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When John Watson moved into 221B Baker Street, he took over a lot of the household chores.
Well, to be honest, he took over all of them.
It’s not that his consulting detective flatmate thought that things like cooking and cleaning and laundry were beneath him. And it’s not that he couldn’t be arsed to do them. It’s just that, since Sherlock grew up the way he did, in the big house with the staff, he never HAD to do them. And then, once he went away to school, those things still got done for him. He still had to keep his bed made and his section of the dorm tidy (which was a struggle, admittedly), but he didn’t have to dust his desk or his bureau, or wash and wax floors, or clean any bathrooms. University was much the same; not that students usually have laundry or cleaning service, but Sherlock was a Holmes, after all, and a legacy, and there are always those looking to profit by taking on those tasks others find inconvenient.
As an adult, Sherlock had really never given chores any thought. Either his brother or, once he moved to Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson, saw that things were done. All he knew was that when he opened his drawer, there were clean pants and socks, and when he opened the fridge, there was bread and milk. No one really cleaned the flat beyond the basics, but Sherlock didn’t mind, since then his experiments weren’t being disturbed. Meals were provided by either Mrs. Hudson or takeaway.
Once John moved in, he took over a lot of those little things Sherlock had never considered. Now, when Sherlock found bread and milk, it was John who had bought it and put it there. When he had curry or tikka masala, John had ordered it in. When the carpet needed a good hoovering, John took care of that, too.
However, once they became a couple, things changed. Sherlock took over more of the cooking (and he was very good at it), and John did the washing up. Sherlock was responsible for keeping the sitting room and kitchen tidy (since, to be fair, he was the one who really created the messes there), but John did the bathroom. The bedroom was a bit of a grey area, although more often than not John tidied that, too.
There is one chore, however, that Sherlock is not allowed to do.
That chore is the laundry.
Even as an adult, Sherlock did not do his own laundry. In his early twenties he was much too erratic and, truthfully, strung out to get it done, so Mycroft just put one of his many people on it. When he moved into Baker Street, all he knew was that if he put his clothes in the front entrance in a cotton sack, they would be returned within a day, cleaned and pressed. But once he and John moved from flatmates to friends to together, John put a stop to that.
“It’s a waste of money, Sherlock,” he’d said. “They’re just clothes. Your nice stuff can still go to the cleaners’, but your everyday stuff can just go in with mine.” When Sherlock had looked like he was going to protest, John had taken his hands and said, “You know, we put our hands and other parts of our anatomies on each other’s arses on a regular basis. I think we can handle underwear.” And he took over laundry duty.
This isn’t to say he took it over willingly. He tried to teach Sherlock to do laundry, he really did. He took him through all the steps: sorting, measuring washing powder, hot water or cold, regular or delicate cycle. But Sherlock, the man who could identify types of tobacco based on the ash, the man who could tell someone was gay by their underpants, sure couldn’t wash them. On one memorable occasion, John came home to find all of his jumpers shrunk so small he couldn’t put his head through the neck of them. On another, he came home to find all of his pants and socks dyed soft lavender, thanks to one of Sherlock’s burgundy dress socks mixed in with the whites.
“You’ve never expressed any strong feelings against lavender before,” Sherlock had protested.
“I have nothing against lavender! Lavender is lovely, on OLD LADIES!” John had yelled, waving an offending pair of pants around. “But that doesn’t mean I want it next to my balls!” And he had wadded up the pants and thrown them on the ground in a huff. “You know my pants size, Sherlock. I expect to find 10 new pair, in my drawer, in WHITE, tomorrow!”
So Sherlock is no longer allowed to do the laundry. Truthfully, this suits John fine. Once a week he bundles all their dirty clothes, packs a trashy novel that he knows Sherlock hates, and his washing powder, and walks down to the laundrette at the end of the block. There, he reads his book in peace while their clothes go through their cycles, and comes home 90 minutes later, with a basket of fluffy clean clothes and a clear head.
