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Even by John’s admittedly skewed standards, this was an awkward situation. He was standing in the middle of what was once a vacant warehouse, a grim expression on his face as he was surrounded by people in hazmat suits. Beside him, Sherlock was trying valiantly not to shiver after he’d taken an unceremonious dunk into a pool of what may have been radioactive water. John had severe doubts that the water had been radioactive, but he smartly kept his mouth shut, lest he set Sherlock off on a tangent of petulant snarking in an effort to keep his soaked, hypothetically radioactive clothing on his person.
“Alright boys!” Lestrade called loudly from where he stood in the carefully measured and taped off zone of safety on the far side of the warehouse. “Just get it over with.”
Sherlock shot a haughty glare in Lestrade’s direction, though the edge was severely dampened by the distance, his frigid shuddering, and his general half-drowned, rather ruffled appearance. Donovan, standing at Lestrade’s shoulder, barked a laugh. Casting another quick glance at Sherlock, John had to admit that he didn’t blame her in the slightest.
“Off with your trousers, boys,” Lestrade prompted for what must have been the fourth time. They were both already shirtless, and John was managing himself quite fine, but still he was really rather reluctant to simply drop trou surrounded by the people who, for all intents and purposes, were his coworkers. While it may be true that John lived with a mad genius in a flat that wavered between biohazardous (why on Earth is there a spleen on a dinner plate next to the leftover pork?) and just plain hazardous (no, Sherlock, there is never an excuse to build a bomb in our flat, regardless of whether you intend to set it off or not), and he’d been driven from his home on more occasions than cared to count by firemen, the police, and one time the military (again, Sherlock, I don’t care why you built the bomb, just don’t do it ever again), he did have some shred of dignity he liked to keep intact. Never once had he been so caught off guard that he’d need to flee any location in nothing but his pants, and he certainly hadn’t ever needed to be in such a state in front of the entire population of the Met.
It was with a vast weariness that he brought his somewhat cold numbed fingers to his belt to continue the process of disrobing. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he wanted to blame Sherlock for this. After all, John had been the one to dive into the water after Sherlock to rescue him, as he was fairly sure that no matter what skills the other man possessed, he wouldn’t be able to swim to safety when he’d been dumped in with his wrists bound to his ankles in a rather ungainly manner. Another glance in Sherlock’s direction kept the blame at bay. A small trickle of water was making its way down from his sodden curls to drip morosely over one sharp cheekbone. In all, John was fairly sure he’d never seen the detective look more pitiful.
He unbuttoned himself and rolled his eyes skyward with a bone wearied sigh. “The things I do for you,” he said, shaking his head. His trousers slid down and he stepped out of them, leaning over cautiously to pick them up and hand them to the nearest hazmat-suited figure. There was a shower of catcalls and whistles from the assembled officers across the room. He looked down and grimaced.
“Bit outlandish for you, isn’t it, doctor?”
John squinted, but couldn’t figure out who had spoken. “Ha ha.” He rubbed at the elastic waistband of his pants, which were a bright, cheery red. “I like a bit of colour, thank you very much,” he said defensively. “I have others. Maybe the lot of you’d be interested in the green or blue ones as well?” He managed a laugh and turned slightly to his side. “Sherlock?”
The man eyed him warily, arms folded tightly under his ribs, shoulders ever so slightly hunched. Sherlock sniffed, and John was fairly sure the look of disdain he was given was designed to make it appear he wasn’t sniffling with cold. “You don’t own a single pair of sensible pants,” he said finally, and John pretended he didn’t hear his stuttering as his teeth chattered.
“And you would know,” he said decisively, the humour dripping from his voice. He only processed the words after he’d said them, and swore under his breath, thankful he’d spoken quietly enough that no one from the Yard could have heard him.
Sherlock gave him a long look. “People will talk, John.” Of course, he didn’t bother to pitch his voice low, but it seemed no one quite dared to comment.
“Sherlock!” The detective turned stiffly in acknowledgement. “Trousers off. Down to your pants, now.”
“That won’t be possible,” he said calmly, just loud enough to be heard across the warehouse.
John buried his face in his hand with a sigh. “Not poss—” Lestrade’s voice fell off, and John imagined he was muttering something under his breath. “I will have them cut your clothes off,” he said, exasperation clear in every syllable. “Look, John’s starting to feel mighty strange being the only one in his pants in front of everyone.” John wanted to comment that peer pressure would hardly convince Sherlock of anything, but he held back.
