Ho-hum, another addition to my Holmesian collection of fics--"Spring Cleaning". I was thinking about Sherlock's love of hygiene--this is, of course, referencing to the ORIGINAL Sherlock Holmes, not RDJ--and I thought that he might do something like this. This fic is a bit more, er, racy than my others, so prepare yourself. Nothing a teenager couldn't read, though. It does, however, feature a rather frisky Dr. Watson. This should please some of you who tire of Sherlock always being the instigator. Hehehehe.

Disclaimer: Do not own. Is sad.

Spring Cleaning

There are few things in this world that please me more than the coming of spring to the English countryside. As a youth, I would trudge morosely through the long and dreary winter, waiting impatiently for the day when the first sleepy crocus poked his head out of the snow, heralding the happy season's arrival. Even in the arid deserts of Afghanistan, where little life could be found save for the occasional lounging lizard, there was evidence that something was stirring in those dry sands, some magical spark of life that worked its way into the hearts of my brothers-in-arms. However, to my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, the arrival of spring meant something completely different: a perennial cleaning frenzy that is known commonly today as "spring cleaning".

Despite my dear friend's love of personal hygiene, his busy schedule and habit of multi-tasking made it quite difficult to give his surroundings the same amount of devotion that he gave himself. As he flitted from one case to another, his notes and dossiers were lain upon any flat surface he encountered and forgotten. Books migrated from their shelves on to the settee or in small stacks here and there, chemicals used in his personal experiments and cases alike spilled onto the tables and dried, and at times his rush to prepare for a meeting or disguise himself for an undercover investigation required hasty changing, the aftermath of which left his waistcoats and trousers strewn all over creation. His perpetual condition of strenuous activity left him no time to effectively tidy up after himself, and on those rare occasions when he had some time to himself, he spent it like any other hard-working man would: in well-earned relaxation, drug-induced or otherwise. Therefore, it was this particular time of year—specifically the first week of April—that he set aside to personally chip away at the pit of refuse that had enveloped his rooms.

The whole affair was really quite amusing to watch. On the morning of the first day he would rise obscenely early—a good two hours before sunrise—and gather up his materials. Generally this consisted of a much-used broom and mop stolen from Mrs. Hudson's utility closet, a bucket of strong bleach water or something of similar effect, a variety of dusting cloths and scrub-brushes, and several bottles of wood polish and the like for the furniture. Having successfully procured those items, it was not long before the rest of the household woke to the sound of his desks and chairs being violently shoved about as he prepared to begin his work. By breakfast, he was usually quite disheveled, his brow sweaty and his sleeves rolled up to his knobby elbows. Mrs. Hudson refused to allow him access to the table until all of the cleaning chemicals were washed from his hands and they were successfully cleared by the selfsame madame of the house. In a flash, he would devour his porridge or a few slices of toast and jam before rushing back upstairs to continue his work. As the week progressed the strident noises from the second floor would settle to an occasional thud here and there, and it was from this stage of his labours that I was observing the account that you read now.

I had not seen hide nor hair of Holmes since lunch the afternoon before, and his enthusiasm had, if anything, grown since beginning his personal crusade against filth. While wolfing down his boiled potatoes at dinner, he detailed his accomplishments with aplomb, as if it were a vile criminal that he had banished to the gallows, rather than a few dust bunnies. I could not help but smile at his endearing vivacity, in spite of myself. As he shoved himself full of food like a starving man (while shockingly managing to maintain some sense of his table manners), Mrs. Hudson entered the conversation, stirring her tea.

"Inspector Lestrade is quite curious as to when you shall be returning to your typical exploits, Mr. Holmes. He is rather adamant-- visited thrice in two days!" I nodded sagely and cut myself a slice of bread. She was trying to sound completely impartial to all that was occurring around her, but I knew her too well. If someone other than herself took up the burden of cleaning up the flat, she was ecstatic.

"A good thing, is it not, Holmes? You will be able to jump right back into things." I pointed at him with my butter knife before applying it to the aforementioned dairy product that rested on a saucer before me. Holmes' expression was that of resigned irritation, like a mother who had grown used to her child pulling on her apron strings at all hours of the day.

