He was a Buckingham Palace. Fucking Buckingham Palace! He had no idea why, but John H Watson was at Buckingham Palace. Did he mention he was at Buckingham Palace? His sister had told him he'd get nowhere in life, but who's nowhere now Harry? Who? John's at Buckingham Palace!
And of course Sherlock's there too, his wonderful flat mate who keeps his life exciting. Shit, he's probably the reason John is even in Buckingham Palace now. But the funniest part, he's only wearing a sheet. John even asked him. Sherlock Fucking Holmes (his middle name had become fucking thanks to how much John called him that) was naked, in only a white sheet, in Buckingham Palace.
John was not thinking bad thoughts. He wasn't thinking about nicking an ash tray, wasn't thinking about finding a bed to jump on, and definitely wasn't thinking about ripping that sheet off Sherlock. He was his flat mate for fucks sake, not some play thing to be undressed in his mind, then thrown down on the couch and explore with hands mentally.
John was not thinking of smooth pale flesh under his rough surgeon hands. Wasn't thinking about how it would feel to pull on those wonderful black locks of hair as he bit down on the neck that was a fucking mile long. He wasn't imagining Sherlock taking off his shirt so they could touch skin to skin, their entire torsos in contact as John slid out of his pants.
He definitely didn't imagine the noises Sherlock would make as he pushed a finger into his tight hole. He wasn't thinking about how Sherlock would writhe underneath him as he slowly stretched him, preparing him for a much larger intrusion.
But then Mycroft walked in, and John was not thinking about doing wonderfully naughty things to Mycroft's little brother with the man in the room. He's probably a tele-path.
sorry there's no more, but I had to stop my mind from going too far, so the Queen had to intervene!