"Sherlock . . ."

Sherlock slammed his bare shoulder into the door again, but it didn't budge. "This was not a scenario I had envisioned," he grumbled.

"You were just, what? Lounging fully dressed in the shower in the dark with the water off? Could have said something before I stripped, really." John wrapped the towel more tightly around his waist. It would have been nice to be able to put his clothes back on, but someone had done something to the structural integrity of the toilet lid and end result, John's neatly-folded pants and trousers were now sopping wet and chemically suspect. He didn't even want to know what Sherlock had done to it, really. Bastard.

Sherlock huffed. "You didn't have to break the lock."

"You're lucky I didn't break the glass," John snapped back. They were both lucky, really - the frosted window between the bathroom and Sherlock's bedroom was sturdier than it looked, but that didn't mean the shards wouldn't still be sharp if John's leap of surprise had carried him through it. As it was, the doorknob now stuck out at an odd angle and no amount of jiggling would make it disengage the latch. Which wouldn't have been a problem if Sherlock hadn't also managed to glue the door from the hallway shut a week earlier. Walking through Sherlock's bedroom every trip to the loo was a pain, but John could be just as stubborn as his flatmate when necessary. Their passive-aggressive I'm going to ignore the problem until you fix it war was probably juvenile . . . no, scratch that. It was most definitely juvenile, but maturity had never been Sherlock's strong suit.

"Scared the shit out of me," John said. "PTSD, remember?"

"I didn't mean to."

"Doesn't mean it's okay."

Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line, but he nodded. "I apologize. I'm sure you'll be able to fix it. You're . . . good with those sorts of things."

Because of course he assumes the bloody repair is my job. John would have glared, but glaring never really did seem to have much effect on Sherlock. Plus Sherlock's white dress shirt was half-untucked - still straining at the buttons - and was obscuring his also-indecently-tight trousers. The whole look was throwing John for a loop.

"Ta, but no," he said instead. "I am going to take my shower. You are going to figure out how to fix at least one of these doors. Preferably before I finish." He stepped past Sherlock to the tub, not even looking to see the man's reaction. "Might want to fix the toilet lid too, while you're at it - I'm not keen on being around whatever chemical you found that literally dissolves porcelain."

"We don't really need a lid-"

"Sherlock." John dropped the towel and stepped into the shower. Served the berk right, having to get an eyeful of naked arse before John tugged the curtain closed behind him. "Shove it and get to work."

The sound of the shower drowned out any door-fixing noises Sherlock might have been making, but John found it surprisingly difficult to ignore the fact that Sherlock had been standing right in the same spot where John was currently wearing nothing at all. It was a stupid idea - there was only one bathroom in the flat. Of course they both used the same shower. Sherlock's hygiene habits were meticulous but randomly timed, though, so John rarely found himself occupying the same space so soon afterward. It felt . . . oddly intimate. Definitely strange to only have the one sheet of plastic between himself and Sherlock's too-observant gaze.

A quick glance down as John turned to get his shoulders wet confirmed what the burgeoning feelings in his groin were already telling him. Great. His cock knew that shower time was wank time, even though there was no way in hell he was going to be able to indulge with Sherlock right there on the other side of the curtain. Especially since a decidedly Sherlock-like form had been creeping into John's wank fodder in the last several months. John glared at his semi-erect prick and reached behind him for the shampoo.

The bottle felt significantly lighter than it should have been.

"Sherlock," John called over the sound of the water, "have you been using my Elvive?"

The shower curtain shifted, like Sherlock was leaning right up against other side. "Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock responded. "Why would I wash with yours when I have my own? You buy yours at Tesco."

That was definitely true - John teased Sherlock all the time about his poncy twenty-five-pounds-a-bottle hair products, but . . . "It smells like citrus and woodchips in here." A familiar, shampoo-y scent, actually. John froze. "Shit. You weren't in here planning to experiment on my hair, were you? Did you put something in this? I swear, if you try to drug me one more time-"

"It's nothing to worry about."

"Sherlock, what the ever-loving fuck were you doing with my shampoo?" Modesty be damned - John turned the water off and yanked the shower curtain open so he could see Sherlock's face and hopefully be able to tell whether the total twatcockle currently masquerading as his flatmate was lying or not. Sherlock was indeed standing just outside the tub, close enough to touch. Or punch. John crossed his arms and stared Sherlock down.

