Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Title: Hot Enough For You?
Author: tardisjournal
Summary: As it turned out, violin-playing and not talking for days on end weren't the only things Sherlock should have warned John about.
Characters/Pairings: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes
Rating: PG-13
Word count: ~1,500
A/Ns: Written for fan_flashworks prompt "hot water", the watsons_woes July 2014 Challenge Prompt #10 "A Sporting Chance (include one or more bits of sporting gear in your entry)" and my hc_bingo square "loss of vision". (Whew!)

Inspired by Benedict's Cumberbatch's preparations to play the role of "Sherlock" as detailed in "Fact #19" here: "Sherlock Facts: 21 Things You Didn't Know".



John trudged up the stairs to the flat after spending the day tending to a seemingly-endless procession of summer colds and sports injuries. The clinic's air-conditioning had been functioning only sporadically and his tasks had been mind-numbingly routine. He felt exhausted and dull, like all his edges had been sanded away by tedium. He had nothing planned but an evening of left-over takeaway and mindless TV in the relative coolness of 221B, which he was looking forward to with a sort of listless anticipation.

John opened the door to the flat and was engulfed in a wave of heat that sent him staggering backwards. Suddenly more awake than he'd been all day, he blinked several times to clear his watering eyes.

'Fire! The flat's on fire!"  was John's first, startled, thought. 'I left the oven on after breakfast or one of Sherlock's experiments exploded or oh God SHERLOCK!" What if Sherlock was inside the flat, injured or unconscious or otherwise unable to get out of danger? John moved forward, stuck his head through the door, and felt sweat break out all over his face. He neither heard nor saw any flames, but there were alarming plumes of smoke hovering in the living room, obscuring nearly everything in it from view.

John hovered in the door frame. "Sherlock?" he called. There was no reply.

“That's not smoke, it's steam,"  John realised. That was odd. Maybe a hot water pipe had broken? Was scalding water being strewn about the flat this very moment? “Sherlock!”

John head a small noise that might have been a groan from within the depths of the clouds, and that was all he needed. He took a deep breath and plunged in.

As he moved forward, John fanned his hand in front of his face to clear the air, but the effect was negligible; more steam just rushed in to fill its place. Where was it coming from? “Sherlock!”  Despite the fact that adrenaline was making his heart race and his hands tremble with the urge to do something, John forced himself move slowly, mindful of the clutter that Sherlock often left scattered about. The ambient temperature grew with each cautious step forward.

From the corner came a sudden, metallic clanking noise and John froze, all his senses on high alert. The noise was both reassuringly familiar and oddly out of place. Within seconds, John's racing brain identified it.

“The radiator. The bloody heat's on. In July!"

“Sherlock!”

“Yes, I'm aware that you're home, I heard you the first three times.” Sherlock sounded calm, collected, and very close. Not unconscious, then.

"Thank goodness!" John was starting to be able make out some of the shapes in the room: the top of the bookcase looming in the distance; the vague form of two armchairs armchairs squatting off to the side. He flapped his arms and peered through the dissipating steam in the direction Sherlock's voice had come from.

Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on a bright blue rubber mat in the middle of the living room floor, wearing nothing but a pair of crimson trackpants. His feet were bare and his slicked-back hair was pushed back from his forehead with some sort of royal blue blue band. He looked up at John with an expression of mild curiosity. “You're early. Does that mean you forgot to bring the condoms?”

John's brain stuttered and stopped. Something about the combination of all that bare, pale skin glistening with sweat and the word “condoms” made whatever he was going to say go right out the window.

John wasn’t sure what was more incongruous, that fact that Sherlock-Married-to-My-Work-Holmes was asking for condoms, or the fact that he was sitting placidly in their sweltering living room while clouds of steam were wafting about.

"Condoms? What are you talking about?" John enquired, his brain apparently deciding on the former.

"Prophylactics? French Letters? I assumed that as both a doctor and a bachelor-about-town these devices would not be unfamiliar to you. I texted you earlier and asked you to bring home one box of every brand they had.”

“I... I never received any texts from you. Wait a minute, is that the shower I hear? Is the shower running?”

“Yes, it is. Are you sure you didn't get a text? I thought I sent it. Maybe I only thought about sending it. Never mind. Do you have any? You must. May I have some? Fifteen or twenty ought to be enough to get started."

“What? Fifteen or twenty? No, you may not!”

