Naked

-x-

One

-x-

The latch on the bathroom door wasn't very good. John had known that from the start.

'The latch on the bathroom door isn't very good,' Sherlock had called up to him the night he'd moved in, 'but I usually sing when I'm on the toilet anyway, I can't go if I think someone's listening.'

'Won't come in if I hear you singing,' John had called back, unpacking his toothbrush. 'Gotcha.'

'Or you could just knock,' Sherlock had shouted back.

'They don't cost much,' John had replied, noting that there was no lock whatsoever on his bedroom door. 'I'll get a new one from B&Q tomorrow.' and another one for my room, he added, internally.

'Or you could just knock,' Sherlock had repeated.

He didn't get round to going to B&Q the next day. Or the next, or the next, or ever, in fact. It wasn't exactly difficult remembering to knock if the bathroom door was shut. And anyway, Sherlock had a rather nice singing voice.

-x-

It certainly wasn't difficult to remember to knock, but Sherlock did rather have a knack for forgetting the simple things, and knocking was, when he was distracted by something else, one of those things.

The first time, it really did just seem like an accident. John was just getting out of the shower one morning when Sherlock burst in to the bathroom, muttering to himself, and pulled open the medicine cabinet. He didn't even look up – not even when John almost slipped over in surprise and wrenched the flimsy shower curtain off two of its rungs.

'Sherlock, what are you doing?'

'Paracetamol,' Sherlock barked. 'Where is it?'

Drawer under the kitchen sink,' John replied, trying to cover his modesty with the shower curtain, before noting that the translucent plastic sheet still revealed his genitals, only squashed grotesquely against it and coloured a particularly vile shade of green.

'How much?'

'It's a new pack, there's plenty. You got a headache?'

'Not a headache, John. The case.' Sherlock finally looked across at John, meeting his eyes straight away, as if there was nothing in the slightest bit abnormal about John's see-through shower curtain ensemble. 'He put paracetamol in her coffee. A full pack – what is that – 12? 16? I need 40.'

'You are not taking 40 paracetamol, Sherlock. That'll only cure a headache in the sense that dead people don't get headaches.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Yes, I was aware of that, John. Ha!' He retrieved an old bottle of paracetamol tablets from the back of the medicine cupboard. About 30 pills rattled around in it. 'That'll make up the numbers.'

And with that, he turned on his heels and left the bathroom.

'Oh no you don't,' cried John, throwing a towel around himself and wondering if he'd started saying 'oh no you don't' often enough for it to have become a catchphrase of sorts, and running downstairs damply to wrestle a cup of coffee with dozens of paracetamol tablets ground into it from a madman who insisted he wasn't going to drink it all, he only wanted to have a sip to find out what it tasted like.

-x-

Sherlock walked in on John in the shower twice during the following month. They weren't even emergencies. Once it was to ask him if there were any more used tin cans lying around besides the ones he could find in the recycling bin (there weren't) and once to ask if a mole on the nape of his neck 'looked suspicious' (it didn't). Both times, Sherlock appeared not to take any notice of John's state of undress, but still, John began to wonder if his flatmate was doing it on purpose. After the third time, John wrote a note to himself as a reminder to go to B&Q and get those new locks. Only, half way through John's shift at the clinic that day, Sherlock texted him to let him know he was on another case – a big one – and could John meet him straight after work at Earl's Court tube station and he'd better bring his gun and Wellington boots and a coffee for Sherlock because he was parched, so John didn't get time to go to the hardware shop after all. They finally got back to the flat around 48 hours later – John smelling pretty bad but Sherlock, who had crawled through 20 metres of sewer with an honest to God crocodile snapping at his heels, smelling far, far worse. John found something edible to sling in the microwave and ordered his friend to take a shower. Sherlock only had strength, it seemed, to argue briefly before trudging upstairs. John shook his head to himself as he heard the bath being run instead of the overhead shower.

'You'll be sitting in a bath of your own filth instead of sending it straight down the drain,' he muttered quietly, knowing full bloody well that, even if Sherlock could hear him, he wouldn't listen. 'But, no. You can never follow a piece of advice to the letter, can you?' He switched the kettle on. 'Always got to rebel over something, no matter how tiny. You great, lanky, overgrown toddler.'