This suits Sherlock fine, too. Because when John comes home from the laundrette, he smells like warmth and clean clothes fresh out of the dryer, and this makes Sherlock wild. To be honest, the only time the clothes go straight into the drawers from the basket is when Sherlock isn’t home. Otherwise, more often than not, the basket is tipped over as Sherlock adds whatever John is wearing at the time to the pile of clothes, which usually have to be re-washed.
~~
“You’re sure you don’t need me to run to the store or anything before I go,” says John as he sets his duffle bag by the door. “I can take a later train, really.”
Sherlock looks up from the kitchen table and frowns. “I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself, John,” he says. “But really, I don’t think you need to go at all.” John is wearing a soft, brown leather jacket, jeans, and sturdy boots, and Sherlock is currently wondering how long it would take to get the left one off, and if he could beat his time with the right.
John sighs. “Look, you know I don’t want to, but I booked into this conference ages ago and I can’t miss it. It was expensive, you know that, and it’s useful to me.” He comes into the kitchen and leans on the doorjamb. “But are you sure there’s nothing you need, nothing at Tesco’s, no laundry, nothing?”
“You’re only going to be gone for three days,” Sherlock says dismissively. “I think I can manage for that long. I’m not inept, you know.”
John’s face softens. “I never said you were. And I know you’re perfectly capable of feeding yourself. But I just…”
“I know.” Sherlock gets up from the table and approaches the shorter man. “I know.” He kisses John softly, and then more aggressively as John melts against him.
“Mmmm…” John pulls away, reluctantly. “I really do have to go. You could walk me to the station, you know.”
Sherlock motions to the mess on the table. “I can’t leave this, it’s acid. But I did call a taxi while you were packing, and it should be here in, oh, twenty minutes?” John smiles.
“Well then, what can we do in twenty minutes?”
~~
Sherlock is perfectly correct: he can survive for three days on his own.
It’s on the fourth day he runs into trouble.
“Sherlock, I can’t help it, there was a train crash! It’s all hands on deck!” John’s voice sounds tired and tinny through the mobile.
Sherlock sighs irritably. “Doesn’t Bristol have its own doctors?”
“Sherlock…”
“I know, I know! I just…”
“I know. I miss you too. But there are more doctors coming in all the time and they’re triaging as we speak, and it should be done in eighteen hours. I’ll text you when I get my ticket, okay? And you can meet me and we’ll go out for Indian.”
Sherlock rubs his eyes. His rational side knows that he is being selfish, that John was trained for situations like this, he lives for them, and that he is the kind of person who does all the good he can, when he can. But his non-rational side, his Sherlocky side, feels that this is patently unfair and that if there were any good in the world, John would be home, with him, curled up on the sofa, eating takeaway and watching crap telly. The two sides war briefly, until John says, “Sherlock, bit not good?” And the rational side wins out, because if there’s something he used to be, it’s “not good”, and if there’s something he’s tried to be since John came in into life, it’s “good”.
“I know. Do what you can.”
There’s a pause, during which Sherlock listens to John breathe on the phone.
“It was an accident, Sherlock. Just an accident, in case you’re thinking of coming down. Besides, there are no trains moving from London to Bristol just now, the track’s blocked off.”
“I know.” He doesn’t tell John that as soon as he saw it on the news, he texted Mycroft.
Train crash in Bristol. SH
Nothing to concern yourself with, Sherlock. Unless you think someone deliberately left a gate open and released a herd of cows. MH
Sherlock hears John sigh again. He sounds exhausted.
“I should be home Friday, barring anything else. Just make sure you eat. Or start a new experiment, you know how focused you get, and the two days will go by before you know it. But still, eat. And get dressed.”
“How did you know I wasn’t dressed?”
“It’s ten in the morning and you don’t have a case. Of course you’re not dressed. Just, put on some clean pants, at least.” John sounds exasperated, but it’s his fond exasperated voice, not the one he uses when Sherlock is being a genuine git. “I miss you,” he says again. His voice softens.
“I love you.”
“I love you, but I have to go, six ambulances just pulled up, I have to go.” And John clicks off.
Sherlock sits heavily on the sofa.
He can do this. Two more days, he can do this.
Except.
When he goes to put on not just pants, but proper clothes, he finds there are no more clean pants. Or socks. Or t-shirts.
