A/N: Oh! So there's an update today after all - and a long one! I had a lot of unexpected down time today! SO I don't know how happy I am about this one so much (it's a bit scatter-brained) but I enjoyed writing it well enough.

Word Count: 2,500+

Pairing(s): John/Sherlock

Warning(s): shameless fluff, nudity, extensive mention of the male body, hopeless-Romeo!John, self-conscious!Sherlock, and a bit of slightly-creeper!, mentions of Mycroft in a dress and Anderson. Also: cussing, references to self harm, mentions of sex, senseless romantics...yadda yadda you get the gist.

Naked Truth

John found himself leaning against his bedroom door stark naked, thoroughly aroused, and very much alone.

He hadn't been alone originally, of course. Just moments before he'd had a very friendly Sherlock Holmes right up against him, tearing off his clothes, and making a general joy out of the afternoon. John had been fairly set on continuing said activity at the time (still was, really) and, if his penis was indication, so had Sherlock. How, then, John had made it from point A – surprise impromptu foreplay with his flat mate and over-due partner-in-UST – to point B – confused, alone, but still naked – was beyond John.

What he did know was that Sherlock had stared at him for a good minute before he took off in a wordless tizzy and the look in the man's eyes had been… what? Fear? Panic? Embarrassment? John shrunk; inwardly he scrambled for reason. There was always a reason with Sherlock – wasn't there? As far as relationships went, though, John had no idea where he stood with Sherlock at this point.

He couldn't imagine he'd overstepped any boundaries – sure, he'd kissed Sherlock first, but Sherlock had taken it upon himself to drag John into the bedroom and tear off all his clothes. Hell, Sherlock was still fully clothed – he hadn't even taken off his bloody scarf! John hadn't said anything particularly swishy either, had he? John's eyebrows scrunched, trying to remember the things that had flown out of his mouth.

Mmm, finally, finally, yes.

Careful for the lamp th—oh—

Oh, shit, 'Lock – you're going to bruise if you—ahh, good God, nevermind, keep at it.

God you're so beautiful.

The rest of it had been particularly incoherent or muffled out by Sherlock's lips; for the life of him John couldn't imagine that any of that had been offensive, unless of course you were accidentally Mycroft listening in. Hell, John thought, there wasn't even the Not Like This excuse seeing as the only thing they'd had to drink at the bar were a few bottles of lukewarm Diet Coke; even in celebration Sherlock didn't like slowing his brain down.

John ran his fingers through his hair, eyes screwed shut.

Was he looking at this wrong? Was it Sherlock in the wrong here instead of himself? Was John being used as some sort of…. experiment? A failed experiment – had he proven to Sherlock the tediousness sexual relationship? Or, perhaps worse yet - had Sherlock realized John had honest-to-God feelings for him and felt guilty?

(Perhaps he just likes blue balling me.)

John squirmed.

The first kiss flashed through John's mind. Sherlock had been surprised – actually surprised! – and something close to amazed, as if the answer to the most interesting, impossible case had just revealed itself before him. John thought he must have looked very much the same, but shorter.

There was something else John knew then: if he didn't go after Sherlock now, he'd never forgive himself. Heart pounding in his ears John rushed down the stairs.

.

He finally found Sherlock crammed into the far corner of the bathroom, face pressed against the cold porcelain of the sink. John stood in the doorway and stared; Sherlock's knees were tucked against his chest, entire body stiff. To anyone else it might appear to be nothing more than a typical mope; on Sherlock Holmes, John knew it was mortification.

Sherlock looked up at him with storm cloud eyes and opened his mouth to speak but instead just hung there, eyes locked on John's. Eventually John broke the silence himself, but although he wanted to say something meaningful just then the only thing that made clearance was: "Oh, Sherlock."

John ignored Sherlock's protesting twitch and slid down to sit in front of him, knees knocking with Sherlock's. He tried not to notice, he did, but he did notice – Sherlock's face was still flushed, lips still swollen. (Oh. I did that to him. Oh, oh, oh.) Sherlock's toes curled. "John…" he mumbled – almost a greeting, almost a question, almost an apology. John felt a tug in his chest and curled an arm around the detective's waist, pulling him into a sideways embrace.

"It's fine," John whispered. "It's all fine." Then, because it was hard to hold back in such a situation, he pulled Sherlock closer and kissed his temple. He smelled vaguely like pumpkin, cigarette smoke, and something chemical that John can't name and doesn't want to. He also smells like John – oh – but he'll file that away for later.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock's voice trembled slightly and cracked; John actually startled. "I never… I'm so sorry, John. I didn't want it to… to be this way… with you."

