FIC: Sweet Relief - JWP21
Sweet Relief
By MonkeyBard
Rating: PG13
Length: 1393
Universe: BBC
Genre: Slash
Summary: Sherlock doesn't like the heat. John does what he can to help.
Date: 21 July 2015
JWP #21: Heat Rash. It's a muggy, hot summer and someone's reacting badly. Metaphorical bonus points for including salve/lotion/ointment and needing help applying it.
A/N: This came out in present tense. Don't ask me why. I beg your indulgence on the point.
The summer is relentless. It begins before the calendar even ticks past the solstice, and aside from an all-too-brief four-day stretch of high overcast with temperatures in the low 70s, it is the hottest and stickiest London's ever seen. Some forecasters are even predicting it will top 100 before it breaks. John sincerely hopes they are wrong.
John can manage the heat. He served in Afghanistan, after all. The humidity, however, is uncomfortable. He's lucky enough to be able to temporarily escape the general horridness by going to work. The clinic's air-conditioning isn't in the greatest of shapes, but it beats none at all, which is what they have back at Baker Street. Most of the cases he sees lately are heat-related issues. He treats them and sends them home.
Then he goes home to his own heat-related issue in the form of a six-foot baby with prickly heat rash.
He shouldn't mock or disparage Sherlock's discomfort. He knows his partner is suffering. Bored, over-heated, and itchy is possibly the worst combination Sherlock can experience. John would wish for a case to distract him, but unless it's something he can do entirely from home, it would be best not. Clothing is generally required when going out in public (a brief visit to the Palace while dressed in a sheet notwithstanding), and that simply isn't going to happen.
John has plied him with anti-histamines, cool baths and showers, and big box fan, but these provide only temporary relief. He hopes his latest offerings will do the trick.
He leaves the clinic, crossing the threshold out into the urban sauna London has become. The city smells terrible. Grime collects underneath his fingernails just walking down the street. It's genuinely appalling weather.
He envies Mrs Hudson who has escaped north to a friend's in Morpeth. Temperatures there have been less brutal and the coast is a short drive away. He also envies her for escaping Sherlock's petulant whinging.
John reminds himself again not to make fun of poor Sherlock. He's had heat rash himself once and knows it's rotten. It's only that Sherlock is such a wretched patient.
He arrives home to find a note on the door. Wary, he pulls it off and reads it. Oh. Well that's all right then. He smiles and pockets the note, then pops next door to Speedy's where he makes arrangements with Mr Chatterjee for the loan of his burliest employee in precisely 15 minutes.
At last, he enters 221B and heads up the stairs.
He finds Sherlock essentially as he left him: sprawled naked and miserable on a sheet spread over the sofa with the box fan perched where it will have the greatest effect.
"Have you had anything to eat or drink?" he asks immediately. Pleasantries are useless until the heat wave breaks.
"I have consumed sufficient electrolytes," is the short, irritated, and weary answer he receives.
"I have something that will help with the heat rash, but you need a shower first."
Sherlock turns his head. It is the only part of him that moves beyond the lift and fall of his chest as he breathes. "What?"
"Strongest prescription cortisone cream available." John produces a tube from the paper bag he carries. "As much as I can legally dispense at one go." He shakes the bag to show there's more where the first one came from. "Up. Into a cool shower. Then you can come back here to dry off in front of the fan. After that, this." He indicates the cream again.
It is several seconds before Sherlock moves. When he does, it is stiffly, unhappily. John sees in his face the effort it takes him not to scratch at the little red spots that cover nearly 50 percent of his body. He clenches his hands into fists, takes a deep breath that he lets out slowly, and walks gingerly down the hall to the bathroom.
John makes certain Sherlock has everything he needs before shutting the bathroom door behind him. He checks his watch. Perfect.
He hurries downstairs and opens the front door before Chatterjee's man can ring the bell.
"Bring it upstairs, please." He points the way and the fellow carries the heavy box up. "I really appreciate this."
Once in the sitting room, John takes the lead and ushers him to the bedroom. "Set it down there, would you?"
"You want me to set it up for you?" the chap asks.
John didn't anticipate this. He has assumed he will have to read the instructions and do it himself while Sherlock dries off in the sitting room. "Seriously?"
"My dad works in HVAC. I used to help out with little jobs like this all the time. I can have it done in twenty minutes, tops."
Can John keep Sherlock in the shower for twenty minutes? It's worth a shot. He wants this to be a surprise if it is at all possible. "Mr Chatterjee won't mind you being gone?"
"I'm off the clock. No problem, mate."
"I don't have much cash."
"Twenty?"
John considers his general finances and the money in his wallet. "Deal. And thank you!"
*
Less than half an hour later, the job is done, the fellow paid and departed, and the bedroom door firmly shut.
John has changed out the sheet on the sofa for a clean one and soon Sherlock is once more ensconced in front of the box fan, air drying.
