This teeny story was actually inspired by Sherlocks' bed sheet shenanigan in A Scandal in Belgravia. Don't you think Watson seemed fairly unsurprised to see Sherlock in his palace attire?

As always, SPOILER ALERT. (Not really, I'm just getting people to go watch Sherlock.)

2 weeks after A Study in Pink
Regarding Birthday Suits

Fourteen days. Two weeks of staying in 221B Baker Street and Watson is almost used to the strange ways of his flatmate. But this morning held yet another surprise. Scrap that, shock was a better term for the visual assault he had. Right now, Sherlock was sitting in the armchair by the window, his fingers absentmindedly plucking the metal strings on his violin, his eyes staring into empty space, that mind of his already working on a new case. For the past three days, Sherlock gave up his meals, his sleep and his experiments to work on a problem Mycroft presented. Sherlock had initially scoffed when he heard Mycrofts' footsteps up the stairs and proceeded to make himself scarce but he couldn't resist peeking into the manila folder his brother left on his desk and in spite of himself, proceeded to work on the puzzle.

He sat in that armchair for two consecutive days, alternating between mumbling to himself, engaging Watson in some random conversation, researching frantically on his phone and silence punctuated by pizzicatos. Yesterday night, Sherlock broke his meditation, proclaimed he needed sleep, promised death to anyone who woke him before he got six hours of shuteye and stomped up into his room.

This morning, Watson was abruptly woken by the constant drone of his phone vibrating on his bedside table. Rubbing sleep out of his eyes, he grunted, "Hello?"

"John, where is Sherlock?"

Watson recognized the voice instantly, politically correct yet condescending at the same time, only one person he knew was able to swing that. "Mycroft?"

"Obviously. Sherlock has been ignoring my calls and texts regarding the Secret- Ah, I mean, the case. Where is he?"

"Asleep, like I was?"

"I need an update, John, anything he can give me so go wake him up and get him to call me."

"Have the Holmes' never heard of the word, 'please'?"

"Please, John, but quickly." Sound of the line going dead. A mental image of bashing Mycroft on the head with that ridiculous umbrella he always carried popped up. But he knew the case was probably of some urgency. Mycroft's pride wouldn't let him ask his sociopathic brother for help unless he had no other option. Pulling on a dressing gown, he walked over to Sherlock's room, six steps away. He knocked once. "Sherlock? Are you up?"

Complete silence. He could hear Mrs Hudson rattling about in their kitchen, probably trying to figure out which test tubes and beakers she could wash without disfiguring her weathered hands. But it was complete silence behind Sherlock's door. Watson frowned, Sherlock rarely slept in, he usually was the first one up, ready to demand a cup of coffee the moment Watson came down, while solving the daily paper's crossword puzzle, in ink. But Mrs Hudson was not engaging in conversation with her tenant, which meant Sherlock was not downstairs. He knocked once more, a little louder this time. "Sherlock, are you there?"

No reply. Watson was getting worried now. As he opened the door, he said, "Sherlock, you all-" and words failed him. He immediately shut his eyes, but it was too late, the image was burned into his retinas. Shock always does that.

Sherlock booty, in its full glory. The owner of said derriere was sleeping like the dead. He looked like one, limbs splayed out on the bed, his face down, in his birthday suit, with a bit of bed sheet covering his torso, and that was it. He'd heard of people who enjoy sleeping in the buff, but he didn't know Sherlock was one of them. And thanks to this scene first thing in the morning, he don't think he could ever forget this little fact of his flatmate, ever.

Watson, with his eyes still glued shut, edged towards the end of the bed, picked up the other end of the bed sheet and threw it over his still sleeping flat mate, in a attempt to make the current sight more socially acceptable. Well, as best he could, without opening his eyes. He cracked open one eye now, relieved that the essential parts have been suitably censored. He jabbed Sherlock a little harder than he needed to. Revenge for the shock, probably. "Sherlock, wake up."