Something in his bit not good you massive fucking arse-wanker expression must have gotten through, because for once Sherlock didn't have a withering comeback. Or any comeback at all, actually. He just stood there, eyes wide and mouth hanging slightly open in a way John knew Sherlock would have ridiculed him for later had their places been reversed. Even Sherlock's not-as-subtle-as-he-probably-thought-it-was glance down to John's cock was less graceful than usual.

John sighed. "Yes, that's my prick, you arse. I assume you have one too. Now answer my question."

"Masturbating." Sherlock's gaze snapped back up to John's own. "You asked."

"With my shampoo?"

Sherlock winced. "You'll be mad at me."

"News flash, genius: I'm already pretty fucking furious. I've done two tours in Afghanistan, I've shot nearly as many men as I've saved, and you're locked in a small room with me at the moment. Answer the goddamn question."

Sherlock's shoulders sagged, and John could sense the exact moment he gave in. "Yes," he said quietly. "You usually wank when you shower and your shampoo smells like you. It . . . helps."

Christ. John took a deep breath, then slowly let it out again. "Right. So you, what? Jerk off using my shampoo when I'm not around?"

"Sometimes when you're upstairs." Sherlock's cheeks and pale neck were turning an interesting shade of rose, but to his credit he wasn't attempting to lie or deflect. "I've tried to keep my orientation from you because I know how you feel about homosexuality, but-"

"Okay, stop right there. I don't even know what to say to that." John groaned. "First off, when I said it's all fine, I meant that. Don't assume that 'I'm not gay' means I'm a homophobe - mostly it just means I'd come off as creepy trying to flirt with women while everyone assumes I'm shagging you. Bit not good, really."

"I didn't say-"

"And secondly," John said, rolling over Sherlock's interjection, "that's bloody brilliant. The viscosity's probably . . . Does your poncy expensive stuff work as well? I assume you've done an experiment for comparison? Psychological association of scents and whatnot?"

Sherlock blinked.

God, it felt good to render the git speechless. It also felt good to see the telltale movement under Sherlock's trousers, accentuated by the loose tails of his dress shirt - no matter how much Sherlock might retreat into "it's just transport" later, it was incredibly flattering to know that the man was getting a hard-on. John's half-mast prick was very definitely at full attention now, which Sherlock couldn't have failed to notice. A saner man than John Watson would have extricated himself from the conversation. Then again, a saner man wouldn't have been living with Sherlock Holmes to begin with.

Turnabout was most definitely fair play, John decided. He swiveled away with false casualness and exchanged his own shampoo bottle for Sherlock's. "You just finish fixing the door," he said over his shoulder as turned the water back on again. "Don't mind me."

Sherlock's shocked look when John slid the shower curtain closed in his face was probably one of the best things John had ever seen. He rolled his shoulders and turned his face up into the spray. Thank god for decent water heaters - the one in his crappy bedsit couldn't handle more than about five minutes of hot water at a time, but Mrs. Hudson had sprung for a tankless one and Sherlock regularly spent upwards of half an hour in the shower.

Probably wanking.

Christ.

John transferred the bottle to his off hand and gave his cock a few experimental strokes. He wasn't a complete idiot - he usually resorted to his 2-for-£3 generic soap for this particular activity and it did just fine - but it didn't take a lot of imagination to summon a mental image of himself slathering his prick in Sherlock's poncy shampoo and letting the scent permeate the room. To picture himself burying his nose in Sherlock's curls as they writhed and frotted against each other. The reality of their height difference would probably mean John's nose would be more in line with Sherlock's chin, but fuck reality. He squeezed a healthy dollop out into his palm and twisted around to let the water run down his back instead of washing the soon-to-be-lubricant off his cock.

It wasn't much of a surprise to see Sherlock peeking around the curtain. The surprise was the fact that Sherlock hadn't said anything insulting yet. He was just standing there and staring, mostly. John held eye contact as he slowly lifted his hand to his nose, inhaled deeply (and oh was that scent going to feature heavily in his wank sessions in the future), then reached down and slathered it down the length of his erection.

Sherlock made a noise rather like a balloon with a slow leak.

This was new territory for them, something John couldn't imagine ever doing with someone else, but the still-stunned look on Sherlock's face - and the fact he was still there at all - hinted rather strongly that Sherlock was interested. Interested in what, who knew, but something.

