A Naughty Bit Not Good
by J.H. Watson
~ 1,700 words
“John, we need to go to Kent.”
John Watson jumped and dropped his washcloth. Soap was washed into his eye. He plunged his head under the shower to wash away the rest of the soap and get control of his temper before replying. “I’m in the shower.”
“Obviously. But you apparently couldn’t hear me talking to you when I stood outside the door.”
“That would be because I’M IN THE SHOWER!” John snatched up the washcloth and began vigorously scrubbing himself. “And while I don’t mind sharing the shower from time to time, you are not the person I want to share it with.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, John, you’ve been in this bathroom for over forty minutes. Surely you’ve finished mastur—“
“SHERLOCK! Get out.”
“Fine. But the train for Kent leaves in fifty minutes.”
John heard the bathroom door close and finished scrubbing down with hard, fast movements in less than a minute. He stood under the shower head, letting the hot water rinse away his rage and watched the suds slip down the drain, then reached over and turned the knob to cold. He shivered under the flow for thirty seconds before turning the water completely off. Shaking himself like a dog, he grabbed a towel and roughly dried himself. He dropped the towel on the floor and picked up his pants.
The bathroom door flew open and Sherlock said, “And you should pack your gun. It might be dangerous.”
Sherlock closed and dashed away. John finished putting on his clothes and took the toenail clippers from the cabinet. He’d just sat down and was inspecting his foot, when he heard the footsteps approaching again. As they reached in front of the door, John said, “Sherlock, don’t you dare open that door!”
“We don’t have time for you to clip your nails. Just grab your electric shaver and toothbrush and come on. I’ve packed you a bag.”
“You packed—“ but the footsteps were moving away before John could finish his sentence. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he put on his socks, pulled out his toiletries bag with his shaver and spare toothbrush, floss and toothpaste and tucked the adult magazine under the towels in the back of the closet.
John found Sherlock pacing in the living room.
Sherlock said, “About time.” He then turned and flew down the stairs, hollering to Mrs. Hudson that they’d be gone for a day or two and that she wasn’t to touch the stuff on the kitchen counter until he got back.
John counted to five silently, then picked up the two bags and followed.
It took three days to flush out the Sylvius gang and recover the stolen Mazarin stone. During that time Watson had partially eaten exactly two rather horrible take-away meals and drunk a gallon of execrable coffee and another of worse tea. He’d slept no more than six hours and two of those were on his feet and the other was in a hard chair. Sherlock had found it all exhilarating and had been chatting away since they’d boarded the train for the return to London. He was still going as John paid the cabbie and, bags in hand, followed Sherlock back into 221B Baker Street and collapsed in a chair.
“I believe I’m tired. Just tea for me. I’ll eat something later,” Sherlock said and he flung himself full-length upon sofa.
John looked up from where he’d been resting his head on his hand and stared at his flatmate. He pinched his lips together. He stood up slowly, picked up his bag and went upstairs to his room. After peeling off his jacket, he stretched out on his bed and placed his arm over his eyes to block out the light. Just as he started dozing off, a shout came from downstairs.
“John, where’s my tea?”
John lowered his arm, opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling for a moment. Then he slowly dragged himself off the bed, went downstairs and made tea. He carried the cup and the pot to where Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa with his eyes closed. As he came up beside the sofa, Sherlock held out his hand, keeping his eyes closed. John placed the cup in Sherlock’s outstretched hand and proceeded to pour tea — over Sherlock’s groin.
Sherlock shot up and shouted, “What are you doing?”
“Bringing tea to an annoying dick.”
Sherlock furrowed his brow in a puzzled expression before John continued, “Apparently, you didn’t deduce that I’m tired, too. And I’m not your personal assistant.”
John set the tea pot down on the coffee table and started for the door.
“Where are you going?”
John caught a cab to Stamford’s. Stamford was glad for the company and had some curry take-away already on its way. He opened a couple of beers and listened sympathetically to John’s periodic rants throughout the meal and the football match on the telly. John didn’t stop blurting out his litany of complaints until he fell asleep on Stamford’s sofa around eleven.