Sherlock slams the drawer. This is not the end of the world. So there are no clean t-shirts. It wouldn’t be the first time he went without. But socks and pants are an issue. Sherlock refuses to go without socks in his shoes (one of his dorm-mates at school had athlete’s foot; revolting) and, although he’s gone without pants in the past, since Sherlock discovered the joys of silk boxers (and the even greater joy of having John touch him through those boxers), he’s never going without again.
So the option is, as he sees it, to either a) rinse some things out in the sink, which still doesn’t help because then he has to wait for them to dry; b) go without (which he refuses to even consider); or c) do a load of laundry.
Sherlock, mindful of his previous experiences with laundry, seriously considers doing what hung-over university students and people coming home at six in the morning have done for ages. But really, he can only do maybe three pair at a time, which would last for three days, and what if John is gone for another three or four days?
No. Best to be prepared for a prolonged absence and do everything at once. Besides, Sherlock reasons, John would appreciate coming home and finding nice, clean clothes waiting for him.
Option c) it is, then. Sherlock is going to do the laundry. He pulls off his dressing gown and pajamas, reasoning that today’s pants and socks can last for a few more hours, and pulls on a pair of grey trousers and a dark green shirt.
Dumping out their hamper, Sherlock thinks back. John explained this to him, and took him to the laundrette and showed him how everything worked. He carefully sorts the things into lights and darks, mindful of what John termed on his blog the Purple Pants Incident. Bagging them separately, Sherlock bundles the clothes into the basket and goes down the stairs. Before he leaves, he frowns. Is he forgetting something?
John always has a novel with him. Sherlock doesn’t think that’s necessary, but he grabs a forensic journal, just in case. This may be some sort of laundrette etiquette he’s not familiar with, but better to be prepared. Anything else?
“Sherlock, most of the machines take change, but I got us a card that’s preloaded. It’s on the little shelf in the kitchen.”
Leaving the basket in the hall, Sherlock rummages on the shelf in the kitchen. He finds the laundrette card under a human coccyx and an orange so old it looks like a shrunken head. Pocketing it, he tosses the journal in the basket and, locking the door behind him, heads off to the laundrette.
The place is not especially busy, it being near to eleven on a Wednesday morning, and Sherlock has no problems finding a machine. He carefully dumps in the whites, chooses the regular cycle and presses the button for hot water. Is that it? This is laundry, this is what John won’t let him do? He looks around. The few other people in the laundrette are either sorting or sitting, waiting for things to be done. But one thing they all have that he doesn’t is … Washing powder.
Sherlock frowns. He’s sure John must use washing powder, and they probably have some in the flat, but Sherlock’s never seen it. Luckily there’s a vending machine in the corner with a selection of packets to choose from, and Sherlock has some change in his pocket. He buys one that promises “Whiter Whites!”, and then frowns and buys a different one for the darks. Returning to his machine, he adds the powder and closes the lid. He swipes his card and the machine rumbles to life.
Sitting in a hard plastic chair, he pulls out his journal and turns to an article on the cross-applications of carbon dating between forensics and archaeology. He reads perhaps a page when someone sits down beside him. He flicks his eyes to his right and returns to his journal.
“Donovan.”
“Freak. Slumming it here with the normal folk, then? I thought you had a laundry fairy or something to take care of all those posh, bespoke shirts and trousers.”
Sherlock huffs quietly. “There is no laundry fairy, Donovan. Unless that’s what Anderson told you happened to your black brassiere? That the laundry fairy took it?” He can’t quite keep the sneer out of his voice.
Donovan’s toffee skin flushes. “I’m not talking to Anderson at the moment.”
“I’m not at all surprised to hear that. Or sorry.”
There’s a pause, and Donovan says softly, her face even darker, “Did he really take my bra?”
Sherlock snorts. “What did you think happened to it? Honestly, Donovan.”
“Well, I might have lost it here,” she says defensively.
