John got home from work a bit later than usual that night, a shopping bag in each arm. Though, why he always bought so much food, he never knew, because Sherlock never ate anyway. The good doctor kicked his shoes off next to Sherlock's on the mat next to the front door of 221B, and noted that the shoes of his flatmate meant that the detective was home for the night; Sherlock having been gone since before John even got up for work.
He moved to start onto the stairs, when he noticed a pair of black stiletto heels that had been kicked off haphazardly as well. So haphazardly, in fact, that John didn't notice them, so much as stumble right over them, almost dropping the groceries. He stared at the heels, then at the door to his flat, and back to the shoes. What was he about to walk into? Wait, he couldn't walk into anything, could he? Well, because Sherlock was... Sherlock, right? Did he just ask himself if his friend was his friend?
After throughly working his brain into a confused knot, John took the stairs as cautiously as possible, hoping he wasn't going to create an awkward moment just from simply coming home with the shopping.
He opened the door to the flat, and was definitely greeted by a sight for sore eyes. The stranger bent over and looking through a box in their flat had long, elegant legs wrapped in sheer hose, one knee bent to provide, what John presumed was supposed to be, a more 'modest' angle to stoop at. The ex-military man let his eyes shamelessly follow the legs up to where the hem of a tight, black dress just barely covered the beautiful swell of what John admitted was, a very nice arse. He could tell that the hose wasn't full, because he caught a little rumor of the lace at the end of the stocking just under the hem.
John smirked, he was glad he'd gotten to walk in on this, rather than something awkward or unpleasant, though he suspected Sherlock would walk in at any minute and reprimand him for gaping at their guest, or client, or whatever. But now the unknown stranger slowly straightened back up, and John's eyes followed the slender curve of hips and spine, and lingered for only a second on the bare expanse of back, before noticing that, atop the fabric covered shoulders, sat a head of thick, black curls.
John choked on the very air he was breathing.
Sherlock turned around. "Ah, John, you're home. I need help."
John quickly recovered and made a swift left into the kitchen to hide the redness gathering under his collar and creeping up his neck. "I can see that. But I don't think I'm qualified to give that kind of help."
John could almost feel Sherlock's eyes rolling. "It was for a case, not some sort of sexual gratification activity or personal identity experiment. Now, I need you to help me get this necklace off. I think it's starting to turn my skin green, and the clasp is making me angry."
John went over and tried to mess with the clasp. He didn't even pretend he was surprised by the things he did when Sherlock asked. Well, 'commanded' was a better term for it. Sherlock Holmes didn't 'ask'. As he got closer to the living room, however, his feet got tangled in something, and he stumbled and fell. A pink and black lace brazier had decided it wanted him to join it on the floor. John kicked and spluttered, until he was free of the lingerie that he knew belonged to his best friend. "Sherlock, what the-" He stopped himself, because Sherlock wasn't even paying attention. He was just flipping through the book he had pulled from the box, wiggling his toes inside the stockings.
John just shook his head and went back to the original task. "Yeah, the back of your neck is starting to turn green."
"I knew that saleslady lied to me! I shouldn't have been in such a hurry as to just trust people working off commission." He huffed, not looking up from his book, but turning and holding out his hand for the trinket.
John could see the dress and it's wearer clearly now. The square neck line brought out his collarbone like a dangerous weapon, but the top of it was loose and too low, now that it had lost the padding John had just tripped over. Sherlock had on a thick layer of foundation, and blush crawled up his cheekbones in a dramatic and effective way. His eyelashes were drawn longer by his mascara, and the pink flush of his lips suggested he'd at least wiped off his lipstick by now. John averted his gaze to the necklace he'd just taken off. It was actually very pretty for being that fake. A simple silver chain, ending in a charm of three large gems in an icicle pattern. "It's a nice necklace."
"Thank you." Sherlock snapped the book shut and looked up with a smile. "The killer thought so, too."
"Did you really spend the night seducing a murderer?" John arched an eyebrow in disbelief.
"Yes. And it worked perfectly. Got a whole confession, even. Not a moment too soon, I should say. He was getting more drunk and more... 'friendly' as the conversation wore on." Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"We need to buy you some pepper spray, if you're going to spend more nights like this."
"I have pepper spray, actually. It's come in handy more than once."
John just laughed. He didn't really know what else he could do in this situation. "Hungry?"
"Actually," Sherlock thought for a second, "I am."
"I'll call in some take away. You," He jabbed a finger into Sherlock's bare chest, "Go change for god's sake." Sherlock went to move toward his bedroom, before John called after, "And take your chest with you!"
Sherlock laughed and doubled back for the lace neglige on the floor of the living room. John decided to never question a single thing that he walked in on again. He should've known he didn't sign up for normality when he signed up for Sherlock Holmes.