Sherlock Fanfic: Advanced Strategies in Thermal Regulation (JWP 2016 #28)
Title: Advanced Strategies in Thermal Regulation
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Alternate Postings: AO3
Rating/Content: PG13, silliness, insomnia, heat,
Warnings: none
Word Count: 680
Disclaimer: Not my world.
Notes: Written for watsons_woes July Writing Prompt #28: Musical Quote: "In July the sun is hot; is it shining? No it's not." Well, I've gone pretty much 180° from the prompt since I couldn't see the video and apparently only the first part of the prompt took hold, and then stalled immediately. I blame the weather.
Summary: A heatwave in London is a damp, heavy, grimy thing, like a giant washing-up sponge pressing down on the city.
Advanced Strategies in Thermal Regulation
A heatwave in London is a damp, heavy, grimy thing, like a giant washing-up sponge pressing down on the city, and the latest was a prime example.
John's attic bedroom was constantly stifling, no matter how diligently he tried to keep it ventilated and cool, and it was impossible to sleep. On the better days it cooled enough for him to drowse by around 3AM, only to be woken by the first firey rays of dawn creeping past the curtains after a few scant hours.
Tonight was the most miserable yet. The heat and humidity had conspired to make the top floor bedroom into a sauna. The small fan John had in the window for breeze had packed it in yesterday. He'd not had proper sleep for most of a week, and none at all tonight. When he'd last looked, it had been quarter after two. He didn't want to look now.
No point in laying here trying, John thought eventually, as though through treacle. Go down, take a cool shower, might help. Can't hurt.
John shuffled down from his suffocating bedroom and past the kitchen, on the way to a cooling shower that he prayed would help him get some sleep, he discovered his heatwave-induced insomnia had progressed to hallucinations.
It was subtle, though, not things jumping out at him. He'd shuffled past the kitchen on his way to the bathroom, glanced at Sherlock sitting at a table full of chemicals and beakers, wearing pants and the deerstalker and nothing else. He'd grunted acknowledgement of his flatmate's existence and conscious state and carried on a few steps before the penny dropped.
John stopped. Turned and shuffled back to the kitchen. Sherlock, in his pants and deerstalker. Hunh.
Too hot to think of words. Words would make him wake up more. He didn't want to use words. He should just go take that shower and go back up to his oven bedroom, or maybe kip on the sofa. Yes. But Sherlock was sitting in the kitchen in only his pants and deerstalker. Real or hallucination? It demanded a query.
John squinted at his flatmate. "Sherlock? Hat?"
"Well observed, John," Sherlock said, mouth quirking as he swished something blueish in an Erlenmeyer flask.
He spoke. Real then. John grunted and carried on another few steps toward the promise of a cool shower, but sighed, stopped and turned around. "You hate the hat."
"Also well observed."
John shuffled back to stand in front of Sherlock. "Heat driven you mad too?"
"Many would say the heat is a bit late off the starting line for that in my case." Sherlock smirked at John.
John frowned, his tensing forehead muscles spiking his latent heat headache. This would need a lot more words. It was either too early or too late for his sense of reality to be challenged. John leaned on the table. "You only wear the hat if forced to for the press. No press in here. You're wearing almost nothing else, and I'm certain you know that covering your head is a fantastic way to retain body heat, not lose it."
"Indeed it is."
John watched a trickle of moisture slide down Sherlock's temple and pointed. "I can see you sweating."
"Can you really," Sherlock stated with mild amusement.
"So... Why are you wearing the hat?"
"I'm sure you can deduce it, doctor." Sherlock grinned, and in one smooth motion removed the hat and flung it at John.
It being arse o'clock in the morning after a week of no sleep, John's reflexes were crap and the deerstalker caught him square in the chest with a wet splack.
After a brief cringe of 'oh god, is that sweat?' John grabbed the hat and held it out in front of him. It dripped. Ohhh.
"You soaked the hat in cold water?"
"And put it in the freezer for an hour," Sherlock said, sailing past John toward the loo. "Melted now though. Stick it back in the freezer would you? I'll be taking a cool bath."
Wait, there was something I was doing, I was going to- "But-!"
