muscle. John's cock tingled, almost painfully. Christ, he wasn't even going to make it to work at this rate. He yanked open the refrigerator and tried to hide behind the door so that he could adjust his pants. He rubbed at his chest, which was also rather warm. The hell was going on? The skin of his entire torso - front, back, and bottom - felt like he'd rubbed Icy Hot on it, and the sensation was only getting stronger. He'd never experienced this kind of arousal before.
He closed the fridge, only to see Sherlock standing with his back to him at the sink, reaching for a mug and shifting his hips in an awkward sort of dance. He put the mug down and scratched at his arse.
John couldn't think about that though, because now there was really something going on in his pants, and it was not pleasant at all. In fact... "Christ!" It was burning like a UTI. John pulled back the waistband of his trousers and pants together to look inside. He couldn't see anything amiss, but the stinging was getting worse, and when he pulled up his shirt, the skin of his stomach was bright red. He immediately recalled the picture of the dead man with the red patch on his shoulder.
"Sherlock..." John said, a terrible suspicion growing. "Have you been experimenting with- Fuck! What did you put in the shower gel?" He struggled to get his shirt over his head without undoing any of the buttons, then tore off his vest. His entire front was red and burning, and his back felt the same.
"Nothing!" Sherlock insisted as he hastily undid his own trousers. "God, it feels like fire ants!" He dropped trousers and pants in one motion and twisted around to try and see his own arse. It was pert and red, and he swatted and rubbed at it in what would have been a very distracting manner, had John not currently been involved in getting rid of his own trousers as quickly as possible.
"Are you sure this has nothing to do with the- What was the stuff? Resin toxin?" John groaned as the stinging in his urethra made his eyes water.
Sherlock had turned on the kitchen tap and was standing on his toes, thrusting his hips forward over the sink and splashing water onto his penis. "Resiniferatoxin, but I don't see- John!" Sherlock twisted half around, his eyes wild. "Did you- There was a container in the refrigerator!"
"You mean the washing powder?" John was making for the bathroom now, albeit hobbled by his trousers and pants around his ankles, because cool water on his burning genitals sounded like a very fine idea.
"That wasn't washing powder!" Sherlock shouted and ran past John into the shower, disrobing as he went. "Quick, soap, lots of soap!" He turned the water on full blast and hopped in. "Get in, you have to wash it off! Water alone won't work, it's hydrophobic."
John didn't need to be told twice. He kicked his clothes the rest of the way off and stepped into the bathtub with Sherlock, who shoved a bottle of shower gel at him with one hand while he furiously rubbed a bar of soap over his groin with the other.
John dumped out a generous portion of the gel and lathered up every part of himself that he could reach. There really wasn't room for both of them to comfortably manoeuvre, and there was much bumping of elbows and exclamations of discomfort.
"See, Sherlock," John said quite loudly, "this is why labels are important!"
Sherlock scowled while he rubbed soap over his backside. "Why are you so fixated with labels?"
"Labels are what protect us from getting hot pepper extract up our dicks!" He twisted his arm around to try and reach his back, which felt like it had a bad sunburn.
"Ah, so you use labels to keep things that society deems inappropriate from getting into your pants."
"Shyeah! I'd like to know exactly in what situation sprinkling hot pepper on someone's genitals is considered 'appropriate'."
"Oh, come on," he scoffed, elbowing John aside so that he could rinse off his rear, "we're not talking about a capsaicin analogue here."
"Uh, yes, yes I am. What are you talking about?"
Sherlock pressed his lips together. "Do you want help with your back?" he asked instead.
"Yes," John said grudgingly, and turned around, bracing his hands on the wall so that Sherlock could run the soap over his back.
It was only about two seconds later that he realised this was a spectacularly poor idea. Sherlock's hands slicked over his skin, not so much clinical and efficient as lingering and thorough. He pressed his thumbs in around John's shoulder blades, gripping his shoulders, defining circles and swirls, then downwards, his thumbs tracing John's spine as the rest of his fingers smoothed down his sides, ending on his hips.
John couldn't stop the little grunt of pleasure, although he tried to cover it up by clearing his throat.
