There are some things a man just doesn't ever need to see. High up on that list would be a pain in the arse consulting detective, au naturale, wrapped around an equally naked former army doctor who you actually respect. Well, did anyway. "It will be hard to look him in the eye after this," Greg's brain supplied unhelpfully.

"TURN AROUND!" a voice in his screamed at him. "Walk away. Actually, RUN!" Unfortunately, his brain had lost all control over the rest of his body. He stood and stared, rooted in place against his will by a body shocked into utter stillness. He may have stood there all day, eyes burning at the sight of acres of porcelain white skin intertwined with the desert tanned tones of his companion, if a voice hadn't interrupted his catatonic state.

"If you insist on staring, the least you could do is ask my permission first," Sherlock drawled, not even opening his eyes. "He is mine after all."

"I can't imagine that I am the only one he is staring at, Sherlock," mumbled the doctor, barely audible through the detective's shoulder. "Morning Greg," he said, raising his head to look in the DI's direction. Somewhere, deep in the recesses of his mind, Lestrade realized that John wasn't nearly as embarrassed as would have been expected. Maybe he had walked in on them before and then had his brain cauterized to purge the memory? That idea was sounding pretty good right now.

"Fuck," Greg whispered, running a hand through his hair, trying to process the scene in front of him.

"Well, that had been the plan," John deadpanned, looking at Sherlock, causing both of them to erupt in giggles.

"I, um, I will just wait for you in the living room, all right?" He finally stammered, leaving the two naked men behind, and trying desperately not to listen to what was going on in that room. As if his day wasn't bad enough already. There were not enough donuts in the world to make this his division. He banged his head on the doorjamb a few times, trying to dislodge the memory, or at least cause temporary amnesia.

Eventually the other two men emerged from the bedroom, John wearing one of his customary jumpers and jeans while Sherlock had on a ridiculous dressing gown and, please God, some pants.

"Be happy it's not a sheet," Sherlock growled at him, before flopping on the sofa. Greg was beginning to wonder how often the bad moods Sherlock had been in at crime scenes was because he had not gotten a leg over prior to the case. It sure seemed to be playing a part now. John meanwhile was busying himself in the kitchen, making tea from the sounds of it. It was difficult to choose which room would be more uncomfortable, the one with the tetchy detective or the one with his supposedly straight friend that he just found in bed with another man. Indecision caused him to wobble in the doorway like a man who had one too many pints in his system.

Sherlock glared at him from the couch. "Oh just sit down already and ask the question. It is written clearly all over your face."

It was at this point that John joined them in the living room and handed Greg his tea. Walking over to the couch, he nudged Sherlock with his knee, causing the detective to curl his legs up to make room for his friend. As soon as John was sitting, Sherlock straightened his legs so John's lap was now full of the detective's rather large feet.

"Sherlock, sit up and drink your tea before it gets cold," the doctor scolded, as he handed the cup to his flatmate. With the sullenness of a temperamental toddler, he accepted the drink and sat unreasonably close to his friend.

"Seriously took you long enough," John said, finally breaking the uncomfortable silence that hung between them as they all sipped their tea. "Sherlock had said it would take you at least a year to figure it out, but I didn't think he was giving you enough credit. I had guessed three months at most. I should know by now not to go against him. He is almost always right you know."

Until then, Sherlock had been looking rather smug, but at the word "almost" he turned to glare at the doctor. "Oh don't look at me like that. You know it's true," John said as he smiled lovingly at the now sulking detective.

Lestrade's brain was struggling to keep up. "So, this isn't a new thing then?" he asked, hoping to catch up with the conversation before it left him behind completely. "How long have you two been, a, um, couple?" The word stuck on his tongue, sounding completely foreign when applied to John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Yet there was no way he could deny any longer what he was seeing.

"Have you ever seen my bedroom upstairs?" John asked, surprising the DI with an abrupt change of subject.

"No. There was never a need to go up there during the drug busts. Why do you ask?" He had a suspicion that he knew where this was going.

"There is no bed up there for one thing. Never has been. I would have needed to get one when I moved it, but, well, it was never really necessary."

"So, this whole time…" The ground beneath him felt a bit wobbly. It was like everything he knew about his friend and colleague was a lie.

"Yep. Since 'A Study in Pink'. We keep it quiet obviously. First, we don't need the likes of Anderson giving us his opinion on our relationship any more than he already does. Second, when Moriarty was still a threat, it would have been dangerous for others to know just what John meant to me. Now there is no such threat, but I still trust that you will not spread this around more than necessary." It was the most Sherlock had ever said about his personal life in front of the DI.

Lestrade was a bit shocked to hear Sherlock speak so candidly. He had always known these two were close. It was obvious considering you rarely saw one without the other. But to know that they had been together for a year, it shook him to the core to realize they weren't just close, they were in love. That jolt got his brain working again, and he remembered why he had come by in the first place.

"Sherlock, I promise that I won't speak a word of this if you don't want me to. However, this is not why I came by. You need to help with the violist case. I know you think it is beneath you, but I still have a dead musician with a family who would like some answers. Also, if you happen to know anything about a missing violin bow, I would be most appreciative if you could pass along that message, or if the bow could reappear in the concertmistress' dressing room by the end of the day."

"Dull," Sherlock started to say, before being elbowed in the ribs by John.

"He was a complete arse last night, wasn't he?" he asked Greg, who nodded. "In that case, you are getting dressed and we are going down there, right now." Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but the look John shot him stopped him in his tracks. "Now, Sherlock."

The detective went to the desk and wrote a quick note on a scrap of paper. As he strode to the bedroom, he passed the note to the DI. "If I have to do this, I expect those people to be waiting at the Centre when we arrive in 30 minutes." John and Lestrade followed him in to the hallway, as Lestrade made for the stairs to show himself out. The not-so-observant DI didn't notice John's cane and a violin bow tucked in to the corner by the door.

Sherlock glanced briefly at John, who raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Actually, make that an hour."