Working on the Edges

Chapter Ten

When John woke up Sherlock was sleeping. He'd flailed his way to the very opposite side of the bed, duvet thrown off of him, and he looked restless somehow, even though he was still sound asleep. John slid out of bed; Sherlock didn't stir. He walked into the bathroom and turned the shower on and then he walked back out into the bedroom. He paused and looked down at Sherlock, who was frowning slightly in his sleep, and John wondered what terrible dream he might be lost in. Then he leaned down and kissed him gently awake, kissing him until the lips under his stopped frowning and started responding.

Which was when John pulled back. "Come and take a shower with me," he murmured, and he winked as he headed back toward the bathroom.

It took Sherlock a moment to join him, and he wrinkled his nose as soon as he did. "God, this water is scorching," he complained, and turned down the temperature a bit.

"Got to get the muscles loose. Much more pleasant than that cold bath you arranged for me last night."

"That was practical," said Sherlock, sounding sour. "How is this practical? We barely fit in here."

Which was true, but John wasn't about to let a little thing like that stop him.

"Are you always grumpy in the morning?" John asked casually as he squirted shampoo into his hand.

Sherlock looked offended. "I am not grumpy."

"Wet your hair so I can wash it for you."

"I can wash my hair myself," said Sherlock.

"Yes, but what would be the point of that? Have you ever asked yourself?"

"Clean hair?"

"You're missing the point. Go ahead, wet it."

Sherlock, looking suspicious, ducked his head under the spray, coming up with it sodden in bedraggled curls all over his head, water streaming down his face, which meant he couldn't effectively glare because his eyes kept blinking water away.

"All right, lean a bit so I can reach you. Since you're so unnecessarily tall."

"I'm a normal height."

"Not for a figure skater."

"You're just short."

"Not for a figure skater," John said, smiling, and massaged shampoo into Sherlock's hair. He rubbed his fingers over Sherlock's scalp, kneading gently, and Sherlock stopped complaining, just as John had known he would. John alternated the blunt, slight scratch of his nails with the calluses of his fingers with the slide of his knuckles, over Sherlock's head, behind his ears, along the hairline on his neck. By the time he murmured, "Rinse," Sherlock had to shake himself back to enough awareness to obey.

John glanced down the front of his body and cocked an eyebrow at him. "You see the point now?"

"Smug," said Sherlock, but let John back him up against the wall of the shower and kiss him, wet and slick and gasping.

"I'm just saying," said John, nipping at his bottom lip, "so much better than a cold bath."

"I would have washed your hair if you'd asked," said Sherlock, licking into John's mouth.

"Not actually the point," smiled John, and slid to his knees. "I'm going to shave you next."

Sherlock regarded him warily. "Shave me where?"

John laughed, which was not conducive to the activity he was supposed to be engaging in, and when he caught his breath he leaned forward and swallowed Sherlock down. The water was hot against his back, and John thought that he had to get this done before the hot water ran out.