He stood and watched the kettle and the microwave as the taps in the bathroom upstairs fell silent.

'I'm going to microwave some of that creamed spinach to go with the Stroganoff,' he called up. 'Did you want some, or are you going to finish off the grapes?'

No answer.

'No excuses,' added John, 'you've been living off coffee and sugar for the last three days. You are eating one of your supposed "five a day" tonight. No flatmate of mine is getting scurvy.' He paused. 'Again.'

There was still no answer. The kettle came to a rolling boil, and switched itself off.

'Cuppa?' called John.

Again, no answer from upstairs. John stood at the bottom of the stairs and frowned. He didn't need to worry about Sherlock having fallen asleep up there – there were plenty of splashing noises coming from the tub… probably more splashing than was necessary, in fact.

'Sherlock?'

There was an odd grunt from upstairs – a muffled noise of concerted effort, followed by a waterlogged gasp. The first noise didn't sound like Sherlock. The second undoubtedly did.

'Sherlock!'

John broke into a sprint up the stairs and shoulder barged the bathroom door rather too hard – Sherlock hadn't even bothered trying to lock it.

Sherlock was in the bath… well – Sherlock was mostly in the bath. His arms and legs flailed wetly, uselessly, against the balaclava clad man that had climbed into the bathroom through the window and was now holding the detective's head under the bath water. John reached out for the nearest heavy object to hand, and smashed the intruder over the head with it. The man in the balaclava slumped forwards, dazed, and Sherlock was able to struggle out from under his weakened grip. John grabbed the stranger's handgun from its holster and turned it on him levelly as Sherlock clung to the edge of the tub, spluttering up bathwater.

'Who are you?' John demanded. 'Who sent you?'

'He's with the Paynton Gang,' Sherlock told him with a cough. 'Look at the belt.'

'But they were arrested months ago,' replied John.

'The ringleaders were. Many of the foot soldiers still operate. I suspect that tonight's little visit was because of the fact I'm due to bring evidence against the gang's leaders in three days time.' Sherlock glanced across at the intruder.

'You testify against them, and you're dead.' The stranger was already backing himself towards the bathroom window.

'You come back here, and you're dead,' John told the man. 'You won't get chance to explain yourself again.'

The man made no further attempt to engage with either of them – his message delivered, he slithered back out of the bathroom window and began to swiftly clamber down to the yard below.

Only with the intruder gone did John dare let his attention slide to the state of the room about him. The horrible green shower curtain was completely ruined, now – Sherlock had pulled it half off its rail as the struggle had begun. Sherlock was still hanging on to the lip of the bath, coughing up water, his wet hair plastered over his face. John was still too pumped with adrenaline to pay too much attention to the fact that Sherlock was naked. All he really noted was that, devoid of clothes, Sherlock looked even skinnier. He looked like a cat that had been partially shaved and then flung into a river. There was one thing that did particularly catch his attention, though. He stooped to pick up the blunt object that he had hit the intruder with, and sighed, disappointedly.

'An ashtray?'

'I already smelled appalling. I thought I could safely sneak a quick ciggie without you detecting it.'

'But you've been doing so well! These things will kill you.'

'Actually, they probably just saved my life. Had I not been resting a glass ashtray on the bath, there would have been nothing between you and he heavy enough to stop him drowning me in time.'

'Cigarettes did not just save your life, Sherlock. I did. Again. And I didn't go to all that trouble to see you dying of lung cancer in a few years' time.' He picked up the packet of cigarettes next to the bath and put them in the ashtray.

'You're not throwing them out…'

'Yes, I am. Because you told me to do exactly that if I caught you smoking, only two weeks ago.'

'Damn,' muttered Sherlock, under his breath.

Downstairs, the microwave pinged.

'I'm going to heat up that creamed spinach with the…'

'Yes, Sherlock snapped, 'I heard you the first time.'

-x-

John didn't just happen to see Sherlock naked less than a week later – it was John who stripped him, only Sherlock was in so much trouble again that John really didn't think about the intimacy issues at the time.