"Um, thanks, that's... That ought to do it," he said with forced briskness.
"Turn and rinse." Sherlock put his hands on John's shoulders and turned them both around so that John's back enjoyed the full benefit of the shower spray.
They were now standing facing one another, John with one hand on the wall to steady himself, and no space to retreat. He looked up at Sherlock, who was looking down at him. They were very close. His hands were still resting on John's shoulders and his breaths coming quicker than normal. Something brushed against John's hip. He swallowed but didn't look down.
Right.
Sherlock was... This was definitely him taking the initiative. He wasn't just following signals from John, or playing along with something John had started. Maybe he never had been. Maybe John was the one who had been projecting. He was the one who was scared of getting involved. He was afraid that this might ruin their friendship because he was afraid that he would be the one to mess it up. He would be the one to break it off, he would be the one to decide he couldn't go through with being in a relationship with a man.
He was the one who would rather have this half-something, half-nothing, partners yet not, sharing everything yet not, hobbling their emotions, because he was uncertain of his own ability to be everything he thought a partner should be.
Sherlock pretty clearly had decided what he wanted, and was waiting for John to catch up, as always.
John did want this. He wanted to show Sherlock how much he valued him, how brilliant he was, to give him everything he had, body, heart, and mind. But he couldn't make this decision now. Not like this.
"We're not going to die, are we?" John finally ventured.
Sherlock's mouth quirked up. "The concentration was probably very low. The wash will have diluted it quite a bit, and the contact was fleeting. There was no system of delivery for it to be absorbed. So, no. I'd say we're in the clear."
"Good." John tried to laugh, to defuse the tension. "Don't think this is how I wanted to go."
Sherlock smiled a little more. "Me either. Although..." He glanced down. "There are worse positions to be in."
John felt whatever it was against his hip again. He had to close his eyes because whatever it was seemed to be twitching and his own whatever it was stirred at the thought, and there was no way Sherlock wasn't going to notice that. John's resolve not to give in to what he was feeling at the moment was rapidly going the way of the water down the drain. He needed more time. They needed to talk about this, and not while naked in the shower, suffering from first degree chemical burns.
He grasped Sherlock's elbows and bent his neck to rest his forehead on top of Sherlock's shoulder. The water continued beating down on his back, and the slowly dulling sensations of the chemical throbbed across his skin. Sherlock was standing stock still, and John didn't know whether it was because he wasn't sure how to proceed, or because he didn't want to scare John away.
"I don't know what I'm doing," John said finally, his voice muffled by the water and because he was talking down into Sherlock's collarbone.
Sherlock squeezed John's shoulders briefly, but didn't say anything.
Aware that nothing was going to happen unless he made a move, and that he wasn't ready to do that at the moment, especially not with both of them still stinging from the accident, he licked his lips and lifted his head again.
"Right, um..." John chuckled, embarrassed. "This is awkward." He let go of Sherlock, and Sherlock did the same, holding John's gaze steadily, a mixture of amusement and uncertainty. "How's your..." John chanced a glance downward.
Sherlock's penis was half-raised, and oh God, he really was reacting. 'Possibly not asexual after all' shot though his head while mixed feelings of pain and pleasurable anticipation tingled in John's groin.
"Quite well," Sherlock said. After a moment, he added, "Oh, you mean from the resiniferatoxin. Still burns. It'll take a few hours, I imagine. You?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows meaningfully.
"Yes, also... well," John said, unable to suppress a crooked smile. "I should maybe go down to Boots and get some aloe vera gel." He shut off the water and stepped out of the shower. The floor was flooded, as they hadn't bothered to close the shower curtain. He shivered, both from the cold air and from the pleasure hormones still coursing through his body.
"Your stomach does look painful," Sherlock said. There was a red line where John's waistband had pressed and rubbed the impregnated material against his skin.
"Yeah, it's... it'll be fine." John took his towel from the rack and dried off, gingerly patting his sore skin. Next to him, Sherlock did the same.
"John, I hope I haven't made you uncomfortable," Sherlock said quietly from where he was bent over, drying his feet. "I don't quite know..."
"It's all right, Sherlock. I'm the one who's made us uncomfortable."