John has no doubt his partner has heard the minor commotion earlier and the whirring hum that now emanates from behind the bedroom door. But Sherlock has commented on none of it.
"Ready for lotion?" John asks.
"God, yes."
John opens a tube and begins to rub it gently over all of Sherlock's itchy bits. His shoulders, chest, and belly. His hips, thighs, and groin. It's a testament to how miserable Sherlock is that his cock only offers the slightest response to the attention around it.
"Roll over. I'll get your backside."
Sherlock makes no protest. His face is already beginning to lose the pinched and unhappy expression is has worn for the past two days. Ever since the heat rash developed.
John continues his ministrations, applying cream to Sherlock's back and bum, the backs of his legs, and up again to his underarms. He's glad to note that none of the burst bumps has become infected. That would have been bad. He only stops when Sherlock is thoroughly swathed in the anti-itch lotion.
"Better?"
"Significantly." Sherlock moves gingerly, once more turning to lie on his back.
"I'll get you some more water. Do you need anything else?"
"No."
He leaves the tube of medicine on the coffee table and fetches Sherlock a bottle of water from the fridge. He uncaps it and sets it next to the cortisone cream. "I'll be right back."
He slips into the bedroom to check the temperature. It's greatly improved and on its way to heavenly. It is the first time in a month he's felt comfortable in his own home. He smiles and slips back out, closing the door behind him, and returns to the sitting room.
"I have one more treat for you. Come into the bedroom."
"Don't be absurd, John. I have neither the energy nor the desire for sexual activity right now."
"I didn't suggest it, did I? And since when have we needed the bedroom for that? Come on." Surely he's noticed, thinks John. But perhaps he's so deep in his own self-pitying misery he's dismissed the evidence of his ears. "It'll be worth it."
Sherlock doesn't quite muster up a glare as he peels himself from the sheet and stands. John claims the sheet, now damp with lotion, and follows him to the bedroom.
The look on Sherlock's face as he enters the newly air-conditioned room is one of sublime bliss. It's worth every penny John has spent on the window-mounted A/C unit, despite the price gouging he's sure he endured.
He lays the sheet on Sherlock's side of the bed. (There's no point in dirtying yet another sheet, even if they'd had any clean ones left.) Wordlessly, Sherlock sits and then sprawls across it, a sigh escaping his lips.
"I'll get your water and the cortisone," John says, and reaches for the doorknob.
"John?"
"Yes?"
"I love you."
John grins. "I know."
By MonkeyBard
Rating: PG13
Length: 1393
Universe: BBC
Genre: Slash
Summary: Sherlock doesn't like the heat. John does what he can to help.
Date: 21 July 2015
JWP #21: Heat Rash. It's a muggy, hot summer and someone's reacting badly. Metaphorical bonus points for including salve/lotion/ointment and needing help applying it.
A/N: This came out in present tense. Don't ask me why. I beg your indulgence on the point.
The summer is relentless. It begins before the calendar even ticks past the solstice, and aside from an all-too-brief four-day stretch of high overcast with temperatures in the low 70s, it is the hottest and stickiest London's ever seen. Some forecasters are even predicting it will top 100 before it breaks. John sincerely hopes they are wrong.
John can manage the heat. He served in Afghanistan, after all. The humidity, however, is uncomfortable. He's lucky enough to be able to temporarily escape the general horridness by going to work. The clinic's air-conditioning isn't in the greatest of shapes, but it beats none at all, which is what they have back at Baker Street. Most of the cases he sees lately are heat-related issues. He treats them and sends them home.
Then he goes home to his own heat-related issue in the form of a six-foot baby with prickly heat rash.
He shouldn't mock or disparage Sherlock's discomfort. He knows his partner is suffering. Bored, over-heated, and itchy is possibly the worst combination Sherlock can experience. John would wish for a case to distract him, but unless it's something he can do entirely from home, it would be best not. Clothing is generally required when going out in public (a brief visit to the Palace while dressed in a sheet notwithstanding), and that simply isn't going to happen.
John has plied him with anti-histamines, cool baths and showers, and big box fan, but these provide only temporary relief. He hopes his latest offerings will do the trick.
He leaves the clinic, crossing the threshold out into the urban sauna London has become. The city smells terrible. Grime collects underneath his fingernails just walking down the street. It's genuinely appalling weather.
He envies Mrs Hudson who has escaped north to a friend's in Morpeth. Temperatures there have been less brutal and the coast is a short drive away. He also envies her for escaping Sherlock's petulant whinging.
John reminds himself again not to make fun of poor Sherlock. He's had heat rash himself once and knows it's rotten. It's only that Sherlock is such a wretched patient.
He arrives home to find a note on the door. Wary, he pulls it off and reads it. Oh. Well that's all right then. He smiles and pockets the note, then pops next door to Speedy's where he makes arrangements with Mr Chatterjee for the loan of his burliest employee in precisely 15 minutes.
