First many thanks to TSylvestrisA for reading over this and giving me pointers. I wrote this when we had our only week of British sunshine and the heat does not always help my own brain. ;)

We always see Sherlock in the rain and fog and drizzle, which I admit is basically my countrys weather, but just occasionally we get the sun.

This was my insparation. Yet another Johnlock for you. ;)

Hope you enjoy. x

Part one - Heat.

It was hot. The British weather, being what it was, had gone from freezing in mid-May to a sudden and desperate heatwave as the country edged into June. The unending deluge of cold rain had abruptly given up its fight and the sun had burned its way into the sky. Any breath of relief had disappeared as every cold front turned itself outward and away from blighty's battered shores and now blew pleasantly elsewhere. Anywhere but Britain.

It wasn't that John didn't like the sun, it was just that most of the country had been wrapped in thick coats and scarves and boots on Monday and now it was Thursday. The country had not adjusted well. He had just treated his third heat-stricken child in four days and was quite concerned for his elderly patients.

In the last two days, he had not seen one person in London who was not sweating, who was not looking harassed by the constant heat or had some kind of complaint about it. That was, until he had got past the door of 221B the previous night. Sherlock had not been sweating, had not been harassed or complaining. Well, not complaining of the heat, anyway. He had been sprawled on the sofa in the lounge, not one ruffled hair out of place, not one bead of sweat on his alabaster brow, wearing a tight blue day suit and a crisp white shirt. He had looked up lazily as John had walked in, sticky and annoyed, and had stretched and grinned.

"Good day?" he'd drawled out in that insufferably amused voice of his as he looked John up and down. The doctor, despite having almost unending patience, could not find it in him to answer and had instead just glared whilst wondering if Sherlock was human at all.

The fact that the detective was seemingly untouched by the heat annoyed John in ways he couldn't explain. It was really just not fair. He realized that sounded childish but just once, just once he'd like to see his annoyingly perfect, aesthetically pleasing, ludicrously beautiful flatmate compromised. Something deep inside John wanted to see Sherlock break a sweat. He wanted to see that pale skin glisten, to admire the wetness of his curls as they stuck to the nape of his neck and forehead. He wanted, somewhat sadistically, Sherlock to suffer as the rest of London was suffering. He wanted Sherlock to suffer as he did.

But that was just a dream, a far-flung fantasy. John knew that Sherlock Holmes did not work the same as other people. His cold heart presumably ensured his skin remained cool even on days such as this. He'd probably trained his body to repel heat in some way. John snorted at the thought.

The doctor's mind turned to other thoughts. He knew that really he should have been pleased by the heatwave. It bought out the summer frocks, the girls looking so delicious in their skimpy clothes and floral dresses, but somehow these days John didn't really notice or care.

He had known for several months that he was deeply and unrequitedly attracted to his mad flatmate, his partner in crime and punishment. The reason he wanted to see Sherlock sweat was so that he could imagine that it was he himself who had caused it. Oh yes, John Watson would like to make the detective sweat. He'd like to make him beg and scream out his name in the throes of passion. That would be just fine.

But since the detective had always made it clear he had no interest in relationships and John was fairly convinced the man was asexual, John struggled to put aside those thoughts. It would never happen. But in the privacy of his own mind, in the dark privacy of his room he found he always came harder if when in the grip of self-pleasuring he thought of what he would like to do to Sherlock. Sometimes he even whispered his name. What harm could that do?

Leaving work that evening, John hit the hot pavement and groaned. Could he really be bothered to walk? It was after five and the sun was still burning brightly. It had just got that little bit too low and glared into John's eyes as he walked. The cars and buses and taxis streamed past, kicking up dust and creating even more humidity. John attempted to hail a cab but it seemed most of London had given up the fight and had had the same idea.

Ah, well, at least it was Friday. John could relax tomorrow, open every window in the flat, spend all day in the shower, go on a case with Sherlock...John groaned as the thought hit him. Sadly, the latter option seemed the more likely. He knew Sherlock was bored and had probably been pestering Lestrade for a case all day. Running in this weather-not at all what John wanted to think about.