"I don't mean the resiniferatoxin."
"I know what you mean. And it's me." John tied his towel around his waist and gathered his clothes from the floor. They were sopping wet. "I guess we both need to adjust to living together again."
Sherlock also wrapped his towel around his waist and started fiddling with a bottle of hair product. "What you said, about things having changed. After I ... left. I think they have. For me, anyway, and I thought, from what you said-"
"Yeah. Me too." John let out a breath he'd been holding. "I just... I need some time, all right? I thought I knew what I was doing, and now I don't. I don't- Look, I have to call the clinic, let them know I'll be late. Do you want me to pick anything else up for you from the pharmacy?"
Sherlock shook his head.
"Dinner?" John suggested.
Sherlock looked up, almost shyly. "I'll order something."
"Let me cook?" John asked.
Sherlock looked pleased. "All right."
John nodded and was about to leave when Sherlock added, "Oh, you'd better buy salt, if you want to use any for dinner. I re-filled the shaker with aluminium sulphate."
John grinned and went to find some dry, non-toxic clothing. They were definitely going to need to work on labeling.
======
Part Four - The CLAN
Author:
swissmargBeta reader: K (formerly
similarfrowns)Rating: R
Characters: John/Sherlock. I think we can safely call it slash now.
Word count: 4,500
Summary: Five times John and Sherlock lost their pants in the service of a case.
Warnings: Full male nudity. Tenuous medical information.
Notes: Ironically, while I was writing this, I got an inflammation in my wrist that the doctor prescribed an arthritis gel for. I was disappointed that it did not contain any capsaicin.
Disclaimer: The original Sherlock Holmes stories were written by Arthur Conan Doyle, and are now in the public domain. The BBC version upon which this story is based was created by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. This is a transformative fanwork which was created solely for fun, not material gain.
Part One - The Dehydrator
Part Two - The Plutonium Pellets
Part 3 - The Resiniferatoxin
It was disturbingly easy for John to slot back into Sherlock's life. Not the other way round, mind. John's life had bubbled up like melting plastic when Sherlock left, and hardened into blackened blisters with hard, jagged edges. Now, the plastic was being shoved and molded back into an approximation of the original form, but with new striations and irregularities, imperfections that couldn't be rubbed out. They took some getting used to, but there was also beauty to be found, unique little patterns and surprising colours when the light hit the surface just so.
Doing the washing at Baker Street was not one of them.
John had only been back a couple of days when he found he needed to do a load of whites. He stuffed his pants, vests, and socks into the washer-dryer tucked underneath one of the work surfaces in the kitchen, then went hunting for the detergent. He'd brought the rest of a package of washing powder with him from his old flat, but he didn't want to have to go up to his room and dig it out of the removal boxes unless it was absolutely necessary.
The plastic container they'd used to store the washing powder in wasn't in its usual place under the sink. Nor was it in any of the other cupboards, in the bathroom, or on the bookshelves. Sherlock must have washed his clothes at some point over the last seven months. Or had he taken everything to the dry cleaners? John was about to give up and fetch his from upstairs when his eye lit on the refrigerator. Surely not... But then this was Sherlock.
John opened the door, rummaged around a bit, and sure enough, behind a tub of ... something grey and slimy, was the washing powder. It even still had 'washing powder' written on it in indelible ink, in John's handwriting. God alone knew why Sherlock had needed it cold, but he'd used it nearly all up. There was only a small amount left in the bottom of the container. John poured what was there into the machine, then had to run up and fetch his after all. He added enough to fill the dispenser in the machine, then dumped the rest into the plastic container and replaced it under the sink.
He was about to turn the machine on when Sherlock's door popped open.
"Oh excellent, are you doing a load? You won't mind if I add some of mine, will you?"
Before John could say anything, Sherlock practically leapt to the machine, opened the door, flung in a handful of (dark) clothing, pressed the door closed again, and pushed the 'on' button. Water started running in.
"You didn't- Sherlock, that was a load of whites."
"Hot, yes, perfect."
"No, not perfect. You just put your black pants in with my white ones."
"John, washing our underwear together does not imply anything about similar contact between our analogous body parts."
