Ablutions (Sherlock/John)
Title: Ablutions
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13
Content: urination (non-erotic), humiliation (non-erotic), nudity, bathing/dressing, possible dubious-consent issues
Word Count: 3332
Summary: Sherlock drinks too much wine for an experiment and this causes him to have an accident. John cleans him up and cares for him afterward.
Notes: There is intentionally no sex in this fic, but you still might read this as dubious-consent depending on your views of drunkenness and consent.
Sherlock's latest case had something to do with serial murders at a high-class wine-tasting club, so John found himself one day down at the Berry Bros. & Rudd buying aged bottles of wine that cost more than John made in a week. Sherlock had requested one each of a cabernet sauvignon, merlot, pinot noir, burgundy, chardonnay, pinot blanc, chablis, and riesling, and since John felt more than mildly irritated that he'd been talked into doing Sherlock's errands after he'd already worked the whole day, he snagged a second bottle of the merlot as well, satisfied that none of this was actually going on his own credit card. Maybe he could bring it over to Sarah's as an apology the next time he had to stay over -- which would probably be soon, simply due to Sherlock's innate tendencies towards property destruction.
John finally made it home about forty-five minutes later, arms straining from the weight of the glass bottles. Predictably, Sherlock made no move to help him with the wine, simply staring at him from where he lounged on the couch. "Did you get it all?" asked Sherlock, eyes closed and hands folded across his chest.
"Yes, all fifty bottles you requested," said John snappily, setting the bottles down on the coffee table and stretching his elbows. The joints made ghastly popping noises. "Glad to see you've been working hard in the meantime."
Sherlock didn't answer, just made a humming noise and continued to stare at the ceiling. John sighed in frustration, and started to make his way to the stairs. Suddenly Sherlock seemed to remember that he was there, and sat upright on the sofa. "John," he called, "wait, I need you for this."
"You need me?" John paused momentarily -- it wasn't often he was asked to help with Sherlock's experiments, but on the other hand, he was exhausted. "Well, I need a shower and six hours of uninterrupted sleep, which will undoubtedly be cut down to four due to you blowing something up in the kitchen again, so I'll have to pass on this one."
"You can't." That made John turn back. Sherlock was looking at him, expression keen. "The very nature of this experiment means that my own observations will be categorically unreliable. I need an unbiased, objective observer to record the results."
John sighed again, and dropped his hand from the banister. "A serial murder, you said?"
"Yes."
"And this needs to be done tonight?"
"Serial murderers don't sleep," replied Sherlock. "I wouldn't."
John rubbed a hand across his face. "I'm pretty sure they do, actually, but -- oh, hell." He sighed again for good measure, and came back around to the living room. Sherlock's expression brightened considerably. "And you need me to -- what?"
Sherlock began to remove the bottles from the paper bags. "The previous victim was approximately my weight and had similar muscle mass, so the wine should affect me similarly. I need you to monitor my blood alcohol level, as well as write down any other observations -- anything else that seems affected, cognitive impairment, loss of motor control -- and to make sure I drink the wines in the particular order as they were imbibed by the victim."
"You're going to have a terrible hangover tomorrow, I hope you realize," said John, going to the kitchen for clean glasses, feeling slightly unsettled by the prospect of watching his flatmate drink himself into a stupor in the name of science. "And I'll probably end up having to take care of you."
"Nothing you aren't already used to," said Sherlock. John winced at that -- he hadn't even been thinking about Harry until then -- and Sherlock paused, halfway through opening the riesling with a corkscrew. "I'll be fine, John, my alcohol tolerance is quite high, I daresay I won't be vomiting or losing consciousness any time tonight."
"If you say so," replied John dubiously, settling onto the far side of the sofa and taking the proffered pen and notepad, as well as a breathalyzer Sherlock had undoubtedly nicked from the Yard. "Alright, I'm ready."
It took the next two hours to get through the wine, mostly because John kept insisting Sherlock slow down for water and crackers. The first few half-glasses were easy enough, John taking regular measurements of Sherlock's blood alcohol level and keeping a running commentary, as well as some of Sherlock's subjective observations of his own condition.
