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They've been on the case for three weeks. When they are on a case, they do not have sex. Which means that when he puts a bullet in the latest serial murderer and brain matter explodes all over his shirt, John Watson is not as upset about it as he should be.
He turns to Sherlock with triumph in his eyes. The case is finished now, so he suspects a celebratory snog is in order but his detective has a look of disgust on his face and shies away.
“You need a new shirt.”
Soon, John is being dragged down the nearest high street and into a department store. A soft dark blue shirt that costs more than he can probably afford is thrust into his hands and he is ushered into the changing rooms.
“Put that one on.” Sherlock directs, and stands back as John shuffles into the compartment but does not bother pulling the curtain.
The doctor unbuttons his soiled shirt, pulling the tails roughly from his jeans once all the buttons are free. One side, then the other. He glances up.
“You're staring.”
Sherlock nods.
“Why are you staring?”
“It's been three weeks, four days and two hours since I saw you naked.”
John pauses, his shirt hanging open from his shoulders. He glances down at his own chest and then back over at Sherlock.
“Yes, I suppose it has.”
“Let's fix that.”
Sherlock takes three steps forward, entering the tiny changing cubicle and forcing John back against the mirror on the far wall. A salacious grin spreads wide over his face and he draws the curtain closed.