John just stared, because how could he not proceed to picture exactly that happening?
Sherlock responded with an expression of bemused innocence.
John was able through sheer force of will to tear his mind away from the question of frottage versus spooning, finally recovering enough to explain: "It's not- My vests are going to come out grey now. And my socks."
"No one's going to see them," Sherlock said, quite reasonably. "Or were you planning on going out wearing only your underwear?"
John sighed, because Sherlock was right, of course. He didn't even have a girlfriend at the moment to worry about having clean underwear for. In fact, although he'd dated several women since Sherlock's return, he'd only slept with one, an ill-advised affair whose sole purpose had been to reassure himself that he was still attracted to women (he was), and whose consequences included the willful destruction of the phone Harry had given him three and a half years earlier, following one texting incident too many at a delicate juncture (it had been time for an upgrade anyway), and the uncomfortable realisation that he was going to need to get Sherlock out of his system before he attempted another intimate relationship.
Which looked like it was going to mean quite a long period of celibacy.
Which, again, was fine; it was only what he'd expected, after all. He didn't have such a high libido that he'd become unpleasant to live with if he went without. Masturbating a couple of times a week was sufficient to take care of the physical side of things. He really only sought female companionship for the emotional side of the equation. It was just nice to spend time with someone who didn't make him feel stupid or leave him standing in the rain at a taxi stand or use his email address to register for some very questionable forums indeed.
Admittedly, Sherlock hadn't done any of those things in the months since he'd been back. John had the suspicion that this was entirely due to lack of opportunity, however, which had largely contributed to his resistance to returning to Baker Street.
Now, after three days back, John was cautiously optimistic. Sherlock had been surprisingly circumspect in his comments - in fact, now that John thought about it, he couldn't recall Sherlock directing a single derisive remark at him over the last few months. Nor had he abandoned him, forgotten about his presence, or misappropriated his belongings.
The thing with the laundry was no big deal, really. It wasn't as if he'd taken John's clothes on purpose and used them for an experiment with lemon juice and epoxy sealant (which, in the event, had turned out to be rather interesting, even if had meant the loss of John's second-favourite cardigan).
They didn't have an active investigation going at the moment, so they'd spent the last couple of evenings in, John watching telly and slowly repopulating the living room with his things, and Sherlock occupying himself with some experiment or other. It was disgustingly domestic.
The first day, it was true, had been slightly awkward. Sherlock had been downright solicitous, shifting piles off the second desk, stuffing a set of nunchuks down under the cushion of his chair, opening the window to air out the lingering scent of burnt hair, and hovering in the doorway and talking a mile a minute about a cold case (apparent heart attack, but he thought it was a poisoning) as John started unpacking his boxes.
John was careful not to read anything into Sherlock's behaviour other than excitement and relief at having someone to once again act as a sounding board and buffer to the world of normality. He was very careful not to look Sherlock in the eye for more than a couple of seconds, or to brush against him as he walked back and forth, or to grin too stupidly when Sherlock said the spaghetti he made for dinner was 'good'.
It was like they were just two regular blokes sharing a flat. A flat with biohazards in the kitchen, full-colour 8x10s of a bloated corpse pinned up in the living room, one flatmate playing the violin at all hours, and the other taking apart and cleaning his gun every night, then reassembling it and sleeping with it next to his bed. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.
As part of the whole just-two-flatmates thing, John felt that it was important to maintain other contacts and friendships, particularly those who had stuck with him through the entire terrible two years of Sherlock's absence. So, once the washing was running, he texted Mike and arranged to meet him at a pub.
He felt a twinge of guilt at leaving Sherlock alone, especially when he settled down at his microscope, avoided looking at John and mumbled, "Right, I'll just... Right. Have fun." He almost invited Sherlock to join them, but he knew that: a) Sherlock did not hang out at pubs, and b) he needed to have at least a part of his life that didn't revolve around his flatmate.
So he went out, met Mike, had two pints, only texted Sherlock three times (victoria line's down; bloke here with a rat on his shoulder; on my way home now) and received exactly three replies (Car broke down, they're switching it out now; Black one? That'll be Tommy; Good, flat already feels empty).