“I don’t think you heard me correctly, Detective Inspector. That won’t be possible.” Sherlock loudly enunciated each word. He cast a pointed look in John’s direction, as though he was supposed to understand and help him explain his baffling reasoning to Lestrade.
“I know it’s cold,” he said on a whim. Sherlock rolled his eyes in agitation. “And the sooner we get decontaminated,” he said in a rush, “the sooner you can get warm.” He may have also followed his statement up with a bit of abuse mumbled under his breath, but not even Sherlock managed to hear it. John saw the detective draw in a sharp breath, lips parting to let loose a scathing retort. “Oh, for god’s sake,” he said in exasperation. “Sherlock, take off your trousers. I’m standing here in bloody bright red pants that I did not want to be seen in by these people,” he gestured emphatically at the distant figures of Lestrade and Donovan, “and I know you’re not self-conscious in the least. So just do it!”
Sherlock stood stock still, save for his shivering, his mouth still opened from his interrupted rant. His jaw clicked shut audibly. “Fine!” he snarled, long fingers suddenly a blur of motion as he deftly unbuttoned and unzipped himself, all but tearing his trousers from his body. “There!”
And—oh.
It became very apparent why Sherlock had said it wouldn’t be possible for him to strip down to his pants. For whatever reason, in some dark corner of his tragically brilliant brain, it had apparently been a good idea for Sherlock Holmes to fight London’s criminals with no pants on. John felt quite proud of himself, actually. For once, he had a shred more dignity than his flatmate.
Lestrade coughed loudly enough that it could be heard through the entire warehouse, and there were several titters of laughter. John tried to keep his eyes on Sherlock’s face. He’d folded his arms back under his ribs, and seemed to have miserably given up on pretending he wasn’t cold now that he was entirely exposed. John’s eyes drifted unwittingly across the other man’s crossed arms, and then—yes, alright. Sherlock definitely was stark naked. John looked away quickly and coughed.
“Run out of pants?” he quipped after a long, awkward moment. He was fairly sure Sherlock had seen his drifting gaze, and he dreaded the idea that anyone else had noticed. He needed a distraction. Sherlock simply sniffed in response. “Should maybe do your wash more, then,” he said doggedly.
“John, do shut up.”
“Yes, alright.”
They stood beside each other in silence through the whole process of decontamination, pointedly ignoring one another in their respective red-panted and pant-less situation. They were seated hip pressed to hip across the back of an ambulance, John quietly cursing after they’d been informed that the vat of water they'd gone for a swim in had not in fact been contaminated, meaning their whole situation had been utterly avoidable, when he deemed it a decent time to speak again.
He pursed his lips, frowning at the sky as he drew a blanket more tightly around himself. The steel of the ambulance beneath his bum was leaching cold through the blanket, and he nearly shivered. “Be a bit difficult to catch a cab looking like this,” he said finally.
Sherlock drew in a long, weary breath, his every moment expressing his disdain. “Yes.”
“Still cold?” He waited a breath, and decided that no response was answer enough. After a bit of negotiation, John draped an arm over Sherlock’s shoulder. The taller man stiffened, glancing around surreptitiously. He let out a long suffering sigh, but finally leaned closer to John’s side with a sort of weary resentment prominent in his motions.
“John,” Sherlock said after a moment. “I’m not clothed. Not covered in the least.”
“...yes,” he said slowly. John spared a glance at him curiously. He knew Sherlock hated statements of the obvious like that, so—”Oh god, Sherlock.” He closed his eyes. “Could you please hold your blanket closed? Thank you.” John had the distinct feeling that Sherlock was pouting at him as he leaned bonelessly against his side, but there wasn’t very well much he could do about that.
“This is much better, John.”
“Better?” he asked after a moment, because yes, it was better now that Sherlock wasn’t exposing himself to the Met once again, though he doubted that was what the detective meant. Not with that tone of voice.
“Warmer.” He said the word slowly.
John turned his eyes down to his lap, lips pursed in contemplation. “Yes, well. That’s to be expected.” Sherlock made a small sound of agreement, and John found himself looking skyward once again, clearing his throat. He contemplated the stars in an attempt to distract himself. They were, in fact, awfully nice this time of year. And—and there was no way in hell any cab driver would be willing to take them anywhere any time soon, that was for sure.