John had never been a man prone to excessive contemplation. Being an army doctor meant snap decisions, making a choice and then committing to it 100%. He had his choice made even before he consciously realized he was making it.

"You going to stand there all day, or are you going to get in here with me?"

Sherlock licked his lips and blinked twice. "I . . ." He trailed off after the single word, confusion writ clearly across his features. "You're inviting me to shower with you?"

"Sure, let's call it that." John gave his cock a few languid strokes and nearly forgot how to stand, the sensation was so incredible. "You wash my back and I'll wash yours? And we can, ah, share the shampoo?"

More gaping from Sherlock.

"Hey," John said, suddenly louder. "Either fix the door or get the bloody hell in here. You're letting the cold air in."

Sherlock let the curtain fall closed and for a moment John thought he'd retreated to the relative safety of the rest of the loo. A few seconds later, though, Sherlock insinuated himself through the mostly-closed curtain and crowded in against John under the spray. Still clothed. The water immediately soaked through his white dress shirt, undoubtedly ruining it, but John's brief pang of sympathy for Sherlock's dry cleaner was overridden by the realization that the shirt was now translucent.

Fuck.

Sherlock's nipples were stark against the clinging fabric. John held him in place with a palm on either side of his ribcage and didn't even have to duck much to suck one damp peak into his mouth. Sherlock let out a strangled gurgle above him, but John held him still with a hint of teeth and worked on shorting out the git's brain to the point he wouldn't be able to come up with any insults mid-coitus. It was impossible to grind against Sherlock's groin while hunched over like this, but that was probably just as well - Sherlock seemed likely to tip over if John shoved too hard.

"Get this off. Off." Sherlock tore at the buttons of his shirt even as he leaned in toward John's mouth. "Jooooooohn . . ."

John bypassed the shirt entirely and instead groped for Sherlock's zip. Even with water running into his eyes and his other hand still steadying Sherlock's torso, he managed to get Sherlock's wet pants and trousers shoved down a bit and his cock out in an impressively short time. He thought it ought to be impressive, anyway. The quickening of Sherlock's breathing certainly sounded like approval.

"John, please!" Sherlock shrugged his sodden shirt off and tried to reach for John's cock. Then swore, yanked at the buttons at his wrists so hard one of them popped off and clattered down to the tub floor, and flung the now-disentangled shirt over the shower curtain. Probably to land on the one dry towel in the room."Not going to get those all the way off anytime soon," Sherlock gasped. "Not without me lying down and flopping about unattractively. Too wet. Doesn't matter."

Ooh, now that was a promising mental image. And possibly all too accurate. John tugged the best he could at the sodden trousers, but they bunched up around Sherlock's thighs and refused to go any lower. At least Sherlock didn't have shoes on. John stepped back and took a moment to look down at the contrast between the two of them. His own body was getting a bit pudgy around the middle but still fit enough to be proud of. Sherlock's, in contrast, was gorgeous - all pale skin, long limbs, a shock of dark pubic hair, and a very erect cock which was pointed directly at John's navel.

"God, I hate being short." The words slipped out without him actually thinking about them. His height had often been an advantage for sex-while-standing-up-in-showers-and-elsewhere with with female partners in the past, but now it was obviously going to be a handicap. Bloody tall git.

Sherlock sucked in a breath, glanced up at John's face, read the entire chain of thought that lead to John's statement . . . and started giggling.

It took a moment, but John started laughing as well. And just like that, any lingering awkwardness was gone. Sherlock stepped forward and pulled John tight to him. His cock did poke John in the stomach, but John reached down to adjust it (with his still-shampoo-slick hand, he belatedly realized) and all of a sudden they were hugging mostly-naked in the shower and it was all surprisingly okay. Sherlock pressed his nose against John's temple and inhaled deeply.

"It's not the same without the real you," he murmured. "Same citrus and wet wood scent, but . . . not the same."

"Yeah?" John rotated their embrace around so Sherlock was the one with his back to the spray. He pressed a tight-lipped kiss to Sherlock's mouth for good measure. "Let's get the rest of your kit off and you can show me the advantages, then."

More giggling followed. Sherlock didn't actually end up flailing on the floor of the tub, but he did have to hop on one foot while bracing himself against the wall of the shower while John tried to stop laughing long enough to get Sherlock's foot free of the constricting fabric. The trousers - and the sodden black pants underneath them - soon went flying over the shower curtain to go join Sherlock's shirt.