He took a deep breath to quell the tingling in his chest and read that last one again as he sat in the Tube station, waiting for the train. All it meant was that Sherlock wanted an ear for his poisoning theories, he told himself. It wasn't personal. Well, all right, it was personal; Sherlock and John understood each other in a way no one else did, and Sherlock wouldn't put up with just anyone, and he'd said that their friendship was important. But it wasn't personal personal.
When he got home, Sherlock was sawing away on his violin - he'd apparently got bored with or finished his experiment - but put it down as soon as John came in and launched into a monologue on obscure African plants. John smiled and nodded as he turned on the drying cycle on the washer-dryer, then relaxed onto the couch. As he'd suspected: Sherlock had needed someone to bounce his theories off of. That was all right, then. John understood this role and didn't need to put any effort into filling it.
Under the disinhibiting influence of the beers, while Sherlock talked, John allowed himself to enjoy the smooth rumble of Sherlock's voice, the intensity with which he expostulated his thoughts, the quasi-balletic way he moved around the room, putting his hands on his hips, waving them in the air, running them through his hair.
At some point, Sherlock stopped mid-sentence and peered at John from where he was standing near the wall with his notes and pictures pinned to it.
"Are you following all this, John?" he asked with a suspicious tone.
"Yes, sixteen billion Scoville units," John said, because he had actually been following; it had only been two beers after all. "Very, very hot."
"Mm, yes." Sherlock didn't look entirely appeased. "Come here and tell me what you make of this." He tapped at a paper on his desk.
John heaved himself up to take a look at the post-mortem photo. Sherlock stayed close so that he could indicate a large area of redness on the upper left quadrant of the dead man's chest. He was practically hovering over John, the front of his shoulder brushing against John's back.
"Skin's inflamed," John said, ignoring the urge to lean back just a bit. "Hard to say much more without seeing it in situ. What's the autopsy report say?"
"He suffered from arthritis. This was supposedly a side effect of the topical cream he was using." He shuffled some papers around until he found the reference. "Capzasin."
"Sure, could be," John said. "But you don't agree?"
He turned his head toward Sherlock. He was very close. John couldn't help his gaze first going to Sherlock's mouth before rising to his eyes. He could smell him, his deodorant and the light undernote of his sweat, familiar most recently from their night in the dehydrator and now indelibly associated with a well-formed, pale chest decorated with a smattering of fine hairs, and two long legs cradling a darker swell of hair and flesh. Shit. This was going all sorts of pear-shaped very quickly.
"Certainly," Sherlock said, and John might have imagined the breathy quality of Sherlock's voice, but he was definitely not imagining it when Sherlock's eyes flicked down at John's mouth. John's heart thudded heavily in his chest and his cock reported an interest in the proceedings. He froze. This was exactly the kind of situation he'd promised himself he wouldn't get into.
Sherlock had stopped talking. His lips were slightly parted. It would be so easy. If he'd been standing here with one of his dates, John would have just leaned in... But Sherlock was not interested! John reminded himself firmly. John had told him how he felt, and Sherlock had been relieved when John said he didn't want to take it any further than being friends. Sherlock had stated that he wasn't interested in a physical relationship. He was, at most, curious as to what John would do. Mirroring, he was just mirroring. John took a steadying breath.
"Sherlock. Capzasin," John finally prompted him.
Time restarted. Sherlock snapped back into himself, frowning and looking down. He leaned back fractionally and moved the papers on the desk around without really seeming to see them. "Sorry, yes. Yes. The concentration was much too high. He'd been using it for years, never had a reaction before."
John slipped away from the desk and retreated to the safety of his armchair, making serious sounds at appropriate points as Sherlock went back to his elucidations.
When he went up to bed later, feeling both frustrated and vaguely guilty while grimly congratulating himself on not making a fool of either one of them, he lay on his back and crossed his arms over his chest and thought about old, bloated, dead bodies until his cock got the message that nothing was going to come of its insistent twitching. Nothing at all.
The next day, John needed to be at the clinic, so he got up early and went down to the shower, taking his work clothes with him so that he could get dressed in the bathroom. He made a detour through the kitchen in order to get some underwear out of the washer-dryer. As expected, his things were all now a filmy off-white, although honestly not as bad as he'd expected.
