Sherlock: The Naked Truth
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock, John
Words: ~ 1000
Rating/Warning: Gen. Just a bit of pointless fluff.
Summary: John discovers that Sherlock sleeps naked.
A/N: Written for this prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/14213.html?thread=79875973#t79875973
The Naked Truth
The morning John discovered that Sherlock slept naked, was a normal one in many aspects.
It must first be remarked that nothing about Sherlock's sleeping habits could have been called 'regular' with a clear conscience; neither the time, nor the places or the wardrobe.
When he was on a case, Sherlock substituted sleep completely with manic pacing and an abundance of caffeinated drinks. John suspected that some of the thinking he did on the sofa might have been napping in disguise, because going eighty hours straight without sleep and without going insane (well, more insane than usual) just wasn't natural, but Sherlock denied it vehemently.
After cases like that he usually crashed on the first flat surface he fell on. John tried to make sure that it was Sherlock's bed, but sometimes he was just too tired himself to be bothered. He always felt a bit guilty, though, when he got up after eight hours or so and found Sherlock unconscious on the floor or in the bathtub or, on one notable occasion, on the stairs outside the flat.
When Sherlock didn't have a case or an experiment or his ennui, it could happen that he went to bed like a normal person. And when the night wasn't interrupted by a case or an explosion or the urge to play the violin at four in the morning, it could even happen that Sherlock got up like a normal person.
Under these circumstances, Sherlock slept naked. The morning John discovered that, was a normal one, as we have already established. To be more clear on the matter: it was a quiet Sunday morning, which made it normal for the majority of the population and slightly suspicious for 221b Baker Street, but John didn't want to jinx it.
He had been sitting at the kitchen table, inhaling the aromatic steam drifting up from his tea and leafing through the morning paper, when Sherlock entered from his bedroom, which wasn't unusual at all, stark-naked, which was.
John was used to nakedness, it wasn't a problem, it was just unexpected. Sherlock had been very much not naked whenever John had seen him in the past, so he had assumed that it would stay that way. Which explains why John failed in preventing Sherlock from steeling his tea. He was distracted by unexpected nakedness, it was unfair.
"Thank you," Sherlock said in answer to his growl and sat down opposite him.
"You're naked," John said.
Sherlock looked at him. Right after waking his expressions tended to be softer, so John wasn't hit by the full force of Sherlock's 'your observational skills astonish me' glare, the disdain was at the most at half its usual level.
"My dressing gown's in the wash."
John had suspected as much. "And you're out of pants, too?"
"I wanted my tea first."
That was Sherlock Holmes in a nut shell. Why bother with the inconvenience of pants when you only want to steal your flatmate's tea in peace?
John got up with a sigh to make himself a new cup. At least the water in the kettle was still hot, so it wouldn't take long.
Behind him, Sherlock leafed through the paper and mumbled something about the incompetence of the criminal element and the boredom of his existence. Then he settled with the arts section.
John sat down again and tried to get back into the article he had read, but it didn't work.
"Sorry, but could you put something on?"
Sherlock looked at him. "I could," he said archly. John could tell, he was bored enough to make this into the kind of bickering argument that could easily last the whole day. "Why does it bother you?"
"It doesn't bother me. It's just... weird. And it's February and the flat is kind of draughty, so I thought..."
"I don't feel a draught," Sherlock interrupted him.
"Yeah well, you would be the first one to notice," John bit out. They were silent for a while, then John decided that he couldn't let Sherlock bait him if he wanted him to wear any clothes at some point today.
"So," he said. "You often sleep naked?"
"Yes." Sherlock folded the paper and put it back on the table, apparently happy to have John's attention again. John held his gaze firmly at Sherlock's face. "I find it more comfortable."
He leaned back until his chair was balancing on two legs and John could see everything. "If you can't be naked in your own bed at night, when can you?"
"Right," John said and went back to staring at the article. He couldn't recall what it was about at the moment, but he would. Any second now.
"I'm making you uncomfortable," Sherlock observed. John rolled his eyes. The man was a bloody genius, you couldn't deny it.
"Your nakedness in out kitchen is making me uncomfortable," John specified.
"Ah," Sherlock made. It was the all-knowing sound he always made when he didn't have a clue what John's problem was.
"I don't know where to look," he explained.
"Ah," Sherlock made again. "Because you're usually looking at me, but now you think it's inappropriate, because I-"
"I'm not usually-" John faltered. "The kitchen, Sherlock!"
Now the bastard just smirked. "I didn't realise there was a dress code."
"Yes, there is. Pants, Sherlock. Minimal requirement for sitting in the kitchen."
The smirk got broader. "Is it a safety precaution?"
"Yes, it bloody well is. It's so your flatmate doesn't scald vital parts of your anatomy with hot tea!"
Sherlock looked delighted at getting a rise out of John.
John gave it up as a lost cause and fled to his room with his tea and half the paper.
"You don't have to get flustered, John," Sherlock shouted after him, "if I'd mind you seeing anything, I would have-"
The rest was lost as John slammed his door shut.
That was the day he swore to himself never again to comment on Sherlock's nakedness, a decision that in later years would save his life on more than one occasion.
But that is another story.