Finally John turned the corner to Baker Street and reveled in the quietness of the road. No gunshots, no explosions, no people running around shouting about a madman. Sherlock must have a case. Taking a deep breath and pausing by the door of 221B for a moment, John enjoyed a moment of peace and gathered himself. Who knew what awaited him inside the flat? Sighing gently, he turned the key and opened the door. The heat gathered in the house hit him instantly. God, it was hotter inside than out. Shutting the door, he trudged up the stairs to the flat, listening briefly at the door and hearing nothing. He opened it and blinked at the scene before him.

The great detective Sherlock Holmes was lying prone on the sofa. The TV was on and an excited weather presenter was talking fast about how hot it was. It was now nearly 98 degrees, but that wasn't what made John's mouth fall open.

The detective was dressed-well, maybe dressed wasn't the right word-in only his boxers. His dressing gown was half draped around his shoulders but that had been flung open to show off his chest and abs and everything else to whomever might be looking. His hair was wild, the hairline wet. The usually immaculate black curls stuck to his face and forehead, and a thin layer of perspiration gleamed on his skin in the fading light.

John gaped and to his utter mortification his groin give a strong throb of approval. God damn, the man looked mouth-watering.

He felt ashamed of himself. He had wanted this, and now that he saw it he wanted it more, but Sherlock must be suffering for he hadn't moved since John had walked in. John took a few steps into the flat, trying to suppress the stirring in his loins.

"Sherlock?" he asked cautiously, trying to keep all traces of desire from his voice. The detective cracked open one eye and looked at him, and he felt his heart stutter slightly. It was a dangerous, feral look and somehow it made John feel hotter than he already was. In more ways than one.

"John," the detective growled in half-greeting.

"Are...are you all right?" John asked. Sherlock rolled onto his side, his other eye opening to fix the doctor with a dangerous glare, his gown slipping further from his shoulders.

"Do I look all right, John?" he asked in a low voice.

Oh yes, John thought, you look more than all right, but he pushed the thought aside and settled on taking the medical approach. "Well, you look hot, and it's just appalling up here. Heat sickness, maybe?" he asked. Sherlock licked his lips, watching John closely. Then he leapt up in a sudden flash and began pacing.

"I can't think, John. I can't think. My brain will not work under these conditions. Things...things happen to me when it gets this hot. Make it stop, John. Make the heat go away and let me think! How can anyone work like this, how can you live like this? Is your brain still working, John? After all, it has less capacity than mine. Does it just stutter and give out or have you got some clever way to stop that from happening?" The detective was ranting. His dressing gown flew wildly about him, sticking to his lithe body for brief seconds and then flying back off.

John swallowed hard. The overheated detective glared at him with wild eyes and then was stalking towards him. He stopped only inches away from the doctor and looked down at John's blue eyes in frustration. His brows were knitted and his sudden burst of energy had not helped in cooling him.

This close, John could smell him, could feel the heat radiating from that slender body mixing with his own. Sherlock's own chest was moving rapidly and John could see the beating of his heart as he glanced down briefly at the man's bare torso. John felt his own breath hitch. He was hot and getting hotter, but it wasn't the weather that was causing his sudden soaring temperature.

John could feel Sherlock's breath on his face. The scent radiating from the detective set his nerve endings quivering, engulfing every sense: iron and sea salt and chemicals that oozed out of every pore. Sherlock's wild eyes burned into him, making John almost forget himself. He knew his eyes flickered to that perfect bow of a mouth that was so close yet so far away and...

"John.." Sherlock grated out suddenly, jolting John out of his brief but far too lingering look. "I.. this.. it..."

Sherlock was stumbling over his words? John took a cautious step back.

"Sherlock," he said, as casually as he could, "you're just hot. Look, I'll make you a drink and then I'd suggest you take a cold shower and just try and relax. You'll be fine." He moved quickly away from his flatmate and ducked into the kitchen. He let out the breath he'd been holding and then got Sherlock some cool water. He barely heard Sherlock enter the room behind him as he tried to calm his body's very disconcerting responses.

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