They were on another case, despite Sherlock steadily looking sicker and sicker over the previous 48 hours. John had watched, and worried, and voiced concern that Sherlock had brushed off. When the call came in from Lestrade, John hoped that the promise of a new case would revive Sherlock. It didn't. Sherlock teetered around the crime scene like a tipsy ghost.

'You're not serious,' said Lestrade after a few minutes of watching him.

'Hmm?' was Sherlock's only reply.

'You look like death… not even warmed up. Death, partially reheated then left in the sun to fester.'

'He's right,' John added, glad of a second voice to say what he'd been saying for the last two days, as well as rather embarrassed at being the doctor who'd allowed his friend to try to work in such a state. 'Maybe you should rest up.'

'I've been "resting up" all week!' Sherlock shook his head. 'Really. I'm fine. Never felt better.'

Lestrade nodded to himself, then got out his mobile. Sherlock turned to him suspiciously.

'What are you doing?'

'Getting you an ambulance.'

'But I just said…'

'I know what you just said!' Lestrade turned to John, as he often did when appealing for some sort of sanity. 'This is the third time Sherlock's announced to me that he's "fine, never better". The first time, he'd just gone over the bonnet of a car.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, despairingly, turning back to the crime scene. 'It was only a Nissan Micra.'

'The second time, there was half a harpoon sticking out of his thigh.'

'Are you still going on aboud thad liddle thig?' muttered Sherlock, his back still to them, his voice growing suddenly thick. He paused for a second, then added 'oh, fug'.

'Sherlock?' John took Sherlock's shoulder and pulled him round. Sherlock looked like he'd just French kissed a particularly enthusiastic vampire. Blood gushed over his mouth, down his chin and was already spattering the front of his crisp white shirt, as well as both of his hands and the cuffs of his sleeves where he was automatically trying to catch it. This was not just a nosebleed. This looked like Sherlock's nose had studied the Saw movies, decided they could do with more blood and was trying to create a new gory scene all by itself. This was The Shining, but with nostrils instead of lift doors.

'Jesus.'

'Id's jus a dosebleed.' Sherlock looked up, sharply. 'And no I ab nod usig agaid, Lestrade, I know you're dyig to suggest thad's whad's brought this od.'

'Certainly not,' replied Lestrade. 'I'd expect you to be much perkier than this if you were back on the drugs.'

John reached out to Sherlock and pulled his friend down onto a chair.

'Sit,' he ordered, taking Sherlock's fingers and placing them onto his nose. 'Pinch.' Sherlock pulled away, irritably, but it was too late – John had already noted the heat radiating from his friend's head. 'Christ, you're burning up. I gave you Ibuprofen only an hour ago!'

'I'b all right.'

'No you are not all right! This is not a normal temperature for a human to be.' John paused, regarding Sherlock. Fever and nosebleed. Fever and nosebleed… oh, no. 'The sewer water,' he said. 'Sherlock, you swore blind when you were down in that sewer last week, you didn't swallow any of it.'

'I got a diny bit in my bouth,' replied Sherlock, struggling to make his voice sound relatively normal. 'I didn't say anything because I knew you'd bake a fuss.'

'Too bloody right, I'm "baking a fuss". You've only gone and given yourself Typhoid Fever!'

Lestrade's eyebrows shot up. 'Typhoid Fever? Bloody Hell, Sherlock, what are you going to contract next – the Black Death? I'm calling you an ambulance.'

'No!' Sherlock weakly slapped the phone from Lestrade's hands. It skittered lightly to the floor a couple of feet away from Lestrade, causing the DI the huge inconvenience of having to stoop to pick it up again, thus buying Sherlock – oooh, about three seconds?

'You're going to a hospital, Sherlock,' John insisted. 'Typhoid Fever is a "serious situation" situation, you know. You could die.'

'One could die getting out of bed in the morning!'

'Well, they certainly could if they were sick with Typhoid Fever.'

'So, what? Instead I should lie on a trolley in a corridor like a piece of rubbish, waiting to see if some overworked, overtired foetus of a junior doctor will cut my foot off by mistake before or after I get infected with SARS?'

'You need proper medical care!'

'I've got proper medical care!' Oh, and here came the big, sad eyes. 'You, John. I don't trust those idiots. You're my Doctor. I trust you. I'm much better off at home, with you.'