Sherlock mumbled into his pillow. "What are you doing in my room?"

"Mycroft called me because you won't answer your damn phone."

Sherlock raised his arm in the direction of Watson's voice, palm up, his face still buried.

Watson stared at the expecting hand for a bit. "What?"

"My phone." Watson inhaled. He had patience, but summoning it was always a challenge when it came to Sherlock. "Where is it?"

"On my desk."

Amazing how quickly he felt like strangling his flatmate when the latter has only been awake for ten seconds. "If it's downstairs, get it yourself."

Sherlock finally pulled himself upright, wrapping the bed sheet around him, eyes red rimmed and his curly hair a complete mess. "Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning," he commented as he stifled a yawn. Watson had no reply, he needed his coffee, now. "Make me one too, I'll be down in a minute."

Bloody mind reader. Without even bothering to wash up, Watson headed straight to the kitchen. And bless Mrs Hudson, she already had a pot brewed, which she promptly poured out a cup and pushed into his hands. "Good morning dear, did you have a bad night?"

"Bad morning." Watson replied. No need to go into details. "Is there any breakfast?"

"I'm not your housekeeper, dear." Mrs Hudson chided but she could not keep it up. "I did go to the supermarket yesterday. How do you want your eggs?"

"Poached, Mrs H. You are a saint." Watson reached for the paper as he sipped the bitter brew. Bless the landlady, she already remembered how he liked his coffee. No sugar. Ignoring the day's headline news, he flipped straight to the crossword puzzle. A jab on the shoulder was not revenge enough, and proceeded to solve it, in ink, as smell of bacon and eggs filled the room. Mrs Hudson was already putting in the final touches for the sautéed mushrooms when Watson found himself stuck on the last word. 11 letters, starting with M. Another word for misconduct?

"Malfeasance."

Watson looked up to see Sherlock striding into the kitchen, properly dressed now, in his usual white cotton shirt, striped pants and blue silk robe. "What?"

"Haven't you read any Law books?" Sherlock scoffed as he accepted a mug of coffee from his landlady. "However, I'm impressed it only took you sixteen minutes to finish the puzzle."

"I'm a doctor, not a lawyer." Watson grumbled but he filled in the last word. "Have you texted Mycroft yet?"

"Ah yes." Sherlock headed to the table. "Anything interesting?"

"I haven't read the papers." Watson cleared the table for Mrs Hudson's breakfast. "So did you manage to solve the problem?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, one hand still holding the coffee mug, the other rapidly typing away. "I figured out the answer just before I fell asleep."

"And you couldn't be bothered to get up and text your brother before you went to bed?"

Sherlock glanced at Watson before resuming his text. "Are you still upset? Why are you angry when you were the one who walked into my room?"

"At least lock the door if you were- er..." Watson remembered Mrs Hudson was still in the kitchen.

"Were what?" Mrs Hudson set down a plate for Sherlock. "Come and eat dear, before it's cold."

Watson tried to change the topic. "Nothing Mrs H, this is delicious, thank you."

"What are you two on about?" Mrs Hudson pressed whilst doing the dishes.

"John walked into my room while I was sleeping." Sherlock replied simply.

"SHER-!" Before Watson could shut his flatmate up, Mrs Hudson gave a knowing chuckle. "No wonder you looked so huffy just now."

"You know about his sleeping habits?" Watson asked incredulously.

Mrs Hudson shrugged. "He wasn't answering the doorbell."

"I sleep more soundly that way. If I was going to spend my hours sleeping, isn't it more logical to fully utilize the time?" Sherlock commented in a matter-of-fact tone. "Besides, you were Afghanistan, John, I'm certain neither you nor your fellow soldiers have the luxury of personal bathrooms. Surely you are used to seeing naked men by now."

For the thirtieth time in the fourteen days in 221B Baker Street, Watson found himself speechless. Well, almost. "In any case, you will wash your own bedsheets from now on."