This was getting absurd! John didn't have that many condoms, he was sure of it--though since he hadn't touched the box that had been taken up residence in the back of his sock drawer since he'd broken up with Sarah over a month ago, he wasn't sure just how many he did have. However, just because the contents hadn't been needed recently didn't mean that they never would be again. Sherlock couldn't just have them. Why would he want them anyway? It couldn’t be the obvious reason... wait. The request for condoms, the shower running... maybe it was the obvious reason. “Is... there someone else here?” John staggered to his armchair and sat down. The heat and this conversation were making him decidedly dizzy.

It was Sherlock's turn to sound baffled. “Of course there isn't. Why would you think that?”

“Generally, Sherlock, condoms are used for an activity that requires two people. As you and I aren't, well, involved in that way I thought maybe"

“Oh! No. No. I don't have a date." Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “I need them for a series of experiments I've designed. I'm looking into the case of a serial rapist--a rather old case but as Scotland Yard has made zero progress on it and we've got nothing on I thought I'd lend them a hand--and I need to know how certain brands perform under certain conditions.”

“What conditions? Wait, on second thought, don't tell me. I don't want to know. What I want to know is why it's so damn hot in here. It's got to be over thirty-five degrees!”

“It's forty degrees. Or rather, it was. Your leaving the front door open has lowered the temperature considerably.”

“Yeah,  practically freezing." John wiped his brow on his sleeve and took a deep breath. "Care to tell me why the flat was forty degrees? Was that part of your experiment as well?”

“Oh no. The flat was forty degrees because I was practising Bikram Yoga."

"Bick-who?"

"Bikram Yoga. It's a form of yoga performed in a room heated to specific temperature--forty degrees--and a specific humidity--forty percent, though I may have overdone it a little. The temperature of the shower turns out to be surprisingly difficult to regulate over time."

"Why would they do that? That sounds like torture!"

"Not at all. You get used to it, and it's said to be a more effective workout than other forms of yoga.The increased temperature causes the blood vessels to dilate and the soft tissues to expand, thereby improving blood flow and the distribution of oxygen throughout the body, which has a myriad of physical and mental heath benefits, as I'm sure you know. It also helps to loosen the muscles, thereby reducing the chances of injury and increasing flexibility." As if to demonstrate, Sherlock stretched out his legs in front of him and leaned over slowly, until his nose was buried in his knees and his hands were wrapped around his ankles.

“You do yoga? Since when?

“Couple of years ago," Sherlock replied, his voice slightly muffled.

“How come this is the first I'm hearing about it?”

“It didn't seem worth mentioning. It's just something I do now and then when I'm bored.”

"Isn't there, oh I don't know, a gym somewhere where you could doing this? This is London. There has to be somewhere you can practice that doesn't require you turning the flat into a rainforest."

“Of course. There's a studio about ten minutes from here."

“Then why the hell didn't you go there?"

Sherlock eased himself up into a sitting position, tucked an errant curl behind his ear, and shrugged. “It's closed this week. Apparently there was a flood in the basement.”

John snorted. "Imagine that! Speaking of floods, we need to shut that shower off before we have a flood in here." John rose and headed for the bathroom. He had to make a detour around Sherlock, who showed no signs of moving off his mat.

“But my session isn't over yet!”

“Yes, it is.”

Inside the bathroom, the shower was running full-blast, doing its level best to replenish the steam outside the room. John reached for the tap.

“Careful, the faucet will be...” Sherlock called.

“Ow!"

“Hot.”

“Damn it! Sherlock! How long has the hot water been running, anyway?”

“About 45 minutes.”

John grabbed a towel, wrapped it around his hand, and with that as a buffer, managed to grasp the steaming tap long enough turn off the shower.

“Mrs. Hudson's going to kill you! The heating and hot water bills are supposed to go down in the summer, not up!”

“I'm sure she'll just tack it on to our rent.”

John turned on the cold water tap and stuck his hand under it.

“And who is going to pay that, exactly? We haven't had a case in weeks. I'm only working part-time at the clinic. And Scotland Yard won't pay you, even if you catch their serial rapist for them."

“You worry too much, John. You should try some yoga. It's very relaxing.”

John stalked out into the living room, shaking his hand, which still stung.

“No, I think I'll go out for a walk, thanks. Now that I know you're not burned to a crisp or boiled alive in here, I could use some air. Some cooler air."

“Suit yourself." Sherlock watched impassively as John headed for the front door.

John was just closing the door when he heard, "John?”

He pushed it back open. “What!"

“Will you pick up those condoms while you're out?"