The longer they went without John pitching a fit and yelling something terrible, the more confidence Sherlock showed. He slid his hand down past John's scarred shoulder, kneaded the latissimus dorsi running along John's spine, and eventually settled over the curve of John's arse. John reciprocated. The position crushed their pelvises together, erections slick against each other's bodies, and it was heaven.

Not conducive to the amount of foreplay Sherlock deserved, though. Or to either of them actually getting clean. John sighed and stepped away. "Get your hair wet," he commanded.

Sherlock frowned, but tipped his head back until his dark curls were limp and plastered to his scalp. John got a fresh dollop of shampoo and rotated them both so he could work it into Sherlock's hair. The result was a full-body shudder and a deep groan.

"That feels so good," Sherlock slurred.

John grinned and snuck a grope of Sherlock's arse with his other hand. "I bet I can make you feel better."

Sherlock twisted around to pout at him over his shoulder, but quickly closed his eyes and submitted to the scalp massage again. "You actually want to shower?" he asked. "To wash?"

"Mmhmm - it was a long day at the clinic. I feel grubby." He guided Sherlock's head back under the water to rinse out the suds, then presented Sherlock with the shampoo bottle and turned around to get his own hair under the spray. "Plus there are advantages, don't you think?"

"Oh, I do," Sherlock growled, very nearly in John's ear. Fuck. "You have no idea how much I've wished for this, John. How much I've thought about it. I assumed you'd term it 'not good' and tell me to piss off-"

"-Now you learn boundaries?"

"-but the truth is, I have a whole room in my mind palace solely for this. For you and me together, and everything I wanted to do if only you'd permit me." He scrubbed John's hair quickly and efficiently, the scent of his expensive shampoo in the air heightening their proximity all that much more. "You'll let me wash the rest of you, I hope?" Sherlock murmured.

John didn't trust his voice. All he could do was nod.

"Excellent." Sherlock slid a slippery hand around to John's front. His body was warm along John's spine, his cock an insistent pressure against John's sacrum, but his fingertips were feather-light as they danced their way down over John's chest and stomach. By the time Sherlock got ahold of his erection and palmed it gently, John was starting to wonder if he'd come even before he got a chance to touch Sherlock's cock for real.

He didn't have to say anything, though. Sherlock - bloody observant berk that he was - let go after only the most fleeting contact. John went to turn, but Sherlock caught him by the hips and held him still.

"Not yet." Sherlock shifted, propelled him forward a step, then . . . sank to his knees. Christ. "Still need to wash your back, John."

"By 'wash my back,' do you mean-"

Sherlock silenced him by the simple expedient of leaning forward and licking a broad stripe along the crease where John's thigh met his arse. It had to have tasted like soap, after all the suds Sherlock had rinsed out of John's hair, but Sherlock didn't seem to mind. John was more focused on not collapsing and giving himself a concussion.

"Jesus fucking Christ." John braced himself against the tub wall - mostly because his balance was suddenly shit - and groaned. Sherlock hummed in response and licked again, his long fingers probing and massaging John's arsecheeks by turns. It felt . . . well, indescribable would have been an understatement. John had already known Sherlock had a quick tongue, but so far that had always been metaphorical. Now Sherlock was peppering him with little kitten licks interspersed with kisses, all around his arse but slowly zeroing in on his hole. It was already the best sexual experience of John's life and Sherlock hadn't actually done anything yet.

He was taking his sweet time, too. John tried hitching his hips backwards, but Sherlock's hands locked around his thighs and held him steady. "Patience," he murmured. The vibrations went directly to John's cock. "Just let me . . ." He hummed, a happy sound, then finally leaned forward and started working at John's hole in earnest.

"Holy bloody shit-waggering cock-fuck." John's experience with anyone's anatomy that close to his bum was limited to one particularly adventurous girlfriend in uni and a friends-with-benefits bloke he met while on leave once during his first tour. Neither of those could have prepared him for the reality of Sherlock and what the brilliant git could apparently do with his tongue. Which was now quite literally - if teasingly - flicking in and out of John's arsehole.

Sherlock. Inside him. Fuck.

"We don't have real lube," John gasped out.

Sherlock stilled momentarily, then resumed the arse massage with both hands. Long, slow strokes. "That's not what I thought you'd say," he murmured against John's tailbone.

John grinned at the wall. "What do people usually say?"

