In all honesty, John Watson shouldn't have been surprised. Living with Sherlock Holmes made him immune to things that would have drove a normal flatmate 'round the bend a long time ago. Whether it was body parts in unusual places, "Don't mind that little toe in the shower, John, it's for a case", or putting up with petulant tantrums when Sherlock ididn't/i have a case. John knew that with Sherlock Holmes, what most would consider out of the ordinary was normal for him. Mostly.
So, no, John shouldn't have been surprised when he came home from work to find Sherlock Holmes on the sofa. Well, him on the sofa wasn't that surprising. It was the fact that Sherlock was totally naked.
John also knew that Sherlock didn't have any qualms about his body whatsoever. After all, it was just "transport". And the man went to Buckingham Palace in a sheet, for God's sake. But still, absolutely starkers in a common room in their ishared/i flat was a new level to everything entirely.
John didn't quite know what to say about this new pants less flatmate situation, so he settled on nothing as he made his way into the kitchen. He did sigh however, which attracted the attention of Sherlock.
"Ah, John. You're home. I could use some tea." John gave a slight scowl to the prone figure on the sofa. Sherlock was on his back, eyes closed, his hands clasped together over his chest. In the dim light of the flat, he had an almost deathly pallor, and if not for the measured breathing John would thought he was a corpse. But no, his flatmate was very much alive.
Not that John was looking too much, now. Just where it was necessary to determine life. We're not going to think about the femoral artery, not now, oh please not now, John told himself as he got the kettle going and their mugs prepared. And may have mentally talked himself down from most of his blood going to nether regions south.
Thankfully for once Sherlock stayed silent during John's inner conversations, and if he noticed anything abnormal with John's tea making routine, he kept it to himself.
Of course John should have known that Sherlock wouldn't be able to keep his mouth shut for long. Eyes still closed, he called out. "You're taking longer than usual with that tea, John. Are you alright?"
John closed his eyes and tried not to sigh again. He put the carton of milk back in the fridge and stirred his tea a little more forcefully than it required. "I'm ifine/i, Sherlock." Which really didn't sound fine even to him, and Sherlock would be able to see through it easily.
John didn't miss the eyebrow raise that Sherlock gave him as he looked up when John entered the living room and moved his hands to under his chin, steepled his fingers then closed his eyes again. Ah, thinking. Great. John set Sherlock's tea on the table and kept his own mug in his hands as he sat down in his chair.
It was quiet for about 5 minutes in 221B as Sherlock laid on the sofa iau naturel/i and ignored his tea, and John practically immersed himself in his cuppa, trying not to think about what Sherlock might be thinking and oh christ, he's still so naked and why can't he just have a shred of decency for once.
Then John's patience ran out. He slammed his mug down, stormed into Sherlock's room, grabbing the blue dressing gown from the floor and threw it at Sherlock, who had only opened his eyes during John's outburst, following him with his gaze. "For God's sake, Sherlock, put something ON! Seriously, I don't know why you can't just wear isome/i clothes, at least pants!" John sat forcefully back down in his chair, face flush with anger..
Sherlock didn't move to put his dressing gown on proper, he just waved his hand dismissively. "But why should I have to put clothes on in my own flat? Clothes are boring."
"Of course they are..." John muttered not quite under his breath. He felt Sherlock look at him as he rubbed his forehead with his hand. This was quickly turning into a "more than tea" situation.. John wondered if there was any whiskey left when Sherlock spoke again.
"I really don't understand why my nakedness upsets you that much, John. I know you've seen naked men before, as a both a soldier and a doctor." Sherlock still was the picture of calm and detached, although thankfully John's aim had been good and he had managed to cover up Sherlock's middle section with the dressing gown.
"Yes, I have, Sherlock. But that's not the point. Those were just colleagues and patients. Not flatmates. Not like you, anyway. And once again, Sherlock, I'm not gay." John's tea was now cold and he had decided to go for something stronger. He was getting a tumbler out of the cabinet when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Thankfully, Sherlock had sat up and put on the dressing gown, wrapping it mostly around himself.
"No, no you're not." Sherlock replied, although instead of it being said with the snark and sarcasm that usually accompanied Sherlock when he was deducing, this was spoken softly. And was that some regret in his tone? John couldn't believe that. John quickly poured himself the alcohol and went back over to Sherlock, still sitting on the sofa, staring at the his now cold mug of tea.