Hopefully these notes would still be useful to Sherlock later, because John was having a hard time keeping his own observations objective. The more wine Sherlock drank, the more relaxed he seemed to get, looser, more animated. This alone would have been enough to boggle John, who was watching this all with increasingly incredulous eyes, except that Sherlock did him one better: after he'd finished the half-glass of pinot noir John had poured out for him, he'd looked straight at John and smiled. Not a fake smile, or a smug smirk, but an honest-to-goodness genuine smile, so bright that John found himself smiling back automatically.
After that, John's personal observations lost all sense of objectivity, and mostly devolved into appreciating the flush spreading across Sherlock's face and the way he leaned into John as he talked. Sherlock was mostly rambling and not making very much sense, which John supposed was the reason he never drank alcohol -- he seemed to prefer substances that sharpened his mind, rather than dulled it. Impulsively, John poured himself a glass of the burgundy as well when they opened it, and drank it with his eyes fixed on Sherlock the entire time. The alcohol settled in his stomach, warming him pleasantly, although he was nowhere near as intoxicated as his flatmate.
Finally Sherlock had run through all the wine, and John set about corking all the bottles and storing them while Sherlock lay sprawled on the sofa. He'd at last blown a 0.19% blood alcohol content, a number that Sherlock had nodded at -- probably confirming his hypothesis, whatever it had been -- but that John was more than fairly concerned about.
He returned to the living room to find Sherlock unsuccessfully attempting to stand up. "Oh, no you don't," he said, rushing over to steady him. "Where do you think you're going?"
"Bathroom," said Sherlock, pushing away from John and almost falling over in the process. "I need ... my bladder."
"Alright. Let me help." John hoisted one of Sherlock's arms over his shoulders. He quickly realized he wouldn't be getting very much help from Sherlock at all -- the man was basically dead weight, and he weighed a ton. "You barely even eat," complained John, wrapping his other arm around Sherlock's limp torso, "how can you possibly be this heavy?"
"S-s-sorry," slurred Sherlock, head bowed completely forward. John tugged at him, and together they managed to take about three steps forward before Sherlock somehow lost his footing and tumbled face down to the ground.
Immediately John was crouched at his flatmate's side. "Sherlock, can you hear me?" he said, trying to stay calm. "Are you conscious?" Sherlock groaned weakly in response, and John's hand darted out to check his pulse. "Sherlock, you need to get that alcohol out of your system before you sleep. Jesus. You're completely pissed."
Sherlock's arm flopped out to the right, and John tried to grab a hold of it to haul Sherlock upright again. Sherlock evaded his grasp, though, and it became clear to John that Sherlock was actually trying to bat him away.
"Leave me here," Sherlock said. "Go away ... leave me alone."
Of course Sherlock would have managed to be the most difficult drunk in existence. At least Harry could handle herself when she got to this point -- not that it was good that she had a contingency plan in place -- and John's role was mostly for the aftercare, stroking her hair while she sobbed on the bathroom floor.
"Sherlock, I am seriously starting to regret not going up those stairs," John grumbled. "Come on, work with me here."
Sherlock turned his head and looked straight at him. His eyes were still pretty unfocused, but when they landed on John he could see a shadow of their typical razor sharpness in their pale grey depths. "John," he said blearlily, eyes darting back toward the carpet and staying there. "Just go ... 'm fine, don't need ... don't need your help ... please."
If there had been a hard surface nearby John would have banged his head against it. "Like hell you don't," he said, and tried once more to get a hold of Sherlock, but he recoiled from John's hands. "I'm just trying to help you, Sherlock? What is wrong with you?" demanded John, irritated.
Sherlock just shook his head insistently, face beginning to turn red, and that's when John noticed the wet patch on the carpet that was spreading slowly outward from under where Sherlock was lying. John flushed with embarrassment when he figured out what was going on -- Sherlock had lost control of his bladder. No wonder Sherlock wanted John to leave him here. Sherlock was always so collected and elegant that it made sense that he would get so upset over this.