He was expecting a "piss off" and a shared giggle at the reference to their first day together, but Sherlock was unexpectedly silent.

"Sherlock?"

He turned around to find Sherlock sitting back on his heels with a wary expression.

"I . . ." Sherlock heaved a deep breath and scrubbed a hand over his shower-damp face. "John, I wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea about my previous experience in this arena-"

"It's fine, you berk. Kind of surprised me, but it's a good surprise-"

"I'm-not-a-virgin," Sherlock said all at once. "But I've never had a relationship one might call 'healthy.' Or particularly long-term."

"Sherlock." John reached down and hauled the man to his feet. "I'm not the poster boy for healthy long-term relationships either. With anyone except you. Have I ever abandoned you before? For more than just an angry stalk around Regent's Park?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Damn right." He leaned forward and pressed a firm kiss to Sherlock's closed lips. "And that was before I knew how good you were at turning me on. On purpose, I mean." Without breaking eye contact, he ran a palm down Sherlock's abdomen and then lower. Sherlock's cock felt odd in his hand, thicker than he was used to and at the wrong angle, but between John's soapy palm and the water still pouring down on them there was still enough slide to start a cursory wank. Sherlock's mouth dropped open.

"John."

"I'm right here." John grabbed Sherlock's wrist with his other hand and directed it to his own cock. Sherlock caught on quickly. A quick refresh of the shampoo - John's cheap Elvive in Sherlock's hand and Sherlock's pretentious shampooing de luxe in John's - and the shower was immediately filled with the mingled scents of citrus and forest (John's) and sandalwood and arrogance (Sherlock's). They were only touching hand-to-cock and with their foreheads pressed together, but the full-senses assault felt more enveloping than any post-coital cuddle John had ever shared with anyone else. Sherlock was breathing heavily, water dripping off his eyelashes as the shower beat down on the back of his head, but his body shielded John from the spray enough John could keep his eyes open and watch down between them. Somehow they'd fallen into a rhythm in tandem, down and up together. It was mesmerizing.

"That's it," John murmured. "You feel so good, Sherlock. Think you can come from this? Because I'm not far off."

"It's - oh! - rather a foregone conclusion by this point," Sherlock panted. "John, I-"

"Yes." John sped up his strokes. "I want to see you. Fuck. Come on me, please. Want to see your come on my cock, all over your fingers, my stomach-"

Sherlock gasped aloud and came. He was still shuddering when John grabbed him around the shoulders and yanked their bodies together into a tight embrace. The feel of Sherlock's twitching cock against his own pushed John over that last little bit he needed, and it took all John's concentration not to shout aloud and bite down on Sherlock's trapezius as his orgasm overtook him.

They stood there for long minutes afterward, leaning on each other under the warm spray.

"John, that was . . ." Sherlock cleared his throat and went to step back, but that just wasn't on. John dug his fingertips into Sherlock's shoulderblades and Sherlock stopped moving.

"Incredible," John said quietly. "The word you're looking for is 'incredible.' And yeah, it was. Shut up and enjoy the afterglow."

Sherlock snorted, but John could hear the humor in it. They stayed until the parts of John's body not under the water started getting goose pimples.

"You're cold," Sherlock said. "At the risk of ruining that afterglow . . . I have a surprisingly warm duvet on my bed. We could share."

John yanked him down for a long, thorough kiss. "And at the risk of proving everyone we know right . . . yes, Sherlock Holmes, I will come to bed with you. Only one problem."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"You haven't fixed the bloody door yet."

Notes:

True story: I came across the word "twatcockle" in a comments section elsewhere on the internet and I immediately opened this fic and then vacillated for twenty minutes over whether John would think of Sherlock as a "twatcockle" or a "cockwaffle."

Fanfic research is awesome, y'all.

EVEN MORE AWESOME, THOUGH:

I'm going to be at DragonCon next weekend! If you're there, come see me! There's a Sherlock meetup at 5 PM Saturday on the 5th floor of the Hilton near the elevators, and I'd love to meet you all. I'll be on a fanfiction panel that evening, too - the "British Fanfiction and Slash Fiction" panel at 11:30 PM on the Brit Track. Come heckle me, or ask questions, or say hi, or whatever. Seriously, don't let the whole room be Doctor Who fans who don't watch Sherlock. I'd be really sad.

I'm on Twitter as wendyqualls - feel free to say hi even if you're not going to DragonCon :-)