John's heart clenched. (What does that mean?)

"Hush. Don't apologize – it's ok." (Is it OK? Doesn't matter – it's always OK with him for me.) "Save your sparse apologies for when you've actually done something wrong. God knows your supply's limited." Sherlock nodded marginally and John kissed him on the cheek, unable to help himself. A knot of worry was forming in John's stomach, tangling with his adoration – (love? oh) – and crawling into his throat. "Please just tell me what's wrong. I thought we were having a pretty good time myself; what happened on your end?"

Sherlock made a noise that might have been a chuckle as much as it might have been sandpaper rubbing against a chalkboard. (Oh, God, surely he hadn't been crying, had he? Had he?) "Here I was thinking you were straight," he said. He sounded so staunchly sarcastic that John had to smile. It faded when Sherlock spoke again, this time softer: "It appears that my capacity for arousal was significantly underestimated by me due to a lack of interest in intercourse… before you—" Noted. "—which explains why you ended up nude… but not so much why you remain nude." John blushed, remembering the modesty he was supposed to have; Sherlock blushed a bit himself, and then scowled. "It isn't your body I'm concerned about, of course. Yours is… well."

Sherlock's eyes swept over John in a way that made John feel equal parts flattered and afraid.

He coughed. "Well, uh, thanks. Army, you know?" John said, slowly. He eyed Sherlock for a moment, eyebrows scrunching. "I don't see what that has to do with anything?"

Sherlock shifted and looked blatantly uncomfortable. Despite this, he started his explanation with the same blatancy that he explained anything. "I am feeling doubtful, John, that you'll feel the same inclinations in regards to my own physical form. While I am base-level attractive on some scales you have until recently only expressed interest in women. If being a man didn't handicap me enough, you should know that many body is nothing especially appealing in the sexual sense either – it's all transport, you see, no care to it; my skin tone, for example, is well below average pigmentation as I rarely remove my coat to gain any sort of exposure to the sun. I am also quite… thin, to an unhealthy degree some would claim. Not to mention the scars… not anything like your own, I assure you, highly unappealing. It's…" Sherlock trailed off; John was staring at him as if he'd grown not just one extra head but three. "What?"

"You… you chose the moment that I'm naked in your bedroom ready to be ravished for you to feel self conscious about your sex appeal? Really?" John was actually grinning. "You are incredible!"

An angry blush plumed on Sherlock's cheeks. "Now is not the time for teasing!"

"Oh, oh yes. Yes, it is, you crazy bastard." John released a true, ringing laugh and twisted around to kiss the protests off Sherlock's lips. "You're super attractive, you hear me? You're like a fucking demi-god or one of those posh bastards who old dead Greek guys made statues of and you cannot honestly look in the mirror every morning and think I'm more attractive than you."

Sherlock scooted back some, as if to get away, but only succeeded in giving John leverage to slip between his legs. "John—"

"Shhh." John stroked a thumb over Sherlock's jaw, dark eyes twinkling. "I won't do anything invasive, OK? Just let me show you. It's only fair."

Sherlock flushed. "Show me?"

"Think of it as an… an experiment."

After a long, tense moment Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded his consent. John's light expression faltered slightly; he really was worried, beyond worried. The notion that Sherlock didn't know he was gorgeous made him ill. But he knew Sherlock and he knew acting too concerned only pushed him away; so John smiled against Sherlock's forehead and said, "Look. Come on, now, look at me."

Sherlock did, although not happily. "What?"

John didn't respond, just drew his hands down Sherlock's neck, pressing his thumbs over the edge of his jaw. There was very little protest when John pulled the scarf away, exposing Sherlock's neck; John hummed and kissed the pale skin there, parting his lips to brush his teeth against Sherlock's Adam's apple. Sherlock arched his neck subconsciously, eyes rolling back to stare at the ceiling. "John, I don't see how this is complying to the Scientific Method—"

John kissed him into silence and made quick work of Sherlock's coat. The detective didn't protest much after that, to John's surprise – he just returned the tender kisses and (albeit cautiously) allowed himself to be unwrapped. John held back none of the emotion, expression bleeding raw awe and adoration with every bit of skin he uncovered; Sherlock watched John watch him dubiously until he could keep his eyes open no longer and they fluttered shut, finding himself stiff with tension and down to velvet briefs.

"Look at you," John whispered, running his fingers down Sherlock's chest, pausing at every scar to run his fingernail along it as if tracing the roads of a map, sliding his palms over his ribs. He doesn't ask about the scars even though he can tell the wounds were self-inflicted – they run in deep, spiraling patterns in his alabaster skin like an aching artwork. John bent to kiss each one firmly, gently, silently vowing to ask about them one day. For that night, he said: "You're perfect."