Stamford woke John up with a cup of coffee in the morning. John took it and said, “Sorry about the venting. I owe you one.”
“No problem. It’s not like I don’t know what you’re talking about. What I don’t understand is how you put up with him?”
John shrugged. “I’m never bored.”
On the way back to Baker Street, John picked up the dry cleaning and did some shopping including picking up a package of Sherlock’s favourite biscuits by way of an apology.
In the store John noticed the girl in meat department smirking at him as she scanned him from head to toe and back up. As John turned to leave, he caught her out of the corner of his eye pointing at him and saying something to the other woman in the meat department who laughed. John looked down at himself. He was a bit rumpled but his zipper was up, his fly closed and he didn’t see any obvious stains or holes. As he picked out tomatoes, two other women gave him the once over and smiled. A guy from down the street, gave him a thumbs up from the opposite ends of the tea aisle. While he waited in line at the chip and pin machine, one of women who’d smiled at him in the produce aisle came up and slipped him a card with her number on it and a wink. John smiled to himself as he place it in his pocket. As he was checking out, the other young woman came up and tucked a piece of paper in his bag, pinched his bum and walked away with some serious hip sway. When John pulled the note out, it had a phone number on it in red lipstick with a lipstick kiss beneath it. John put this into his jacket pocket as well and went out with a grin.
When the cab let him out at Baker Street, the cabbie waved off the five pound note John offered and said, “It’s on me. Let me know if you ever want to take a walk on opposite side of street.” And then the cabbie winked at him.
John stood on the street with a perplexed expression before hauling the bags and dry cleaning upstairs. As he entered the flat, he called out, “I’ll put the kettle on and start the tea.” He whistled a peppy pop tune as he put the groceries and dry cleaning away.
Sherlock immersed in some research with his scope said, “You’re in a better mood.”
“I having a really good day.”
John turned on his laptop and while it was booting up, he made the tea and set a cup and a plate of biscuits by Sherlock’s hand. He took his cup back to the computer. He looked at his inbox and said, “Damn!”
Sherlock looked up from his scope and asked, “Something wrong?”
“Oh, I’ve just been hit by a load of spam.”
“Are you sure they’re spam?”
“Why else would I have over 500 emails with the words ‘sexy’ and ‘hot’ in the subject line?”
Sherlock sipped his tea and smiled. John called up the bookmark for his blog and as it loaded took a drink of his tea.
And promptly spewed it all over his screen and keyboard.
Sherlock stood up. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve been hacked!”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure. I know I didn’t put these photos on here. And video? Oh, my god, there’s a video!”
Sherlock had walked over to stand behind John and look at the computer monitor. “Look’s like you’ve gone viral. Over 100,000 hits since last night. Congratulations, John.”
“Congratulations! Sherlock, someone has hacked my site and posted naked pictures of me!”
“And a video.”
“Thank you for reminding me. What am I going to do?”
“Judging from those comments, you’ll going to be very busy.” Sherlock took another sip of tea and added, “You wouldn’t think there would be that many desperate women, and men, out there. Apparently, John, the saying is true.”
John rubbed his hand through his hair. “What saying?”
“It pays to advertise.”
Illumination struck. John made face and sagged saying, “You did this.”
“You’ve been exceedingly irritable and edgy lately. Sexual frustration seemed the most likely cause.”
“Having a git for a flatmate, didn’t come to mind?” John sighed. “This is payback for the tea, isn’t it?”
“Payback? I was doing you a favor.”
“A favor! You call plastering me in the buff all over the internet doing me a favor?”
“Judging from the number of offers for sexual congress from a wide variety of women of which at least 12.7 percent appear to live in the London area, I’d say I’ve done you a great favor. I’m the one who has to endure the inconvenience of you tomcatting about and risking exposure to assorted diseases. You will take precautions, I assume. I suppose you should pick up more condoms. And do try to limit yourself to those women who have their own flat, so you don’t have to bring them around here.”
John stared at Sherlock. “You made me look like an idiot, Sherlock.”
“On the contrary, John, I made you look like a prince.”
### End ###
With apologies to Prince Harry (whose discovered what happens in Vegas doesn’t necessarily stay in Vegas).