"Sherlock," he said. He tried to keep his voice gentle. "Come on. It's fine. Let me get you cleaned up."
"No, no," said Sherlock, face pressed into the carpet. "John, go away."
"Sherlock. It's not a big deal."
"I wet myself like a child," said Sherlock miserably. "It's -- it's undignified, it's humiliating."
John put a hand on his flatmate's shoulder. "I'm a doctor," he said. "I've seen far worse. You drank about five glasses of wine tonight, Sherlock. It's not something you could have controlled, and it's mostly water anyway. It's fine."
Sherlock didn't say anything for about two minutes, but then he turned his face back to the side and looked at John. His eyes were watery and he gave a very slight sniffle. But John honestly didn't mind too much. His irritation had been replaced by concern. It wasn't like Sherlock had thrown up like Harry once did all over his textbooks, and Sherlock was always doing all sorts of disgusting experiments around the flat anyway. As far as grossness level went, from a scale of one to ten, this hardly even registered.
"Do you think you can stand?" Sherlock nodded. "How's this," asked John. "I'll help you get to the loo, and then bring you some towels to clean up with. Is that okay?" Sherlock nodded again. "Okay, let's go."
It took about a full minute to get to the loo, mostly because Sherlock kept turning away from him to hide the soaked front of his slacks, which only ended up in them becoming uncoordinated. Finally John got Sherlock into the loo, where Sherlock slumped into the tub and seemed to pass out. John found a washcloth and ran it under the sink, leaving it on the corner of the counter, and went back out to the living room to gather up the rug. He tossed it in the washing machine, it probably wouldn't stain.
John was just debating what to do next when Sherlock's voice called out to him from the bathroom. "John," Sherlock was saying, "I need you, come back."
He returned to find Sherlock struggling with his slacks. "I can't get them open," he said, looking up at John in distress. His cheeks were scarlet with embarrassment. "Can you ...?"
John hesitated for only a few seconds. "Yeah, okay." He dropped down to a crouch and unfastened the button on Sherlock's slacks, and pulled down the zipper. "You want me to get these off you?" Sherlock nodded, not looking at him. John pulled the soaked slacks down Sherlock's long legs and set them carefully aside. "Can you do the rest yourself?"
Sherlock shivered, probably from the sensation of sitting on cold porcelain. Aside from lifting his feet, Sherlock hadn't moved an inch. His arms hung limply at his sides. He just kept his face turned away, but John could feel him tensing up despite the massive amounts of alcohol he'd drunk.
"This must be uncomfortable for you," said John. "I'll leave now, if you want, Sherlock, tell me what you want me to do."
Sherlock turned his head toward John but kept it bowed. John could see the tips of his ears, which were bright pink. "Can you ... will you help me with these?" he said.
"Of course," replied John. He reached for the elastic of Sherlock's underwear, trying to think of Sherlock as a patient and not as a friend or a flatmate, which helped a bit. Still, he had to look away to avoid staring as he pulled the cotton down over Sherlock's hips and legs, which was probably a futile gesture anyway, considering he was about to clean Sherlock up.
It was obvious Sherlock was embarrassed beyond belief, so John tried to keep it as clinical as he could. He got the washcloth from beside the sink and brought it over, swiping it briskly over Sherlock's hips and the tops of his thighs. As much as he wanted to linger, or to touch Sherlock's skin without the barrier of the cloth, he knew he couldn't let himself do that. Sherlock was drunk out of his mind right now, and John refused to take advantage of his current condition. And he was pretty sure Sherlock wasn't interested in him like that.
John rinsed out the washcloth, wetted it again, and brought it back. He stood for a moment beside the tub in hesitation. But there was no use in getting worked up about it, he'd already started the job and he had to finish it. Kneeling down again, he gently wiped down Sherlock's soft penis, lifting it with his other hand to clean underneath. Sherlock's eyes were closed and his eyebrows were drawn together like he didn't want to acknowledge that John was touching him in these private places. He looked completely miserable and John withdrew the wet cloth.
