Chapter Text
Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock Holmes doesn't go out of his way to annoy people.
Usually.
Granted, rebuking Anderson is often too easy to deny himself the pleasure. He doesn't even have to think about it, these days. It's the same with Sally Donovan, although she often proves to be a tougher target. And Mycroft would probably swallow his smug tongue if Sherlock just went and accepted one of the cases he keeps throwing at his direction. So maybe it should be said that while he doesn't go out of his way to annoy people, he also doesn't go out of his way to avoid annoying people. In short, Sherlock Holmes doesn't change his ways because of other people.
But no, Sherlock certainly doesn't waste his valuable time coming up with ways to cause mayhem. After all, mayhem quite often takes care of itself without his active input, followed by murder and mystery with pleasing readiness. There are some who would disagree, however. His new flatmate is probably the first in line (well, after Sally and Anderson anyway).
He had decided he rather liked John Watson rapidly after gaining the man's acquaintance. John seems to be delightfully open-minded when it comes to Sherlock's choice of a lifestyle. He tolerates the experiments and downright delights in the cases. As a cherry on top of the already pleasing cake, he actively dislikes Mycroft. Truly, John Watson is a flatmate par excellence in Sherlock's quite learned opinion. However, John still has some shortcomings, such as his obsession with social mores.
Really, Sherlock didn't mean to cause a scene.
All he wanted to do was have a nice, hot shower. One would imagine that taking care of personal hygiene would be a positive aspect in the social psychology of sharing a flat, but John's huffing tells a different story. If the man's head gets any redder, Sherlock will be forced to drop his towel and measure his blood pressure. For science and the coming generations.
“Sherlock,” John sputters in a voice which is much shriller than one would expect from an ex-army captain. “Sherlock, what's that?”
Sherlock looks at where John is looking, which seems to be his own body. He frowns. While John is an idiot, this should be his area. This, he really should know, being a doctor and spending his time around half-naked people on a daily basis.
“It's my chest,” he hazards, and John stops gaping for a moment long enough to shake his head.
“No, not – that,” he says, and it sounds like he's burned his tongue on the coffee. “I meant that.” This time, the question is accompanied by a finger, shakily pointing somewhere lower.
“Oh,” Sherlock answers, the realisation finally dawning on him. “I didn't use yours, I know you're particular about those. It's one of Mrs Hudson's, don't worry.”
See, John? He refrains from saying. I know the flatmate code by now. I listened.
However, this reassurance doesn't seem to ease John's mind at all.
“A- a towel,” he says, rather lamely in Sherlock's opinion. Of course it's a towel.
“Of course it's a towel,” he repeats aloud, “I just took a shower. What do you expect me to do, roll myself dry on the carpet?”
“A hand towel,” John ignores the barb, his voice faint. “Around your – your – ”
“Hips,” Sherlock agrees, tiring of this conversation. “What's the matter with that?”
“It's so – small,” says John, eyes briefly boring into Sherlock's midsection. “I didn't expect that.”
“Well, all the bigger towels are still dirty after someone poured acid over them. I'm assuming we are still talking about towels.”
“Flatmate rule number one, label your poisons,” John answers even while his ears turn a charming red colour. “How was I supposed to know you had reappropriated all our – no, we aren't going there now. A hand towel, Sherlock. It's not exactly a bathrobe.”
“All my dressing gowns are in my bedroom,” Sherlock replies, holding the towel closed with one hand.
“And yet you're in the kitchen,” John muses. “Clad in a fancy floral hand towel. How reassuring.”
“The door to my bedroom is blocked,” Sherlock reminds him. “You said you'd help me push the bed back to its own place. Until that is accomplished I'll have to walk through the kitchen. I fail to see what's the problem here, unless it's the print you're protesting to. In which case, you can take your objections downstairs. It's Mrs Hudson's, after all.”
“I'm objecting to you,” John mutters, stabbing a finger at his direction again. “Naked. In the kitchen. Never mind the pansies.”
“I’m not naked!” Sherlock twirls around, just to demonstrate his point. All the societally frowned-upon places are covered. Mostly.
John is licking his lips, a nervous tick. Really, why does the man work himself so tight over something as insignificant as this?
“But couldn’t you find anything larger? That thing barely covers your - your - bits.”
Oh. Of course. It's that thing again. Sherlock sniffs. John really should know better by now. The flatmate code does extend to both directions, after all. If he's supposed to make amends, then John must be reasonable, too.
“Bits, John? Is that what this is all about? Can’t a doctor be a bit more specific?”
“Um,” says John, folding the napkin into a little triangle, then a square. Avoidance tactics for toddlers, how pathetic. Sherlock straightens his back, fights the urge to drop the towel just to get a reaction out of the infuriating man. John must see his grip getting laxer, because the next thing Sherlock knows is cold blue eyes pinning him into place.
“Fine,” says John, in a completely different voice, and it’s an answer to an unvoiced challenge. “Specifics.”
His eyes travel slowly down Sherlock’s chest, taking in all the available information. For the first time since stepping into the kitchen, Sherlock feels underdressed. It’s not a nice feeling. He savours it.
John hasn’t moved from his spot by the table, but Sherlock can still feel his gaze on his body as if it was a physical thing. John is looking at the towel. No, John is assessing the towel. It is, in fact, quite a skimpy one now that Sherlock thinks about it. John’s eyes narrow and Sherlock has to fight to keep standing still, to not fidget on his feet.
“Testicles,” his flatmate recites, voice professional, detached. “Penis.”
He raises his eyes, leaving imagined white-hot tracks on Sherlock’s exposed belly, over his ribs. This was a stupid idea. Whose idea was this?
“Nipples,” John continues. “Cold, are you?”
What an absurd allegation! His skin is still warm after the shower and anyway, it’s an August evening. Of course Sherlock isn’t cold. He opens his mouth to inform John about these facts when he happens to glance down.
Oh.
Okay.
“Yes,” he decides. “Yes I am. I’ll just go and put something on.”
“Also, please eat something today,” John calls after his hastily retreating back. “You look like you've been starved.”