A/N: Just wanted to throw out a big Thank You to any reviewers that for any reason I've failed to respond to - I appreciate every review I get, and each and every one of them brightens my day! :) I hope I can keep Mycroft skinny for you guys...! Anyways I don't really like this one but... whatever. I just wanted an excuse to mention the size of John's

Word Count: 1,300+

Pairing(s): John/Sherlock

Warning(s): filed under Things I Write on My iPhone at a Perfectly Reasonable Hour But I'm Still Embarrassed About, irrational laughter, Peeping Tom behavior, John's struggle with homosexuality, and Sherlock attempting to be "promiscuous."

Things About Closets

John isn't sure how he got here. That is, crouched in Sherlock's closet.

It hadn't been his intention. John had only been searching for his laptop – Sherlock had a habit of stealing it and John hadn't seen it in almost twenty-four hours. This would have been OK, but he knew that Ella had e-mailed him and if he didn't get back to her soon about his countless missed appointments she was going to have his head. He was just searching through Sherlock's book case when he heard the door swing open downstairs.

John couldn't explain the reaction, really, but suddenly he felt incredibly guilty rifling through Sherlock's things without permission, even if he was looking for his stolen laptop. In a moment of misguided panic, John had sprung for cover, closing himself in Sherlock's closet just as the man strolled into the room.

John realized his mistake immediately. He had no reason to feel bad about going through Sherlock's things – it wasn't as if he was prying and even if he had been Sherlock went through his things all the time. But now there he was, hiding in his friend's closet. Incriminating, to say the least.

John sighed and peered through the slats, praying that Sherlock would leave so he could make his getaway. But, as usual, Sherlock did not abide to John's wishes. He collapsed face-first onto his bed, groaning. How he managed to avoid falling onto the various piles of half-empty beakers, files, and who-knows-what scattered over his bed with such a graceless fall, John had no idea.

Sherlock laid there for a while and John squirmed – it couldn't be now that Sherlock chose to actually sleep, could it? But no, it appeared, it had to be something completely worse. Sherlock sat up, stretched, and proceeded to start changing.

Now, John placed himself on the Kinsey scale of exactly zero and was straight as a ruler and could not be held responsible for what happened next.

What happened next: John's eyes lost any and all contact with his brain and he couldn't look away no matter how hard he definitely did not want to be watching Sherlock peel off his shirt. That shirt, that stupid purple shirt that was way too tight but definitely never drove John crazy. Then, getting to his feet, he pulled down his trousers and kicked them across the room. John also couldn't be held responsible if he happened to rake his eyes over his flat mate's body, taking in the long limbs and the lean muscle there or noticing the trail of dark hair that ran down his navel. Or, for that matter, his penis, who apparently did not get the memo that John was staunchly heterosexual if its reaction to Sherlock wiggling out of his briefs was any indication.

It was only after Sherlock raised his arms over his head and stretched, back arching like some sort of sex-gymnast that John realized that he was being a peeping tom. (The only reason this did not occur to him before this moment was because his brain had short circuited.) Through most of his life John strived to be a good guy, a gentleman if you will, and it dawned on him that this set of morals extended to men as well. Even – or maybe especially – to mad men flat mates with no interest in relationships and expressly no interest in you whose closets you were hiding in.

This dawned on John too late. Sherlock turned to the closet, arched an eyebrow, and said, "Honestly John, I know you're in there. I can hear you shuffling about and you left a trail of evidence-"

"Oh God, I'm so sorry!" John burst through the closet door, face a delightful shade of beet red, and barged out of the room, shouting high-pitched apologies over his shoulder. It was only once he'd raced half way up the stairs to his room that he realized the implications of what Sherlock had said and he froze mid-step, eyebrows scrunched. Wait.

He spun around, raced down the stairs again, and kicked Sherlock's door down. "If you knew I was there why did you strip, you moron?"

Sherlock, who had only had time to pull on another pair of briefs and pull a pair of blue sweatpants up to his knees, glanced up. "What?"

"You heard me! If you knew I was in there, why did you take off your damn underwear? Trying to seduce me or something?"

John hadn't meant the accusation seriously but Sherlock's eyes lit up, a broad, almost childish grin spreading over his face. "Oh," he said. "Is it working?"

Sherlock didn't give John time to answer even if he hadn't been reduced to an incoherent, sputtering blush-machine, hopping nimbly to his feet and peering down at him. "Oh, no need to answer that. It's obvious." Sherlock ran his fingertips over his neck, and it took John a moment to realize he was checking his pulse. "Along with your elevated pulse you have an erection those pants are doing nothing to hide. Impressive, by the way – have you measured that?"

John sputtered. "What the hell?" he cried, springing backwards and nearly colliding with the doorframe.

Sherlock blinked and looked, for once, genuinely surprised. "Oh, don't be coy, John," he said, bland. "I'm clearly commenting on the size of your—"

"Sherlock, please-"

"—because I'm attempting to be…" Sherlock paused, looking miffed for a moment. "…promiscuous."

John blanched. The very idea of Sherlock being promiscuous was decidedly boggling, much less… "You mean you're trying to… proposition me?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Right."

Sherlock stared at him for a good minute and John stared back, trying his very best to keep a seriously concerned expression on his face before cracking. And, once cracked, bursting into laughter. Sherlock gaped at John as he doubled over himself, holding his stomach in a fit of laughter. "What? What!"

"You're flirting with me!" John cried, wiping at his leaking eyes. "Sherlock bloody Holmes is flirting with me!"

"Yes, and? What's so strange about that?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes which, in the end, only caused John's laughter to become more hysterical. "Am I not a candidate for flirtations?"

"Oh, God, no… it… it's just… it's just… oh my God." There were tears streaming down John's cheeks.

Sherlock wasn't sure why. In fact, he wasn't sure why about anything to do with John at this point – it was one of the few ignorances that Sherlock had come to terms with – but Sherlock started giggling too. It got to the point that, although he hadn't any idea why either of them were laughing in the first place, the laughter ended up bouncing and rounding back again, both men flailing and smacking at each other and gasping for air. Sherlock honestly considered revising his Death By Laughter Is Impossible hypothesis until John, still grinning and gasping out little chuckles, leaned up on tip toes and kissed him on the cheek.

Sherlock stopped laughing for only a moment, hand flying to his cheek. "Oh?" he managed. Giggles still bubbled in his chest and he found that, despite his best efforts, he was still grinning like an idiot.

John flushed and grinned back. "I missed," he said.

"Obvious."

It turned out Sherlock had better aim than he did, even with the both of them still mid-giggle, lips soft and smiling against John's. John's eyes fluttered shut at the contact, heart skipping a beat or two. The kiss was light and playful, nothing like John would have expected from the detective, but perhaps it was the giggling. It hardly mattered – John was quick on the uptake and stepped forward, bringing their bodies closer and deepening the kiss. Sherlock, in a rush for oxygen, pulled back for a moment, cheeks flushed. John automatically moved to his neck, biting and kissing and generally not caring much about breathing.

Sherlock's eyes rolled back. "Hypothesis correct," he said. Or, rather, moaned.

Now, John placed himself on the Kinsey scale of exactly zero and was straight as a ruler and could not be held responsible for what happened next. Sherlock didn't really mind.

Do you know why I write this story? I don't get that many reviews or anything. I like it. I get off on it. But one day there's going to be all of these reviews and you're going to be the one that put them there.