.
Characters: Sherlock, John
Words: ~ 1000
Rating/Warning: Gen. Just a bit of pointless fluff.
Summary: John discovers that Sherlock sleeps naked.
A/N: Written for this prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/14213.html?thread=79875973#t79875973
The Naked Truth
The morning John discovered that Sherlock slept naked, was a normal one in many aspects.
It must first be remarked that nothing about Sherlock's sleeping habits could have been called 'regular' with a clear conscience; neither the time, nor the places or the wardrobe.
When he was on a case, Sherlock substituted sleep completely with manic pacing and an abundance of caffeinated drinks. John suspected that some of the thinking he did on the sofa might have been napping in disguise, because going eighty hours straight without sleep and without going insane (well, more insane than usual) just wasn't natural, but Sherlock denied it vehemently.
After cases like that he usually crashed on the first flat surface he fell on. John tried to make sure that it was Sherlock's bed, but sometimes he was just too tired himself to be bothered. He always felt a bit guilty, though, when he got up after eight hours or so and found Sherlock unconscious on the floor or in the bathtub or, on one notable occasion, on the stairs outside the flat.
When Sherlock didn't have a case or an experiment or his ennui, it could happen that he went to bed like a normal person. And when the night wasn't interrupted by a case or an explosion or the urge to play the violin at four in the morning, it could even happen that Sherlock got up like a normal person.
Under these circumstances, Sherlock slept naked. The morning John discovered that, was a normal one, as we have already established. To be more clear on the matter: it was a quiet Sunday morning, which made it normal for the majority of the population and slightly suspicious for 221b Baker Street, but John didn't want to jinx it.
He had been sitting at the kitchen table, inhaling the aromatic steam drifting up from his tea and leafing through the morning paper, when Sherlock entered from his bedroom, which wasn't unusual at all, stark-naked, which was.
John was used to nakedness, it wasn't a problem, it was just unexpected. Sherlock had been very much not naked whenever John had seen him in the past, so he had assumed that it would stay that way. Which explains why John failed in preventing Sherlock from steeling his tea. He was distracted by unexpected nakedness, it was unfair.
"Thank you," Sherlock said in answer to his growl and sat down opposite him.
"You're naked," John said.
Sherlock looked at him. Right after waking his expressions tended to be softer, so John wasn't hit by the full force of Sherlock's 'your observational skills astonish me' glare, the disdain was at the most at half its usual level.
"My dressing gown's in the wash."
John had suspected as much. "And you're out of pants, too?"
"I wanted my tea first."
That was Sherlock Holmes in a nut shell. Why bother with the inconvenience of pants when you only want to steal your flatmate's tea in peace?
John got up with a sigh to make himself a new cup. At least the water in the kettle was still hot, so it wouldn't take long.
Behind him, Sherlock leafed through the paper and mumbled something about the incompetence of the criminal element and the boredom of his existence. Then he settled with the arts section.
John sat down again and tried to get back into the article he had read, but it didn't work.
"Sorry, but could you put something on?"
Sherlock looked at him. "I could," he said archly. John could tell, he was bored enough to make this into the kind of bickering argument that could easily last the whole day. "Why does it bother you?"
"It doesn't bother me. It's just... weird. And it's February and the flat is kind of draughty, so I thought..."
"I don't feel a draught," Sherlock interrupted him.
"Yeah well, you would be the first one to notice," John bit out. They were silent for a while, then John decided that he couldn't let Sherlock bait him if he wanted him to wear any clothes at some point today.
"So," he said. "You often sleep naked?"
"Yes." Sherlock folded the paper and put it back on the table, apparently happy to have John's attention again. John held his gaze firmly at Sherlock's face. "I find it more comfortable."
He leaned back until his chair was balancing on two legs and John could see everything. "If you can't be naked in your own bed at night, when can you?"
"Right," John said and went back to staring at the article. He couldn't recall what it was about at the moment, but he would. Any second now.
"I'm making you uncomfortable," Sherlock observed. John rolled his eyes. The man was a bloody genius, you couldn't deny it.
"Your nakedness in out kitchen is making me uncomfortable," John specified.
"Ah," Sherlock made. It was the all-knowing sound he always made when he didn't have a clue what John's problem was.
"I don't know where to look," he explained.
"Ah," Sherlock made again. "Because you're usually looking at me, but now you think it's inappropriate, because I-"
"I'm not usually-" John faltered. "The kitchen, Sherlock!"
Now the bastard just smirked. "I didn't realise there was a dress code."
"Yes, there is. Pants, Sherlock. Minimal requirement for sitting in the kitchen."
The smirk got broader. "Is it a safety precaution?"
"Yes, it bloody well is. It's so your flatmate doesn't scald vital parts of your anatomy with hot tea!"
Sherlock looked delighted at getting a rise out of John.
John gave it up as a lost cause and fled to his room with his tea and half the paper.
"You don't have to get flustered, John," Sherlock shouted after him, "if I'd mind you seeing anything, I would have-"
The rest was lost as John slammed his door shut.
That was the day he swore to himself never again to comment on Sherlock's nakedness, a decision that in later years would save his life on more than one occasion.
But that is another story.
.