“Oh Donovan, really. You don’t make a lot of money in your job, but what you do make, you spend wisely. You invest in nice garments, garments that project professionalism and will last, and that includes, I assume, your undergarments. Now, look at that woman—" Sherlock indicates a brunette in the next row, who is sorting out her delicates and putting them in a mesh bag. “She’s keeping all of her things together, in that little bag. She’s like you: professional, young enough in her career that she doesn’t make a great deal of money but required to look the part and so has to spend money on her clothing. That little mesh thing keeps such expensive pieces from stretching and snagging and, unless I’m wrong—" and he puts up a hand to forestall what would surely be a snide comment, “it makes it impossible to lose something in the wash. And given that you carry your clothing in those bags—" he motions towards heavy cotton sticking out of the pocket of her hooded sweatshirt, “there’s not really a danger of you dropping it anywhere.” He snaps his journal and examines the detailed photo of an arrowhead from a field in Devon. “I would imagine it’s in Anderson’s drawer, at the moment. If you wanted to retrieve it.”
Donovan is staring at him. Then she closes her mouth so hard Sherlock hears her teeth grind. “I knew it. That creep.”
“But, why are you doing your laundry here, Donovan? Don’t you live in Islington?” Sherlock glances at her. “Ah. I see. What’s his name?”
“None of your business.”
“No, no, you’re right. Assuming he’s not a spastic forensic tech who tramples all over crime scenes and treats women like objects, it most certainly is none of my business.” He glances at her out of the corner of his eye. She’s flushing again, but not from embarrassment this time. “You…” He clears his throat. “You deserve better than Anderson.”
Sherlock hears fabric rustling beside him, and Donovan leans into his shoulder, slightly. “Thanks, freak.” She clears her throat and gets up. “I think my dryer’s done. And I think your washing’s done, too. You know…” She nudges the bag of darks at Sherlock’s feet. “You’re allowed to use two machines at once. When it’s not busy. Cuts down on your time here, you know?” She flashes him a brief smile and goes to unload her machine.
Sherlock puts his journal aside and moves his whites to the dryer. He’s pleased to see that they are still white (at least he didn’t repeat that mistake), swipes his card to turn it on and loads up his darks in the washer. He sits down and finishes his article, and reads through one on using blowfly larvae to estimate time of death. Nothing new, there.
When his dryer buzzes, he gets up to pull his whites out and put his darks in. But there’s something wrong.
“No dryer sheet, huh? Or fabric softener?” Donovan is walking by, her bag of clean clothes bouncing against her legs. “That’s what happens. Everything sticks together. You just have to pull everything apart, is all. But watch out…” And she plucks a sock that seems to have glued itself to Sherlock’s arm. “They stick to other stuff, too. Good way to lose a sock or something.” She smiles crookedly at him. “His name’s David. He’s a bank clerk. And Lestrade already checked him out.” Hefting her bag, she walks past Sherlock and out the door, turning towards Marylebone.
Sherlock folds his whites. That is possibly the most civil conversation he has ever had with Donovan, he reflects. John would be proud of him.
When the darks are done, Sherlock folds them as well, stacks them neatly in the basket and walks back to Baker Street. He lets himself in and goes up the stairs, where he drops the basket.
“John!”
Sitting on the sofa, with a cup of tea, looking absolutely exhausted, is John. His jacket is hanging open and his boots are lying haphazardly in front of him, where he kicked them off.
“Mycroft. Helicopter. I would have texted but my phone died. Sherlock, were you doing laundry?”
Sherlock looks down at the basket at his feet. “Yes, I…ran out of…” he trails off.
John looks amused. “Pants, by the looks of it.” He gets up and sets his cup on the coffee table. “No… shrinkage, this time? And everything still looks white. Well done, you,” and he nudges the basket out of the way and wraps his arms around Sherlock. He presses his face into Sherlock’s chest and inhales deeply. “Mmm… now I know why you’re all over me when I come back from doing the laundry. You smell…” As Sherlock puts his arms around John and rubs his cheek in the shorter man’s hair, he feels John’s arms travel lower, down his back. Suddenly, they stop.
“Sherlock…” He sounds like he is trying very hard not to laugh.
“Mmm?”
“Why…” and John pulls away, something white in his hand. “Why do you have a sock stuck to your bum?”