"Sherlock, it's alright," said John, throwing the doctor-patient barrier out the window and laying his right hand on the back of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock's head whipped around and he looked at John with surprise in his eyes. John rubbed his thumb over his spine. "Don't look so upset. I don't mind taking care of you. Not at all."
"That's not ... not what you said earlier," replied Sherlock.
"I was irritated earlier. I'm not anymore," John said. "All I want to do now is make sure you're okay."
Sherlock nodded, eyes wide. "Thank you," he said. "I'm -- I'm sorry, John ... I really am."
"Don't be sorry," said John. Apologies from Sherlock were rare and this situation didn't merit one. "And don't thank me, either. I'm not doing you a favor or something, I'm doing this because I care. And because I like you, more than I probably should." He smiled at Sherlock, trying to convey his affection.
Sherlock smiled back. "I feel the same way about you, John," he said, blushing, then he groaned. "The effects of alcohol are ... distasteful ... to say the least," he said. "Delete it, I never said it."
"I'm never deleting that," said John, trying not to laugh. The tension in the room had evaporated a little. "Let's finish up here and then get you to bed, is that still alright, or do you want to do it yourself?"
"You can do it," said Sherlock. "I ... I want you to do it."
John wet the washcloth another time, just to be sure. Urine was sterile, but nobody wanted it on their clothes or sheets, so a second run wouldn't hurt. This time when he went over Sherlock's skin with the cloth, he lingered for just a second more than was strictly clinical. His eyes kept flickering from Sherlock's hips and groin to his face and back, and this time, Sherlock looked almost relaxed about it.
John cleaned and dried Sherlock's skin reverently, wishing he could touch with his hands instead. He wasn't going to lie, he was a little bit turned on, but that would have to wait for another time, when Sherlock could voice without the shadow of a doubt that this was what he wanted. Finally he stood up, and said, "All done, you can get up now."
Sherlock's eyes opened and he looked at John with almost all traces of embarrassment gone from his face. "Thank you," he said, smiling faintly. He seemed a bit more sober than he had been before he'd gotten into the tub, though he wasn't completely yet. "Could you help me up?"
John reached over to help him stand up -- he looked a little silly in just a dress shirt and nothing else -- but Sherlock was pretty much still too drunk to stand, so John had a better idea. He took Sherlock's other arm and looped it around his neck, and then lifted his flatmate up into a wedding carry. Sherlock buried his face into John's jumper drowsily, and John carried him like that all the way to Sherlock's room.
Once there, he laid Sherlock gently down on the bed, and went through his wardrobe for underwear and pajama pants. He came back to the bed holding the clothes. Sherlock's eyes were closed but John knew what his breathing sounded like when he was asleep, so he simply nudged him to pay attention.
"Can't let you go to bed like that, you'll catch cold," John said. He slid the clean underwear up Sherlock's legs, the reverse of before, and then followed that up with a pair of striped pajama pants. Sherlock's duvet had been thrown over the edge of the bed, so John retrieved it and pulled it over him as well. Sherlock was such a child sometimes that maybe it should have felt paternal to tuck him into bed, but instead it just felt tender, the way he'd care for a girlfriend or boyfriend after a rough night.
John went to the bathroom and came back with a small bottle of pills. "I'm leaving some paracetamol here on the nightstand for when you wake up," he said.
"Thank you," was Sherlock's reply. He looked and sounded half-asleep.
"Don't thank me yet," said John. He brushed the hair away from Sherlock's forehead. "You'll have one hell of a hangover. I hope you got what you needed out of that experiment."
Sherlock's eyes opened fully. "The results were ... unexpected," he said finally, blushing a little. "But all things considered, I think I have enough now to draw a ... a conclusion."
"I hope so." John leaned down and lay a kiss on Sherlock's forehead. "Just try to rest."
Sherlock yawned. "Alright." He closed his eyes and seemed to pass out.
John turned the lights off and was almost out the door when he heard Sherlock speak again quietly.
"And maybe, maybe tomorrow, when I can think clearly ... you can help take my clothes off again? If that's fine with you?"
"I told you, Sherlock," John replied, smiling in the darkness, "it's all fine."