Sherlock was already in the bathroom, but John didn't have to wait long before the door opened and Sherlock rolled out in a cloud of steam, pink and fresh and with his dressing gown only loosely tied around his waist. As far as John could see, he had nothing on underneath. John directed his greeting at Sherlock's shoulder and stood carefully back so that there was enough room for Sherlock to walk past without them brushing against one another.
It was bad enough that he was now going to be unable to avoid picturing Sherlock in the shower he was about to enter, remembering what he had looked like at the nuclear reprocessing facility: the water glistening down his back and the curve of his arse, dripping off his nose and his lush lower lip, beading on his chest, around his nipples, and caressing the sinfully long stretch of his legs.
He didn't indulge in a wank, although he knew he wouldn't be able to put it off much longer, what with all the input he was getting recently, if he didn't want to awaken to an unpleasant surprise some night soon. He was painfully aware that Sherlock could very well be listening out in the kitchen, able to deduce what he was doing from something like the sound of the water droplets hitting the tiles, or the fact that he missed shaving the corner of his jaw.
When he went back into the kitchen, Sherlock was just coming out of his room, checking the weather on his phone and dressed in one of his come-fuck-me shirts and trousers that clung to his every muscle. John's cock tingled, almost painfully. Christ, he wasn't even going to make it to work at this rate. He yanked open the refrigerator and tried to hide behind the door so that he could adjust his pants. He rubbed at his chest, which was also rather warm. The hell was going on? The skin of his entire torso - front, back, and bottom - felt like he'd rubbed Icy Hot on it, and the sensation was only getting stronger. He'd never experienced this kind of arousal before.
He closed the fridge, only to see Sherlock standing with his back to him at the sink, reaching for a mug and shifting his hips in an awkward sort of dance. He put the mug down and scratched at his arse.
John couldn't think about that though, because now there was really something going on in his pants, and it was not pleasant at all. In fact... "Christ!" It was burning like a UTI. John pulled back the waistband of his trousers and pants together to look inside. He couldn't see anything amiss, but the stinging was getting worse, and when he pulled up his shirt, the skin of his stomach was bright red. He immediately recalled the picture of the dead man with the red patch on his shoulder.
"Sherlock..." John said, a terrible suspicion growing. "Have you been experimenting with- Fuck! What did you put in the shower gel?" He struggled to get his shirt over his head without undoing any of the buttons, then tore off his vest. His entire front was red and burning, and his back felt the same.
"Nothing!" Sherlock insisted as he hastily undid his own trousers. "God, it feels like fire ants!" He dropped trousers and pants in one motion and twisted around to try and see his own arse. It was pert and red, and he swatted and rubbed at it in what would have been a very distracting manner, had John not currently been involved in getting rid of his own trousers as quickly as possible.
"Are you sure this has nothing to do with the- What was the stuff? Resin toxin?" John groaned as the stinging in his urethra made his eyes water.
Sherlock had turned on the kitchen tap and was standing on his toes, thrusting his hips forward over the sink and splashing water onto his penis. "Resiniferatoxin, but I don't see- John!" Sherlock twisted half around, his eyes wild. "Did you- There was a container in the refrigerator!"
"You mean the washing powder?" John was making for the bathroom now, albeit hobbled by his trousers and pants around his ankles, because cool water on his burning genitals sounded like a very fine idea.
"That wasn't washing powder!" Sherlock shouted and ran past John into the shower, disrobing as he went. "Quick, soap, lots of soap!" He turned the water on full blast and hopped in. "Get in, you have to wash it off! Water alone won't work, it's hydrophobic."
John didn't need to be told twice. He kicked his clothes the rest of the way off and stepped into the bathtub with Sherlock, who shoved a bottle of shower gel at him with one hand while he furiously rubbed a bar of soap over his groin with the other.
John dumped out a generous portion of the gel and lathered up every part of himself that he could reach. There really wasn't room for both of them to comfortably manoeuvre, and there was much bumping of elbows and exclamations of discomfort.
"See, Sherlock," John said quite loudly, "this is why labels are important!"
