A/N: I was re-watching HLV honestly looking for ways to write a little fix-it (because I really, really want to write a fic where Mary dies, honestly. Sorry...), but instead I found inspiration from the one and only Mycroft Holmes! He alludes to the fact Sherlock never closes his bedroom door, and I thought "hmm. His dresser is right in front of his door, why hasn't John… oh, wait… waiiiiit… yes… yes... YES!".

That's the gist of it. Just insert some smutty thoughts along the way, and some late nights spent writing, and you have this!

This is basically Porn W/o Plot, or at least very little plot, with 2 parts. Part 2 is basically smut; some reviews may encourage me to write it faster! ;D

Enjoy!

Warning: This is rated M for a BIG reason. Or two big reasons, depending on how you might judge the endowment of our dear Baker Street boys… Sorry. Bad dick joke; my apologies.

Disclaimer: Obviously I don't own anything, I make no profit. Just for fun, truly!

i.

The first time it happened was an accident.

That's what John chalked it up to. Of course he hadn't seen Sherlock naked on purpose, no way. Having lived in 221B for nearly a month, he knew that the detective barely ever closed his door, except maybe when he was angry, after a row. Even that was rare though; Sherlock liked to sulk and simmer with an audience.

So when John was walking down the hall, with a mind to simply take a piss in their bloody bathroom, and he saw Sherlock standing in front of his wardrobe stark naked, it was a surprise. He stopped dead in his tracks, his throat closing tight mid-inhale. Blinking once, then twice, then a third time but Sherlock was still there and John still didn't know why he was staring, he just was.

Being a doctor, he'd seen it all before. He'd seen other long, lithe bodies, expanses of pale skin splattered with little galaxies of freckles here and there... Muscled thighs and firm asses, miles of leg and… all that. But fuck, John thought, as he felt his blood rush fast and low, he'd never seen them on Sherlock.

He'd had looked before. Of course; there was no way to not look. The man was like walking sex in those well-fitted suits, all sarcastic charm under a magnetic air of superiority. But John had never paid any mind to it, certainly not after he was shot down that very first night. Married my work; that's a pretty clear message, one John didn't need twice. He'd decided to leave well enough alone. Which he had, for the best part of that month.

Then he had stared seconds too long, as Sherlock stood in his room, not ten feet away, looking over his silk shirts.

He had just remembered to breathe again before, without warning, Sherlock turned his head and smirked, picking out a deep lavender shirt from his closet. "I do believe you were heading to the bathroom, John," he mocked in that velvet voice.

Making some kind of strangled noise which could have been translated to "buggery fuck sorry, God," John turned swiftly and retreated into the safety of their small bath. He stood in the doorway till the chuckling outside died down, his knuckles white on the doorknob. His heart was pounding, his erection prominent and uncomfortably tight in his jeans… What the bloody fuck, he thought, just happened?

How turned on he had been from the mere sight of his flat mate named was startling, to be sure. Yes, Sherlock Holmes was attractive. But actually requiring a long – very long - cold shower after just looking at that leggy, well-muscled body… fuck.

That was new.

Later that night, John lay in bed, unable to get the image out of his mind.

Think of something else, anything else, he implored himself. Large breasts, tanned bodies with long legs… firm asses and fine-boned hips… that one freckle above the right arse-cheek or the attractively protruding vertebrae near the top of the spine… Damn, it was hard. Sherlock Holmes occupied nearly every other space in John Watsons head; how was this, sex and wanking, any different?

Because it was never going to happen, he told himself. But fantasies could. Allowances could be made, since the thoughts weren't going away; may as well indulge…

John lay in his bed, wearing only pants and already half hard underneath the cotton. With a relieved sigh verging on a whine, he ran his hand over his cock through the thin layer, imagining long, dexterous fingers. As he moved his hand back up, torturously slow, he imagined grey-green eyes like two spot-lights, half-lidded and heavy with desire and need, staring down at him. John removed his pants quickly, then took his naked length in hand.