"Well, Lestrade can wait." My friend answered after washing down a rather large mouthful with a gulp of wine. "He knows my habits; I have operated in this fashion since I made his acquaintance." With that, he quickly excused himself and barreled up the stairs again, resuming his work. Chuckling to myself, I assisted Mrs. Hudson into the kitchen with the soiled dishes before following suit.

It was a furtive pleasure of mine to peek into Holmes' room while he was in this cleaning fury. The transformation was really quite remarkable, even in its progressive stages, and when one who did not observe the process of his onslaught saw the results, one might have thought that a spell had been cast over it. Normally, the room was strictly off-limits to anyone while Holmes was working, even Mrs. Hudson, who had to go to the extent of leaving the tea outside his door when she brought it up. In order to keep my visits a secret to Holmes, I would play it safe, creeping inside when I was sure that Holmes was eating his meals and take a clandestine look at his advancement in the war against rubbish. This time, though, I wanted to see the man in action; I figured that the most that I would get as punishment was a harsh look and a brutish sneer. Carefully, I opened the door without a sound, suppressing a childish giggle as I tiptoed inside like a boy sneaking a peek at a secret gift. What I did find nearly made me lose my breath.

Holmes had stripped himself of his shirt completely, favouring bare skin in the heat coming in from the large bay window overlooking the street. Although he had his back to me, my eyes shamefully ravished the sight of his naked flesh nonetheless. Beneath the damp locks of his hair stretched the pale column of his neck, which inevitably led my gaze to a beautifully sculpted pair of shoulders and back, all of which gleamed with the finest sheen of sweat. The muscles beneath his white skin pulsed and flexed as he scrubbed the patch of floor that was currently lucky enough to be the recipient of his full attention. I felt my face flush with arousal that I tried to stifle, but when his trousers slid just low enough to expose the small of his back, I knew that any other efforts forthwith would be in vain.

Suddenly, Holmes paused and his dark eyes flitted in my general direction for a fraction of a second. I could not tell from his facial expression if he had noticed me, but I gave no indication that I had seen him glance at the door, staying completely still and silent. His next move, however, told me all that I needed to know. He soon resumed his cleaning innocently enough, but rather than continue his frenzied scrubbing of the floorboards, he slowly and methodically ran the scrub brush over the wooden panels, extending his arm to its full length and pulling it back to its origin; back and forth, back and forth. A devilish smirk played across his lips as he proceeded to get on his knees, stretching his body like a cat's to clean another spot on the floor, rather than move closer to aid himself. I could see his abdominal muscles ripple with every stroke, and my loins began to burn with a heat as intense as that in my cheeks. Good God, what torture one man could wreak with a simple tool!

"Care to join me, Watson?" Finally he acknowledged my presence, ever-so-slightly bucking his hips as he strained to reach a dry section of the floor. I could bear it no longer; casting my coat onto the bed and rolling up my sleeves I took Holmes' invitation, kneeling into a puddle of soapy water and pressing him down into it, taking in his eyes, his smile: an expression which to me exuded nothing but pure sex appeal. "My goodness, Doctor," he purred as he writhed beneath me, the suds on the floor clinging to his sweaty alabaster skin. "I had no idea that you had such enthusiasm for cleaning house." Grinning like a madman, I grabbed his wrists and held them firmly to the soapy floor, leaning down and taking his mouth with mine. His lips were still saturated with the taste of the wine from dinner, and the effect that it had on me was more intoxicating than any amount of alcohol could ever be. Pulling away reluctantly, I addressed his claim.

"I am afraid, my dear Holmes, that you are quite in the wrong in that respect." A raised eyebrow questioned my opposition. Trailing my moistnened lips down his long neck, I felt his damp body press against mine urgently, a soft moan deliciously reaching my ears. "Rather, I enjoy getting things dirty, Sherlock." With that, I took my hands from his wrists to occupy them with another, far more interesting region of his anatomy.

I do not believe that it is necessary to inform any remaining readers that not much cleaning was accomplished that day.

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