Sherlock scowled while he rubbed soap over his backside. "Why are you so fixated with labels?"
"Labels are what protect us from getting hot pepper extract up our dicks!" He twisted his arm around to try and reach his back, which felt like it had a bad sunburn.
"Ah, so you use labels to keep things that society deems inappropriate from getting into your pants."
"Shyeah! I'd like to know exactly in what situation sprinkling hot pepper on someone's genitals is considered 'appropriate'."
"Oh, come on," he scoffed, elbowing John aside so that he could rinse off his rear, "we're not talking about a capsaicin analogue here."
"Uh, yes, yes I am. What are you talking about?"
Sherlock pressed his lips together. "Do you want help with your back?" he asked instead.
"Yes," John said grudgingly, and turned around, bracing his hands on the wall so that Sherlock could run the soap over his back.
It was only about two seconds later that he realised this was a spectacularly poor idea. Sherlock's hands slicked over his skin, not so much clinical and efficient as lingering and thorough. He pressed his thumbs in around John's shoulder blades, gripping his shoulders, defining circles and swirls, then downwards, his thumbs tracing John's spine as the rest of his fingers smoothed down his sides, ending on his hips.
John couldn't stop the little grunt of pleasure, although he tried to cover it up by clearing his throat.
"Um, thanks, that's... That ought to do it," he said with forced briskness.
"Turn and rinse." Sherlock put his hands on John's shoulders and turned them both around so that John's back enjoyed the full benefit of the shower spray.
They were now standing facing one another, John with one hand on the wall to steady himself, and no space to retreat. He looked up at Sherlock, who was looking down at him. They were very close. His hands were still resting on John's shoulders and his breaths coming quicker than normal. Something brushed against John's hip. He swallowed but didn't look down.
Right.
Sherlock was... This was definitely him taking the initiative. He wasn't just following signals from John, or playing along with something John had started. Maybe he never had been. Maybe John was the one who had been projecting. He was the one who was scared of getting involved. He was afraid that this might ruin their friendship because he was afraid that he would be the one to mess it up. He would be the one to break it off, he would be the one to decide he couldn't go through with being in a relationship with a man.
He was the one who would rather have this half-something, half-nothing, partners yet not, sharing everything yet not, hobbling their emotions, because he was uncertain of his own ability to be everything he thought a partner should be.
Sherlock pretty clearly had decided what he wanted, and was waiting for John to catch up, as always.
John did want this. He wanted to show Sherlock how much he valued him, how brilliant he was, to give him everything he had, body, heart, and mind. But he couldn't make this decision now. Not like this.
"We're not going to die, are we?" John finally ventured.
Sherlock's mouth quirked up. "The concentration was probably very low. The wash will have diluted it quite a bit, and the contact was fleeting. There was no system of delivery for it to be absorbed. So, no. I'd say we're in the clear."
"Good." John tried to laugh, to defuse the tension. "Don't think this is how I wanted to go."
Sherlock smiled a little more. "Me either. Although..." He glanced down. "There are worse positions to be in."
John felt whatever it was against his hip again. He had to close his eyes because whatever it was seemed to be twitching and his own whatever it was stirred at the thought, and there was no way Sherlock wasn't going to notice that. John's resolve not to give in to what he was feeling at the moment was rapidly going the way of the water down the drain. He needed more time. They needed to talk about this, and not while naked in the shower, suffering from first degree chemical burns.
He grasped Sherlock's elbows and bent his neck to rest his forehead on top of Sherlock's shoulder. The water continued beating down on his back, and the slowly dulling sensations of the chemical throbbed across his skin. Sherlock was standing stock still, and John didn't know whether it was because he wasn't sure how to proceed, or because he didn't want to scare John away.
"I don't know what I'm doing," John said finally, his voice muffled by the water and because he was talking down into Sherlock's collarbone.
Sherlock squeezed John's shoulders briefly, but didn't say anything.
Aware that nothing was going to happen unless he made a move, and that he wasn't ready to do that at the moment, especially not with both of them still stinging from the accident, he licked his lips and lifted his head again.