As he stroked slowly he pictured the relaxed body just standing there, leaning more on the right side as those iridescent eyes searched expensive shirts for the perfect armor; the muscles had flexed there, the thigh and the calf working to support more of the body weight, though God knows there wasn't much of it.

Sherlock was all skin and bone and muscle, John had seen that easily. As his thumb slipped over droplets of precome at the head of his now fully erect cock, he imagined running his hands over the muscled back, tracing the spine till Sherlock shivered beneath his fingertips; imagined kissing his way down and running his tongue over the small of Sherlock's back, just to feel him tremble, to make him lose his mind; imagined grabbing that toned ass in his hands and lightly squeezing till the great detective moaned his name and implored him to reach his hands around, to touch that one focus point, to-

His orgasm fell upon him as quick and sharp as a guillotine and he barely had the chance to wrap his palm around the head before he was moaning, hot come spurting out.

Breathing heavily, John Watson stared into the darkness of his upstairs bedroom, damning doors, narrow hallways and the well-deserved self-confidence of detectives.

He could have sworn he heard the faint echo of a violin.

After that day, John tried to be careful. Only going downstairs when he was sure Sherlock was either well awake or sound asleep, and even then only venturing anywhere near that hallway when he was absolutely sure Sherlock had already gotten dressed; John spent many days sitting in his chair or in the kitchen just waiting with his back to Sherlock's bedroom, waiting for the detective to first come out fully clothed.

But a week later, the plan backfired.

John was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea and reading some mystery novel Sherlock had already ruined for him. It was half nine, and the tea he had left across from him at Sherlock's seat was getting cold. John was just about to call out to him, remind him about the tea and that awfully smelling experiment molding in the refrigerator, when he heard footfalls in the hall.

"Finally; Sherlock the head in the fridge is-" John looked up mid-sentence and that familiar feeling of a closed throat reappeared.

Sherlock stood there in the doorway of the kitchen.

"Sherlock-" John tried to ignore the weak sound of his voice. He cleared his throat and looked at the door-frame to the right of his friends head; eye to eye contact may not be a good idea. "Sherlock, you're naked," he tried again, thankful for small mercies when he found his voice to be a bit clearer.

"Yes it seems I am; please don't be tedious John. It's too early in the morning for stating the obvious," the tall brunet walked confidently past his flat mate, making no indication he cared about Johns eyes following him.

As Sherlock stood in front of the counter behind John, the blond man could not help but follow him with his eyes, and as the taller man stretched up to reach a box of crackers which sat a few centimeters out of reach, John nearly moaned. The muscles pulled tight, the firm arse grew taut and John could feel the blush hot on the tips of his ears.

"Sherlock, really, you- you cannot just walk around here… naked."

"…Does it make you uncomfortable?" the detective turned around, the box now in hand and thankfully obstructing Johns view of certain areas he didn't think his heart could stand seeing right then.

"Yes, brilliant deduction. Now could you please stand on the other side of the table... please?"

After doing so, Sherlock met Johns gaze with defiance and curiosity – damn his curiosity – alight in those keen eyes. "Honestly John. You're a doctor as well as a man, it isn't as though you haven't seen male bodies or genitalia before."

"It's different Sherlock, I've never seen yours- nor do I want to," John added quickly. Perhaps too quickly, seeing the detective raise one eyebrow and narrow his eyes suspiciously. Like a dog with a fucking bone, John thought. As Sherlock opened his mouth to spew observations, John raised a hand to silence him. "No, Sherlock. Just, no. Please go put some clothes on and just… no."

Closing his mouth, Sherlock stood there for a few more seconds, just watching john with the eyes of a hawk gauging potential prey; assessing danger, outcomes, consequences. John held his gaze evenly and later he would wonder how he had managed that. With a huff, Sherlock turned and walked down the hall.

John let the breath he had held during the not-quite staring contest. Crisis averted, he thought, hoping this time, it would stay that way.

Much later, he would be glad it hadn't.