Sherlock scoffed but the noise was half hearted and John was almost sure there were tears in his eyes. "Perfection is a foolish notion, John – nothing and no one is flawless. Certainly not me. And perfection has so many variables to meet, many contradicting, clashes of opinion and culture—"

John buried his face in Sherlock's stomach, cutting him off. "Beauty's in the eye of the beholder, 'Lock. Call me cheesy or whatever you please, but even your God-damn flaws are perfect to me." John grinned and kissed Sherlock's belly, relishing the tickle of treasure-trail and wondering at how it was just slightly ginger. "Even if you're an annoying dick all the time – which you are, by the way – that's part of you being perfect. You can bloody blue-ball me every night and I'd…. well, be rather peeved, actually, but that's only natural. But I'm not going anywhere, not ever, if that's okay with you."

"John…" Sherlock swallowed hard, looking more strained than John had ever seen him. "John, you only confessed that you had romantic interest in me this evening. Is it really appropriate to be declaring undying l-" Oh. "—affection, isn't it?"

"Does it matter?" John wants to say what he thinks – that he's loved Sherlock forever, even before he realized he was attracted to him he'd loved him – but doesn't. He already sounds like a bad romance novel; he hated to think of making it worse, even if he meant ever y word of it. John's gaze dropped to Sherlock's stomach, fingertips tracing aimless patters over the soft ivory skin. (He looks like a statue or something but he isn't he feels nothing but warm and human and perfect. Oh.)

Sherlock ran his fingers through John's hair, fingernails scraping against his scalp. "No… no, I suppose it doesn't." Sherlock smirked. "You and I do have a habit of getting ahead of ourselves, don't we?"

John chuckled despite himself. "No kidding. We'll be married before Anderson even figures out we've kissed. Have Mycroft shoved into a bridesmaid's dress before he even has a chance to devour all our wedding cake."

Sherlock barked a laugh; the sound was irrationally glorious ringing in John's ears. "We'll have four children and name them all Hamish!" he teased. "Mrs. Hudson will be thrilled as soon as she realizes we're actually together.

John laughed and sat up, a weight dissipating from his chest; Sherlock looked like himself again, laughing and intolerably smug. (Although he was certainly a lot more naked than usual.)

After the chuckles had trickled away and reality came floating to the surface John found himself tucked against Sherlock's body; he felt far more comfortable than he should given his state of undress. Sherlock apparently felt the same, spidery arms wrapping loosely around John's shoulders. They sat there for a while, soaking each other in, until eventually Sherlock muttered, "Thank you."

John's chest swelled. The words had come biting out of Sherlock with such Sherlock-esque reluctance that it was right near perfect. "Of course," he replied.

"And, uh. Sorry for… blue balling you." Sherlock looked disgusted at his own phrasing, face scrunched in disapproval; John grinned helplessly.

"That's okay." John snuggled closer. (God, snuggling Sherlock Holmes – who would have thought?) "We don't always have to get ahead of ourselves. You're worth waiting."

"Hm." Sherlock ran an inquisitive finger between John's shoulder blades, sending a shiver down the good doctor's spine. When John looked up at him Sherlock stared back with calculating blankness. "Does that work on women, John? Showering them with body worship and then refraining from ravishing them? Is the hopeless Romeo method usually effective?"

John blinked. "No idea. Does it?"

(Method? Only being honest, Juliet.)

Sherlock grunted. "I don't know how women work, John. What's working on me is that your face is nuzzling against my abdomen." John flushed and sat upright instinctively, eyes wide; Sherlock's analyzing stare broke to a grin. "I'll be honest – the flattery is nice, too."

"Narc."

"Idiot." Then, after a pause: "Shall we move to the couch to watch Doctor Who? I don't have much data on the subject but I can draw the conclusion that bathroom floors aren't my choice area for affectionate proximity."

John snorted. (Affectionate proximity? Oh, God, he's adorable.) "Cuddling. It's called cuddling."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "I'm giving you BBC shows, you're giving me a pass on insufferable terminology."

John hesitated. "Tenth Doctor?"

"Sure."

Further hesitation.

"…Pants?"

"Absolutely not."

.

When Mrs. Hudson came home to find her boys asleep on the couch, tangled into a very naked, very loving embrace, she isn't surprised. She just tutted, turned off Doctor Who, threw a modest blanket over the pair, snapped a picture, and scurried off to collect on her bet with Mrs. Turner.

Reviews would really help my self-esteem.