Oblivious 3/? 750 words
Fill #2 for this prompt: SHerlock Holmes is SO IN LOVE, that he won't let John alone. (You know. 'Where are you?' texts when he leaves the room for 5 minutes, following him into the bathroom, standing right behind him in the kitchen, and so on.) John is annoyed, but secretly he adores the attention.
Found HERE
Previous Chapter
"Sherlock!'
"I'm doing an experiment on how well toe nails react to acid," he states, foot up on the sink. He hunches over it and proceeds to loudly clip the nails in defiance, even as John glares angrily at him from the shower.
"I'm naked, you twat!"
Sherlock glances at him, disinterestedly. "Hm, I suppose you have to be in that state to take a shower, yes." He turns away, busily clipping away. "Unimportant."
John flushes, and yanks the curtain back closed, muttering under his breath.
"Absolutely no sense of privacy, lunatic, needs to see a shrink..." He roughly scrubs the loofah up and down his arms, scraping them with shampoo until they turn red and working himself into a lather.
In more ways than one.
"You'd be better off using body wash, you know. Shampoo isn't meant for that."
"Aargh!"
John reals back from Sherlock's face peering around the curtain and slips on the, obviously, wet tub. He smacks his head against the wall, vision bursting into light and then darkness, and falls into the slippery tub.
He lays, collapsed, at the bottom, groaning.
"Are you all right, John?"
Dizziness. Check. Flux in emotions. Check. Equilibrium. Inconclusive from sitting position. Desire to strangle Sherlock. Check.
"Get out of the loo."
"Here, let me turn off the faucet..."
"Excuse me," John raises his voice. "I told you to get out of the loo."
"Yes, yes." Sherlock waves an impatient hand, ducking around the spray to fiddle with the shower knobs. "I heard you quite clearly, thank you."
"Then why aren't you listening?" John demands.
Great. Straight from frustration, to petulance. What's next, tears?
"You've got a concussion, haven't you?"
"Who's the doctor of the two of us?"
"Do you really want me to listen to you? Because if you do, I'll leave in a heartbeat."
John says not a word, looking away and trying to beat back the flush trying to creep up his neck. He blames it on the steam from the shower. The shower that is no longer on....but that's beside the point.
Sherlock tsks. "Yes, that's what I thought."
Briskly, he whips the curtains to the side, snags the towel off the rack, and crouches near the floor.
"Let's test your responses," he offers civilly, as though John isn't sprawled naked in the shower and Sherlock isn't gazing at him raptly.
John heaves a sigh, "If you insist."
"Oh yes, I do."
A penlight comes from seemingly nowhere, and blinds John for a second. Tracking is difficult, and he takes from the frown-lines around Sherlock's eyes that he's a tad worried.
Sherlock. Worried.
John mentally shakes his head, knowing that to do so literally is probably not a good idea. What a thought, Sherlock. Worried. Hm.
The penlight snaps off, and disappears into...wherever it came from, and the questions begin.
"Five and twenty?"
"Addition or multiplication?"
"The Prime Minister?"
"You don't even know who that is!"
"It's the principle."
"You never follow those," John accuses.
"Quite right," Sherlock nods in agreement. "Your full name?"
"John H. Watson."
"What's your middle name stand for?"
"Bugger off."
"That sounds about right," Then he stoops forward and tucks the towel around John. "Let's get you up then, John."
It takes a bit of effort, but for such a willowy man, Sherlock is surprisingly strong and manages to wrangle John out of the tub. The doctor can feel the warmth of the detective through the thin, and quickly dampening towel, and tries to ignore it.
"If you hadn't barged into the loo, this wouldn't have happened," John whines, depressed, as Sherlock maneuvers John towards his room.
If he notices the flip in emotions, he either silently marks it down on his checklist for concussions, or ignores it.
"On the contrary, my good doctor," he corrects. "If I hadn't have been there, you would have fallen, been too stubborn to call out, and laid there until the water chilled you to hypothermia."
"Are you saying that you barged into the loo because you supposed that I would fall and concuss myself?" John demands.
"We'll have to ask Mrs. Hudson for a bathmat," Sherlock replies loftily. "You repeated the same phrase twice, I'll have you know."
"I'm concussed," John grumbles. "I'm not in my right mind."
"Yes, I have noticed." Sherlock tucks him closer. "But you're doing just fine, old chap."
