Work Text:
The ice cube left a slick wet trail down her neck, raising the flesh momentarily into goose pimples. Joan sighed. "God...!"
"It is indeed very hot, Watson. In fact, the meterologists are promising us a genuine Indian Summer." Sherlock, wearing only a pair of floral surfing shorts, was sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor. "Excellent conditions for a wide range of vaporization and decomposition experiments I've been wishing to perform."
He sounded way too cheerful about it, Joan thought. She eyed the array of flat boxes and glass jars in front of him. Something about the whole set-up reminded her of a kid in a sandbox.
"As long as you keep your experiments smell-free." She poured a tall glass of juice from the fridge and rested it against her cheek before taking a deep draught.
"I'm afraid I can make no such guarantees." Now he sounded down-right gleeful.
She resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. He had his back turned anyway. "I am never going to be able to fall asleep," she whimpered.
"Ah, I find that in conditions such as these, sleeping in the nude is by far the best option."
She quirked an eyebrow. "I bet you do. And I might be inclined to do that, if I didn't have a house mate who is constantly barging into my room when I'm sleeping."
"I assure you, I have seen a naked woman before, Watson. There is no need to shelter me from any such vue."
"Oh, you've seen it all before, have you?"
"As have you, I'm sure, being a medical professional. The human body is not inherently shameful," he gestured expansively, "and really our motivation to cover it up should be solely grounded in a need to protect or warm it."
Joan rinsed out her glass. "Well, you may have seen a naked body, Sherlock, but you haven't seen mine, and I would like to keep it that way. Now, can I trust you stay out of my room, no matter what?"
Sherlock made a notation in a notepad, and then tipped his head back to look at her. "I give you my word, Watson, that I will not intrude upon you in your sanctum sanctorum in order to view your naked form."
"Smartass," she mumbled as she walked past him. "Don't stay up all night."
It really was unbearably hot. Even opening the window as wide as it would go let in no breeze, but somehow the smell of the overheated dumpsters in the back yard still managed to waft in. Joan shut the window again in disgust and wished fervently that the brownstone had had proper air conditioning. There was nothing for it but to strip down to her panties and use the lightest sheet she could find for a duvet.
The night wore on, with loud voices erupting in arguments and sirens wailing past over and over again. Joan slept fitfully until she finally dozed off properly in the early hours of the morning when the temperature finally dropped a few degrees.
"Joan!"
Joan woke up with a gasp, not only shocked by the shout but by the vicinity of Sherlock's voice. She grappled to cover herself with the sheet and get her hair out of her eyes at the same time, thrashing around ungracefully and already angry before she was properly awake. "Sherlock, what the hell! I thought I told you not to come in here!"
"And I did, if you recall, promise not to enter in order to look at you, which I assure you I have not."
Joan blinked.
Sherlock was standing in the door, wearing a thick black blindfold.
"Sherlock! What..." She fell back onto the bed in complete exasperation.
"As you can perceive I have taken the only logical step that accomodates both of us while allowing our routine to continue unaltered during this heat wave." He smiled brilliantly, rocking back on his heels.
"Sherlock, we do not have a routine. You storming in here and waking me up was never a routine! It's a bad habit that you need to quit." She fumbled under the bed for the tank top and short shorts she'd dropped there last night.
"I would explain the difference between a routine and a habit to you, but Gregson has requested our presence at a crime scene. Do hurry."
Joan grumbled and Sherlock seemed satisfied. He turned to walk back out -- and ran smack into the door jamb. Joan laughed, even as Sherlock cursed and tried to nurse his bruised foot and nose at the same time.
"You are being very unkind indeed, Joan!" Sherlock shouted, sounding honestly hurt.
Joan, still giggling, dragged herself over to him and pulled the ridiculous blindfold off him. "Serves you right. Come on, let's go get a look at you."
"My toe is bleeding!" he exclaimed in high-pitched affront.
"At least it's not your nose. Come on."