"Right, um..." John chuckled, embarrassed. "This is awkward." He let go of Sherlock, and Sherlock did the same, holding John's gaze steadily, a mixture of amusement and uncertainty. "How's your..." John chanced a glance downward.
Sherlock's penis was half-raised, and oh God, he really was reacting. 'Possibly not asexual after all' shot though his head while mixed feelings of pain and pleasurable anticipation tingled in John's groin.
"Quite well," Sherlock said. After a moment, he added, "Oh, you mean from the resiniferatoxin. Still burns. It'll take a few hours, I imagine. You?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows meaningfully.
"Yes, also... well," John said, unable to suppress a crooked smile. "I should maybe go down to Boots and get some aloe vera gel." He shut off the water and stepped out of the shower. The floor was flooded, as they hadn't bothered to close the shower curtain. He shivered, both from the cold air and from the pleasure hormones still coursing through his body.
"Your stomach does look painful," Sherlock said. There was a red line where John's waistband had pressed and rubbed the impregnated material against his skin.
"Yeah, it's... it'll be fine." John took his towel from the rack and dried off, gingerly patting his sore skin. Next to him, Sherlock did the same.
"John, I hope I haven't made you uncomfortable," Sherlock said quietly from where he was bent over, drying his feet. "I don't quite know..."
"It's all right, Sherlock. I'm the one who's made us uncomfortable."
"I don't mean the resiniferatoxin."
"I know what you mean. And it's me." John tied his towel around his waist and gathered his clothes from the floor. They were sopping wet. "I guess we both need to adjust to living together again."
Sherlock also wrapped his towel around his waist and started fiddling with a bottle of hair product. "What you said, about things having changed. After I ... left. I think they have. For me, anyway, and I thought, from what you said-"
"Yeah. Me too." John let out a breath he'd been holding. "I just... I need some time, all right? I thought I knew what I was doing, and now I don't. I don't- Look, I have to call the clinic, let them know I'll be late. Do you want me to pick anything else up for you from the pharmacy?"
Sherlock shook his head.
"Dinner?" John suggested.
Sherlock looked up, almost shyly. "I'll order something."
"Let me cook?" John asked.
Sherlock looked pleased. "All right."
John nodded and was about to leave when Sherlock added, "Oh, you'd better buy salt, if you want to use any for dinner. I re-filled the shaker with aluminium sulphate."
John grinned and went to find some dry, non-toxic clothing. They were definitely going to need to work on labeling.
======
Part Four - The CLAN
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-07-15 12:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-15 12:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-15 02:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-15 12:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-15 01:20 pm (UTC)Sorry.
Date: 2012-07-15 01:54 pm (UTC)Here's a song in which Brian is referenced. It's called, erm, Brian Rix:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G1uvVa11cFE
Brian is now the chancellor of the University of East London, and sometimes I like to imagine the degree ceremonies...
Oh wow. Here's one I made earlier:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/10465457
Re: Sorry.
Date: 2012-07-15 03:57 pm (UTC)Re: Sorry.
Date: 2012-07-15 08:35 pm (UTC)I'll be back with the results, although my study has some flaws, the small sample size and prospective rather than randomised double-blinded design being two of them.
No title
Date: 2012-07-16 12:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-16 05:42 am (UTC)This line...THIS LINE
"Ah, so you use labels to keep things that society deems inappropriate from getting into your pants."
and the whole labels thing
no subject
Date: 2012-07-16 05:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-16 05:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-16 05:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-16 11:11 am (UTC)And John please go and kiss him already!
no subject
Date: 2012-07-16 11:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-18 10:19 pm (UTC)'I'd like to know exactly in what situation sprinkling hot pepper on someone's genitals is considered 'appropriate'.'
Was seriously laughing like a loon for ages over that one liner! Well done :)
no subject
Date: 2012-07-19 05:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-19 02:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-19 05:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-05 10:58 pm (UTC)Yes John, it is indeed, and it's making readers die (happily) of the UST. This series is such a delight.
(And I find it hard to imagine that there's extant a more charming Sherlockian indictment of John's heteronormativity than "Ah, so you use labels to keep things that society deems inappropriate from getting into your pants." :D)
no subject
Date: 2012-10-06 06:55 am (UTC)