The bathroom door closed and locked, leaving John showerless and holding the wet hat.
-.-.-
(that's it)
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Alternate Postings: AO3
Rating/Content: PG13, silliness, insomnia, heat,
Warnings: none
Word Count: 680
Disclaimer: Not my world.
Notes: Written for watsons_woes July Writing Prompt #28: Musical Quote: "In July the sun is hot; is it shining? No it's not." Well, I've gone pretty much 180° from the prompt since I couldn't see the video and apparently only the first part of the prompt took hold, and then stalled immediately. I blame the weather.
Summary: A heatwave in London is a damp, heavy, grimy thing, like a giant washing-up sponge pressing down on the city.
Advanced Strategies in Thermal Regulation
A heatwave in London is a damp, heavy, grimy thing, like a giant washing-up sponge pressing down on the city, and the latest was a prime example.
John's attic bedroom was constantly stifling, no matter how diligently he tried to keep it ventilated and cool, and it was impossible to sleep. On the better days it cooled enough for him to drowse by around 3AM, only to be woken by the first firey rays of dawn creeping past the curtains after a few scant hours.
Tonight was the most miserable yet. The heat and humidity had conspired to make the top floor bedroom into a sauna. The small fan John had in the window for breeze had packed it in yesterday. He'd not had proper sleep for most of a week, and none at all tonight. When he'd last looked, it had been quarter after two. He didn't want to look now.
No point in laying here trying, John thought eventually, as though through treacle. Go down, take a cool shower, might help. Can't hurt.
John shuffled down from his suffocating bedroom and past the kitchen, on the way to a cooling shower that he prayed would help him get some sleep, he discovered his heatwave-induced insomnia had progressed to hallucinations.
It was subtle, though, not things jumping out at him. He'd shuffled past the kitchen on his way to the bathroom, glanced at Sherlock sitting at a table full of chemicals and beakers, wearing pants and the deerstalker and nothing else. He'd grunted acknowledgement of his flatmate's existence and conscious state and carried on a few steps before the penny dropped.
John stopped. Turned and shuffled back to the kitchen. Sherlock, in his pants and deerstalker. Hunh.
Too hot to think of words. Words would make him wake up more. He didn't want to use words. He should just go take that shower and go back up to his oven bedroom, or maybe kip on the sofa. Yes. But Sherlock was sitting in the kitchen in only his pants and deerstalker. Real or hallucination? It demanded a query.
John squinted at his flatmate. "Sherlock? Hat?"
"Well observed, John," Sherlock said, mouth quirking as he swished something blueish in an Erlenmeyer flask.
He spoke. Real then. John grunted and carried on another few steps toward the promise of a cool shower, but sighed, stopped and turned around. "You hate the hat."
"Also well observed."
John shuffled back to stand in front of Sherlock. "Heat driven you mad too?"
"Many would say the heat is a bit late off the starting line for that in my case." Sherlock smirked at John.
John frowned, his tensing forehead muscles spiking his latent heat headache. This would need a lot more words. It was either too early or too late for his sense of reality to be challenged. John leaned on the table. "You only wear the hat if forced to for the press. No press in here. You're wearing almost nothing else, and I'm certain you know that covering your head is a fantastic way to retain body heat, not lose it."
"Indeed it is."
John watched a trickle of moisture slide down Sherlock's temple and pointed. "I can see you sweating."
"Can you really," Sherlock stated with mild amusement.
"So... Why are you wearing the hat?"
"I'm sure you can deduce it, doctor." Sherlock grinned, and in one smooth motion removed the hat and flung it at John.
It being arse o'clock in the morning after a week of no sleep, John's reflexes were crap and the deerstalker caught him square in the chest with a wet splack.
After a brief cringe of 'oh god, is that sweat?' John grabbed the hat and held it out in front of him. It dripped. Ohhh.
"You soaked the hat in cold water?"
"And put it in the freezer for an hour," Sherlock said, sailing past John toward the loo. "Melted now though. Stick it back in the freezer would you? I'll be taking a cool bath."
Wait, there was something I was doing, I was going to- "But-!"
The bathroom door closed and locked, leaving John showerless and holding the wet hat.
-.-.-
(that's it)