Hello! So, I noticed that all my other fic's are kind of angsty, so I've written some humour. It wasnt exactly planned, but I like how it turned out nonetheless. I should be doing college work, but you know, I can't keep away from Sherlock Holmes and John Watson for long! Also, I apologise in advance if any of you read this and then have weird dreams, I probably will tonight. Kind of makes me sad that it'll never happen in the BBC Series, but oh well, all hail Mofftiss and all that.
I don't own Sherlock, John or DI Lestrade, but i'd like to, so could somebody send them to me for Christmas please?
All ownership goes to the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who i can never speak highly enough of, and Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss for the BBC Series.

It was a rainy, dull morning in the middle of November when Inspector Lestrade knocked on the flat door of 221B Baker Street, searching for the two men who resided there.
The elder of them answered the door, blonde haired, bed headed John Watson, long suffering colleague of the brilliant Sherlock Holmes.

"Inspector! It's six am!" he half whined, rubbing his eyes.

"I'm sorry Doctor, but we require Sherlock on a case," he replied, a hint of apology in his voice.

The blonde haired man rolled his eyes and then leant his head back around the door and shouted. "Sherlock! It's Greg!"

Inspector Lestrade winced and gave John a pained smile when his face re-emerged.
"You'd better come in, he takes about ten minutes to move when you shout him in the mornings," John said, yawning.

The Inspector stepped over the threshold and followed John into the kitchen, shutting the door behind him.
"Tea, Greg?"
"No thank you, I've left Anderson in charge and by now he's probably ordering everyone to get him coffee and biscuits or something. You know how a bit of power goes to his head."

John chuckled and poured a cup of tea for himself.
"Is Sherlock always this lazy of a morning?" Greg asked.
"Yes," the blonde man answered without hesitation. Sometimes he doesn't sleep at all, but when he does he'll sleep for twenty four hours if he wants to."

They sat on the sofa awkwardly, John with a mug of tea and Lestrade bulked up in a huge coat and scarf against the November weather.
"What's it like living with him then? I mean, I've always wondered..."
John laughed quietly. "Put it this way Greg, it's never boring."
"I can imagine it's not quiet either."
"Not at all, I came in once to find him blowing holes in the kitchen counter with my service pistol."
Greg's eyes widened. "Why?"
"I don't honestly know. Apparantly he was bored."
"How did you know that?"
"He'd blasted the word bored in bullet holes on the work surface."
"Ah."
There was a silence.
"What about that violin," Greg asked, nudging it with his foot where it lay in its case at his feet. "Does he actually play it?"
"Oh yeah."
"Really? I've never seen him touch it."
"That's because you've never been round at 3:AM."

"Oh," the Inspector said. Boy did John have a lot to put up with.
There was another silence and a short cough from Greg.
"Is it really that bad living with him then?"
John got up to take his mug back to the kitchen and the taller man followed behind.
"When did I ever say it was bad, Inspector?" he smiled.

Greg grinned, ready to answer, when Sherlock walked in, ruffling his hair and yawning.
Under normal circumstances, this would be a normal and uninteresting (and far more less disgusting) thing to do, but on this occasion it was probably the most awkward, uncomfortable and horrifying thing that either Greg or John had experienced. After all, it's not every day that the worlds only consulting detective walks into the room naked is it?
John stared and registered in about half a second (thank god for his quick army reflexes), turned away and covered his eyes with his hand.
"Jesus Christ, Sherlock! Put some clothes on!"
"Why?" he heard from behind him. Sherlock was nothing but indignant.
"Greg's here!" John exclaimed, throwing his other hand in the air in disbelief that the man could fail to notice the obvious.
"Yes," Sherlock said, as if John was stupid. "I can see that."
"Oh Sherlock for gods' sake..." John groaned, moved past the table and, avoiding looking downwards, took the younger man by the shoulders and steered him round the table, out of view of Greg.
"Are you completely insane?"
Sherlock furrowed his brow. "No, why?"
"You're naked," John prompted, after a pause and a disbelieving look at him.
"Yes...we've established that John, are you feeling alright?" the detective asked, stepping closer to the Doctor and scrutinising him. The smaller man stepped back quickly with a cough, blushing profusely, eyes shut and breathing deeply.
"I am fine. Sherlock please just go and put-"
"John what's wrong with Greg?" the dark haired man interrupted.
The Inspector was stood from with a pained look of utter incredulity and horror on his face.
John moved round to stand in front of him, waving a hand in front of his face.
"I think you broke him, Sherlock."
"Dear God, anyone would think it's unnatural to be naked! What did he do when he was born? Emerge in a three piece suit with a pocket watch?" Sherlock ranted, going back into his bedroom. John heard him muttering about it being his own house and he could walk around naked if he wished, before his bedroom door closed.

John patted the Inspectors cheeks, attempting to bring him back to reality.
When he did, the man practically had a nervous breakdown.
"I'm so sorry Greg, he usually-"
"No John, I don't want to know anything else about him and your...living arrangements," Greg said hastily, shuddering.
There was a shout from Sherlock's bedroom.
"John! There is frogspawn everywhere in my underwear drawer! "
The Inspector blanched.
"I think I'll take that tea now, Doctor Watson."