"You, John Watson, are most definitely attracted to women. That's easy to see." John sighed and relaxed somewhat, as the return of calculating and deducing Sherlock's cadence meant emotions were somewhat off the table. "But," Sherlock continued. "You are attracted to me as well."
John did the perfect example of a spit take as he heard what Sherlock said. "Sherlock! Once again, I'M NOT GAY!" He got up and grabbed a tea towel, wiping most of the liquid from his jumper.
Sherlock stared up at him. "I never said you were gay, John. I said you're attracted to me. There's a difference. You don't even look at other men sexually. But with me, I think you do. I don't really know why. It's something that has puzzled me since we first met.." He trailed off and looked back down at the floor, but John was too fired up over what Sherlock had said first to comprehend the fact that Sherlock was showing some unusual feelings.
John stomped into the kitchen and grabbed another towel to take back to the living room to mop up the mess. "Sherlock, you frustrate me more than any other person I have ever met. I don't know Iwhy/i I put up with you and your riddles and mysteries and ipuzzles/i. Tell me Sherlock, since you know so much and can deduce a can of beans, tell me, "WHY DO I PUT UP WITH YOU? WHY?" John sat down in his chair in a huff, closed his eyes and leaned his head back. He took three deep breaths to calm himself and then opened his eyes.
Sherlock had stood and went over to the window, and stared out onto Baker Street. John sighed and shook his head, thinking he was destined to another two days of silence and moping and mystery as Sherlock went into one of his "moods" and wouldn't talk or do much of anything. Again.
"I don't know."
It was honest and plain. But it was not what John was expecting. Of all the soliloquies that Sherlock usually came up with for every topic imaginable, every condescending speech or insult or retort to grace John's ears, to hear Sherlock be open and honestly say those three small but important words, well, he couldn't quite believe it. So while in the back of his mind he knew he was going to sound like an idiot and probably get chastised for it, John had to ask. "What did you say?"
Sherlock hadn't moved from his spot at the window. "I said 'I don't know'." John waited for the retort about repeating himself, but it never came. "I don't know why you put up with me. Most people don't, or can't. Even my own blood brother doesn't know what to do with me half of the time."
"But you do. Not only do you put up with me, you do so much more than that. You tolerate me, you can live with me, and sometimes, I think you even like me." John opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock held up a hand and continued. "Like, yes, in a friendship way. But I think there's more. What exactly, I can't tell. You know me, John. Relationships and deep feelings are not my area." Sherlock sighed. "What I do know, is that I like you, John. I know that a lot of people think that I don't have feelings, but of course that's not true. I do have feelings, it's just that I've buried and suppressed most of them of most of my life."
John just waited as Sherlock got lost in thought. It was so rare to see Sherlock so open and honest. He looked relaxed, unstressed, and younger without the stresses of The Work or everything else weighing him down. Sherlock spoke again. "From the time I explained my deductions of you, and you didn't say the usual things.. I knew you were different. Of course, I really knew you were different from the first time I met you. It was something I just knew. A feeling I couldn't explain. Look at me. Having feelings and showing them to you. Something most of the Yard would love to see and still wouldn't believe. Look at what you do to me, John Watson." Sherlock smiled slightly, and went quiet again.
John stood up and went over to stand by Sherlock, watching him. As John approached Sherlock didn't look at John, but wrapped his dressing gown tighter around his body, crossing his arms around his waist and holding it closed. How appropriate, John thought. Suddenly Sherlock was very aware of his nakedness, in both mind and body. John didn't quite know what to do or say, so he just watched Sherlock, waiting for him to make the next move.
And the next move surprised John Watson entirely. Sherlock dropped his grip on his gown and brought both his hands up to the sides of John's face, bringing him into a firm kiss. John inhaled quickly, and decided that he'd agree with his brain, that kissing Sherlock really wasn't that bad. He scooted closer to Sherlock, and put one hand in his hair, cementing his feelings on the subject.
John pulled away and looked up at Sherlock who was flushed now from kissing. "Sherlock, you're mostly naked again." The dressing gown had fallen open during their minor make out session.
"Why, yes it has. But you're not complaining inow/i are you, John?" Sherlock smirked as John reached for the shoulder of the piece of blue silk, sending it off Sherlock's body on first one side, then another. As Sherlock dropped his hands to his sides putting the garment in a puddle on the floor.
'Certainly not." John murmured as he ran his hands over Sherlock's shoulders and down his chest. "Most certainly not."
Sherlock smiled one of his rare smiles just for John as he took his hand and led him to the bedroom. "I didn't think so."