At last, he enters 221B and heads up the stairs.
He finds Sherlock essentially as he left him: sprawled naked and miserable on a sheet spread over the sofa with the box fan perched where it will have the greatest effect.
"Have you had anything to eat or drink?" he asks immediately. Pleasantries are useless until the heat wave breaks.
"I have consumed sufficient electrolytes," is the short, irritated, and weary answer he receives.
"I have something that will help with the heat rash, but you need a shower first."
Sherlock turns his head. It is the only part of him that moves beyond the lift and fall of his chest as he breathes. "What?"
"Strongest prescription cortisone cream available." John produces a tube from the paper bag he carries. "As much as I can legally dispense at one go." He shakes the bag to show there's more where the first one came from. "Up. Into a cool shower. Then you can come back here to dry off in front of the fan. After that, this." He indicates the cream again.
It is several seconds before Sherlock moves. When he does, it is stiffly, unhappily. John sees in his face the effort it takes him not to scratch at the little red spots that cover nearly 50 percent of his body. He clenches his hands into fists, takes a deep breath that he lets out slowly, and walks gingerly down the hall to the bathroom.
John makes certain Sherlock has everything he needs before shutting the bathroom door behind him. He checks his watch. Perfect.
He hurries downstairs and opens the front door before Chatterjee's man can ring the bell.
"Bring it upstairs, please." He points the way and the fellow carries the heavy box up. "I really appreciate this."
Once in the sitting room, John takes the lead and ushers him to the bedroom. "Set it down there, would you?"
"You want me to set it up for you?" the chap asks.
John didn't anticipate this. He has assumed he will have to read the instructions and do it himself while Sherlock dries off in the sitting room. "Seriously?"
"My dad works in HVAC. I used to help out with little jobs like this all the time. I can have it done in twenty minutes, tops."
Can John keep Sherlock in the shower for twenty minutes? It's worth a shot. He wants this to be a surprise if it is at all possible. "Mr Chatterjee won't mind you being gone?"
"I'm off the clock. No problem, mate."
"I don't have much cash."
"Twenty?"
John considers his general finances and the money in his wallet. "Deal. And thank you!"
*
Less than half an hour later, the job is done, the fellow paid and departed, and the bedroom door firmly shut.
John has changed out the sheet on the sofa for a clean one and soon Sherlock is once more ensconced in front of the box fan, air drying.
John has no doubt his partner has heard the minor commotion earlier and the whirring hum that now emanates from behind the bedroom door. But Sherlock has commented on none of it.
"Ready for lotion?" John asks.
"God, yes."
John opens a tube and begins to rub it gently over all of Sherlock's itchy bits. His shoulders, chest, and belly. His hips, thighs, and groin. It's a testament to how miserable Sherlock is that his cock only offers the slightest response to the attention around it.
"Roll over. I'll get your backside."
Sherlock makes no protest. His face is already beginning to lose the pinched and unhappy expression is has worn for the past two days. Ever since the heat rash developed.
John continues his ministrations, applying cream to Sherlock's back and bum, the backs of his legs, and up again to his underarms. He's glad to note that none of the burst bumps has become infected. That would have been bad. He only stops when Sherlock is thoroughly swathed in the anti-itch lotion.
"Better?"
"Significantly." Sherlock moves gingerly, once more turning to lie on his back.
"I'll get you some more water. Do you need anything else?"
"No."
He leaves the tube of medicine on the coffee table and fetches Sherlock a bottle of water from the fridge. He uncaps it and sets it next to the cortisone cream. "I'll be right back."
He slips into the bedroom to check the temperature. It's greatly improved and on its way to heavenly. It is the first time in a month he's felt comfortable in his own home. He smiles and slips back out, closing the door behind him, and returns to the sitting room.
"I have one more treat for you. Come into the bedroom."
"Don't be absurd, John. I have neither the energy nor the desire for sexual activity right now."
"I didn't suggest it, did I? And since when have we needed the bedroom for that? Come on." Surely he's noticed, thinks John. But perhaps he's so deep in his own self-pitying misery he's dismissed the evidence of his ears. "It'll be worth it."
Sherlock doesn't quite muster up a glare as he peels himself from the sheet and stands. John claims the sheet, now damp with lotion, and follows him to the bedroom.
The look on Sherlock's face as he enters the newly air-conditioned room is one of sublime bliss. It's worth every penny John has spent on the window-mounted A/C unit, despite the price gouging he's sure he endured.
He lays the sheet on Sherlock's side of the bed. (There's no point in dirtying yet another sheet, even if they'd had any clean ones left.) Wordlessly, Sherlock sits and then sprawls across it, a sigh escaping his lips.
"I'll get your water and the cortisone," John says, and reaches for the doorknob.
"John?"
"Yes?"
"I love you."
John grins. "I know."