John closed his eyes, trying to fight the flattery. But he knew that, after that came the really big guns.

'Please, John.' Sherlock added.

John sighed. 'God, I must be mad.'

'Thank you,' replied Sherlock. His relief sounded genuine.

'But, you're going straight home, this instant, where you'll be spending the next three weeks at least lying prostrate on a series of different pieces of soft furniture.'

Lestrade nodded in agreement. 'We'll have to work this case without your help this time. I'm sure we'll manage, for once.'

Sherlock glared at them both. 'You can't show me a case like this and then not allow me to work it out, it isn't fair. Besides which, I can't possibly go three whole weeks with nothing at all to occupy me. I'll go completely mad.'

'You already are completely mad,' Lestrade began to argue. 'You're Mister March in Madman Monthly Magazine…' He caught John's eye, and trailed off. They both knew bloody well what sort of Hell on Earth Sherlock being bored for three weeks solid would be. Lestrade brandished his mobile again. 'Right. Fine. I'll assign you one of my lot – someone to do your legwork, go to the scenes, record what they see and hear there.' He thought for a moment. 'Hopkins. You can bear Hopkins, can't you?'

Sherlock nodded. 'Bright lad. Not as likely to miss the obvious as the rest of the Charlatans you have under you.'

'Then it's settled.' Lestrade started to dial. 'You won't be off sick, you'll just be working from home, OK?'

'I can live with that.'

'Hopkins,' said Lestrade down the phone, 'how do you fancy assisting our friend Mr Holmes on a case?'

Lestrade might as well have asked a 6 year old kid if he wanted to go to Disneyland. John could hear the excited 'Oh Sir, really?' on the other end of the line from where he was standing. He touched Sherlock lightly on the shoulder. 'I'll go and flag us down a cab. I'll be back up for you once I've got one.'

'Don't be ridiculous, John.' Sherlock removed his fingers from his nose. He still looked like an extra from a horror movie, but at least the nosebleed had stopped. 'I can walk to a taxi by myself. I might have Typhoid Fever, but that doesn't make me a swooning Victorian Lady.'

And, as if to prove his point, Sherlock got up, took four steps forwards and promptly fainted. Lestrade just about managed to catch him, dropping his phone, again, in the process.

He looked up at John. 'What should I do first? Fetch the smelling salts or loosen his corset?'

-x-

Lestrade drove back with them, helping John to carry a now semi conscious Sherlock up the stairs as Mrs Hudson clucked and fretted around them. By the time he'd deposited Sherlock on the sofa and politely seen Lestrade and Mrs Hudson to the door, promising them he'd be in touch with any future developments, the man had an alarmingly high temperature and had started muttering bits of Spike Milligan to himself.

'The Ning Nang Nong, the cows go bong the monkeys all say boo,' declared Sherlock, importantly.

'It takes a special kind of genius to give himself Typhoid Fever in London, in the 21st Century, you know,' John told him, gently, wetting a cloth. 'The kind that's actually a colossal idiot, to be precise.'

'Nang Nong Ning, the trees go ping and the teapots jibberjabberjoo.' Sherlock nodded to himself. Clearly, he was making an immense amount of sense as far as he was concerned.

John tried putting the cool, damp cloth on the nape of Sherlock's neck as the great detective informed him that on the Nong Ning Nang all the mice went clang, and one just couldn't catch them when they do. Then he put a second wet cloth on the insides of Sherlock's wrists as he loudly asked Eccles what time it was, and "Eccles" replied that he had the time written down on a piece of paper. There was a rousing chorus of Ying Tong Iddle I Po as John wrestled Sherlock out of his clothes. He really didn't fancy his chances of hauling Sherlock up another flight of stairs and then giving him a cool bath as he slipped between delirium and unconsciousness, so instead he set about giving his friend what would end up being the first of many sponge baths over the three weeks of his illness.

'Thank you, darling,' breathed Sherlock, watching the ceiling as the cool water eased his fever, 'please, have another picture of Queen Victoria.'

'This is weird,' muttered John. 'You're weird.' And the weird thing was, it didn't feel weird, no matter how much he kept telling himself that it should.