Thank you davidtennant-is-my-spiritanimal from Tumblr for the fun prompt!
John swore to himself that he didn't stare. If anyone asked, he would swear on a stack of Bibles that he did not stare. He did not, would not, stare at Sherlock Holmes's groin.
But Sherlock's groin was much bigger than normal (not that John would ever admit to knowing the difference). And the fact that Sherlock had taken to wearing jeans that particular day instead of his usual slacks made the problem even more pronounced.
John was just glad he wasn't the only one to notice the, er, change, in Sherlock. When they had arrived at the crime scene for that morning, Lestrade had nearly choked on his coffee and donut he had been consuming for breakfast, Anderson had blatantly gaped, and Donovan had made some offhand comment about Sherlock's shoe size.
Not that Sherlock understood what was going on. Or why he had gotten the phone numbers of the three exotic dancers they had interviewed for the case.
"I don't understand why the women would need me to call them later." The consulting detective mumbled, "If they had information, they should have just told me from the beginning."
John didn't have the heart to tell him the women had no intention of giving Sherlock any more information on the case.
The day went along the same line for the rest of the day: blatant stares at Sherlock "endowment," numerous flirtations and propositions that Sherlock didn't fully grasp. All the while, John had been forced to watch everything unfold.
It was absolutely maddening.
"What the hell do you have stuffed down in there?" He finally blurted when they returned to 221B.
Sherlock looked up from his violin, eyebrow raised, "I take it you are referring to my trousers, and not my violin."
"Yes, I'm referring to your bloody jeans, Sherlock." John pinched the bridge of his nose, "You nearly killed Greg, and even Anderson was staring."
"Of course Anderson was staring, his low testosterone forces him to overcompensate with torrid affairs and expressing hostility towards better endowed examples of the male figure."
John blinked, "Did you just say Anderson has a small-"
"It's obvious, John." Sherlock set the violin down, "But the real question is why the sudden interest? I really thought you had better taste than that-"
The doctor grit his teeth, "I'm not. I was questioning what you have in your pants."
Silence hung in the room as Sherlock turned back to John. There was a slight smirk tugging on his lip, "As a doctor, surely you should know the male anatomy, John." Sherlock winked, unbuttoning his jeans, "But if you insist, Dr. Watson."
John watched as Sherlock slowly unzipped the zipper of his jeans, revealing.
"Is that a cup?"
"Your skills at observation are astounding, John." Sherlock chuckled, tossing the plastic athletic cup to him.
It was perhaps John's experience, first as a doctor, then as a soldier, then as an assisting consulting detective, that had him conditioned not to flinch at handling a piece of equipment held in close proximity to another man's genitals. It was standard (if not a bit large) cup, but there was a small plastic baggie tucked inside it. Upon opening the bag, John saw it was—
"Sherlock, why have you been walking around with a bag of confetti in your pants?" Just when John though Sherlock could no longer surprise him…
"An experiment, John." Sherlock nodded, "I needed to see if a suspect could smuggle contraband in an athletic cup."
"And you used confetti?"
"It seemed like a logical choice, since I could not get actual contraband." Sherlock smirked, "Really John, what did you think I had tucked away."
John shook his head, setting the confetti and the cup down by the violin, "Sherlock, with you, I never know—" He stopped, staring at Sherlock's still undone jeans, and the material Sherlock was wearing underneath, "…are those my red pants?"