John let out a deep, slightly frustrated, sigh as he stared down once more at the screen of the mobile phone in his hand, which he then shoved in his coat pocket and exchanged for the key to 221 Baker Street.
That was the fifth text he'd received from Lestrade in the past hour alone. Usually it was Sherlock who was pestering him with texts when he was out, although his tended to be more random or demanding. Lestrade kept texting him to ask why Sherlock wasn't replying to his texts or calls, like John was some kind of personal bloody secretary. Most Yarders would probably say he was, constantly running after Sherlock like he did.
Closing the door behind him and starting up the stairs to their flat John noticed how peculiarly quiet it was in the building right now. He knew Mrs Hudson was away visiting family, but maybe Sherlock had gone out too. That might explain why he wasn't answering anyone's texts. He was probably completely absorbed in some experiment at the morgue or was out harassing someone, somewhere. Better them than him anyway, he quietly chuckled to himself.
He entered 221B, removed his coat, and hung it on the hook by the door. He took his mobile out of his coat pocket just as it beeped at him again, and decided he'd try and find Sherlock himself before replying to Lestrade. Glancing around him he couldn't see any immediate clues as to Sherlock's current location.
Although…
Sherlock's bedroom door was closed.
Sherlock's bedroom door was never closed.
The man rarely ever slept in his own bedroom, he was much more likely to fall asleep on the sofa, or collapsed over the kitchen table due to sheer exhaustion. He only ever seemed to go to his own bedroom if he needed something that was stashed in there, like a disguise from his wardrobe. In all the time that John had been here he had maybe only seen the door closed a small handful times, rare enough that he noticed it now.
John started walking through their kitchen towards the bedroom door, hand outstretched to the handle when he suddenly hesitated with his hand hovering an inch off the handle.
What if there was a reason the door was closed?
He stood outside Sherlock's closed bedroom door deliberating for about 5 minutes. Sherlock never really respected his own privacy, always barging into the bathroom or John's bedroom whenever he wanted, so why shouldn't John open the door? No reason he should respect the other man's privacy when he didn't offer him the same respect in return.
He turned the handle, opened the door and braced himself for… anything really. He had no idea what to expect, and no previous experience to draw from.
At first John was immensely relieved to find that there was no horrible scene awaiting him on the other side; no disgusting experiments, no body parts, and no assassins lying in wait. Then he processed what he was seeing and he stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of the doorway to Sherlock's room.
It was so very rare to see Sherlock actually using his bedroom for its intended purpose that it was a little surprising to find him actually asleep on top of his bed.
Although that wasn't the main thing that caused John to stop in tracks.
It was what Sherlock was wearing, which could clearly be seen as his bed covers had fallen off him at some point and were tangled around one lanky pale leg.
He was lying on his stomach, his arms stretched out above him and vanishing under the pillow beneath his head. His head was turned sideways facing away from the door, the inky black curls contrasting shockingly with the crisp white pillow case.
His top half was completely bare, a vast expanse of milky white skin interrupted only by the occasional freckle along his back. His legs seemed to go on for miles as his feet almost hung off the edge of the bed, John's eyes followed the trail of the one exposed leg up, up until he was staring once again at Sherlock's surprisingly ample backside. Which was covered in a pair of white briefs sporting a rather surprising bumblebee design.
One part of John was screaming at him to turn around, leave, close the door, flee to his room and never mention this ever, ever again as long as he lives.
The other side was just confused, bewildered, and agog.
On the one hand Sherlock was a pretty unpredictable person who was known to do things outside the norm. Sleeping at 2pm wasn't even that abnormal. He could have just been really, really tired. Regardless of the fact that a tired Sherlock that succumbed to sleeping in his bed was outside of the norm for him.
It was the bee pants John didn't understand. He wasn't even sure why he was focusing on them so much. Lots of people wore novelty pants. They were fun, and Sherlock was still fairly young enough to fall into the age range of people most likely to wear novelty pants.
But this is Sherlock Holmes. Self-declared High-Functioning sociopath and Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes who hates all displays of sentimentality and 'ridiculous' human interests and pastimes. Seeing him lying there wearing those pants, which would be described as 'cute' bordering on 'adorable' by some people, was like seeing your boss wandering around starkers in the middle of Tesco.
John suddenly found himself understanding how Sherlock could refer to his brain as a computer as he was pretty sure his had found a fatal error and there was a blue screen imminent. He really, really wished he knew how to delete things from his memory like Sherlock could. He didn't know what he would do once Sherlock left his room. Could he just pretend that he'd never seen them?
The body lying on the bed suddenly stretched and started to roll over.
What would Sherlock do if he knew John had seen him in those pants!?, was the last thought running through John's head as he bolted from the room, closed the door behind him and sprinted up the stairs to his own bedroom.