"I hate you," John replies.
John can here Sherlock smile toothily. "No, I don't think you do."
John harumphs.
"I hate you too, John." Next Chapter
Found HERE
Previous Chapter
"Sherlock!'
"I'm doing an experiment on how well toe nails react to acid," he states, foot up on the sink. He hunches over it and proceeds to loudly clip the nails in defiance, even as John glares angrily at him from the shower.
"I'm naked, you twat!"
Sherlock glances at him, disinterestedly. "Hm, I suppose you have to be in that state to take a shower, yes." He turns away, busily clipping away. "Unimportant."
John flushes, and yanks the curtain back closed, muttering under his breath.
"Absolutely no sense of privacy, lunatic, needs to see a shrink..." He roughly scrubs the loofah up and down his arms, scraping them with shampoo until they turn red and working himself into a lather.
In more ways than one.
"You'd be better off using body wash, you know. Shampoo isn't meant for that."
"Aargh!"
John reals back from Sherlock's face peering around the curtain and slips on the, obviously, wet tub. He smacks his head against the wall, vision bursting into light and then darkness, and falls into the slippery tub.
He lays, collapsed, at the bottom, groaning.
"Are you all right, John?"
Dizziness. Check. Flux in emotions. Check. Equilibrium. Inconclusive from sitting position. Desire to strangle Sherlock. Check.
"Get out of the loo."
"Here, let me turn off the faucet..."
"Excuse me," John raises his voice. "I told you to get out of the loo."
"Yes, yes." Sherlock waves an impatient hand, ducking around the spray to fiddle with the shower knobs. "I heard you quite clearly, thank you."
"Then why aren't you listening?" John demands.
Great. Straight from frustration, to petulance. What's next, tears?
"You've got a concussion, haven't you?"
"Who's the doctor of the two of us?"
"Do you really want me to listen to you? Because if you do, I'll leave in a heartbeat."
John says not a word, looking away and trying to beat back the flush trying to creep up his neck. He blames it on the steam from the shower. The shower that is no longer on....but that's beside the point.
Sherlock tsks. "Yes, that's what I thought."
Briskly, he whips the curtains to the side, snags the towel off the rack, and crouches near the floor.
"Let's test your responses," he offers civilly, as though John isn't sprawled naked in the shower and Sherlock isn't gazing at him raptly.
John heaves a sigh, "If you insist."
"Oh yes, I do."
A penlight comes from seemingly nowhere, and blinds John for a second. Tracking is difficult, and he takes from the frown-lines around Sherlock's eyes that he's a tad worried.
Sherlock. Worried.
John mentally shakes his head, knowing that to do so literally is probably not a good idea. What a thought, Sherlock. Worried. Hm.
The penlight snaps off, and disappears into...wherever it came from, and the questions begin.
"Five and twenty?"
"Addition or multiplication?"
"The Prime Minister?"
"You don't even know who that is!"
"It's the principle."
"You never follow those," John accuses.
"Quite right," Sherlock nods in agreement. "Your full name?"
"John H. Watson."
"What's your middle name stand for?"
"Bugger off."
"That sounds about right," Then he stoops forward and tucks the towel around John. "Let's get you up then, John."
It takes a bit of effort, but for such a willowy man, Sherlock is surprisingly strong and manages to wrangle John out of the tub. The doctor can feel the warmth of the detective through the thin, and quickly dampening towel, and tries to ignore it.
"If you hadn't barged into the loo, this wouldn't have happened," John whines, depressed, as Sherlock maneuvers John towards his room.
If he notices the flip in emotions, he either silently marks it down on his checklist for concussions, or ignores it.
"On the contrary, my good doctor," he corrects. "If I hadn't have been there, you would have fallen, been too stubborn to call out, and laid there until the water chilled you to hypothermia."
"Are you saying that you barged into the loo because you supposed that I would fall and concuss myself?" John demands.
"We'll have to ask Mrs. Hudson for a bathmat," Sherlock replies loftily. "You repeated the same phrase twice, I'll have you know."
"I'm concussed," John grumbles. "I'm not in my right mind."
"Yes, I have noticed." Sherlock tucks him closer. "But you're doing just fine, old chap."
"I hate you," John replies.
John can here Sherlock smile toothily. "No, I don't think you do."
John harumphs.
"I hate you too, John." Next Chapter