(Spoke to a person on Omegle, who did all the Sherlock bits. If you are this person, let me know and I'll give credit! I hope this tickles everyone's funny bone.)

Sherlock stepped out of the shower and said "oh," as his towel conveniently floated to the floor. It was a very clever towel, and had chosen to disembark on its floor-bound journey just as John Watson turned around in the middle of brushing his teeth.

"Oh." John Watson said in response, his voice a little muffled by the toothpaste.

There was a long awkward pause. "Morning John."

John's toothbrush had the unpleasant sensation of being bit down on. Hard. During its toothbrushy sort of existence, it had been used to being brushed against teeth; that was normal. But the biting sensation was new and irritating as it crimped its bristles.

"Morning Sherlock." John awkwardly cleared his throat.

Sherlock side stepped behind John to take his toothbrush. "I closed the door when I came in to have a shower."

The door giggled (inwardly, doors don't have vocal chords). Silly consulting detective. Closing the door without locking it, really what was he thinking.

"I'm in a rush this morning. I have work in half an hour," John mumbled. "So I came in because I had to brush my teeth before I left

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgment. He brushed his teeth silently. Sherlock's toothbrush had no complaint. Even when exposed, the consulting detective didn't deviate from the normal rigors of tooth brushing.

John looked with some consternation at the towel on the floor, wondering why Sherlock hadn't picked it up, and avoiding looking at (oh-god-oh-god-oh-god) THAT.

Sherlock watched John. "Something wrong?"

"YOLO", the towel on the floor laughed, inwardly.

"Ow", thought John's toothbrush, as John bit down on it again before taking it out of his mouth and spitting and rinsing down the sink.

"Ummm, nothing. Nothing at all in fact," John murmured hoarsely. Sherlock unknowingly had him trapped between the toilet, and a rack of scientific equipment that Sherlock had been carefully washing yesterday in the bathtub. It was suddenly rather hard to breathe.

Sherlock spat out the toothpaste and bent over to pick up the towel.

HAHA, the towel thought in John's general direction. YOU'VE BEEN PUNKED. While John had no way of knowing what the towel was thinking, he personally felt as though the it had a vendetta against him, as he now found himself gazing at a soft, rounded, consulting detective's arse.

The toothbrush cup was mildly irritated as John missed putting his toothbrush in it three times, and almost knocked it off the sink.

Sherlock wrapped the towel around his hips again and obliviously left for his room to put on a bed-sheet.

John found himself having a conversation with his hand:

[Awww, you could have grabbed it!] said the hand.

Shut up, said John inwardly.

[It looked perfect! You could have had two palm-fulls of consulting arse-cheeks by now!]

I'm not GAY, said John inwardly, then said (still inwardly), Oh damn. A Growing Concern made itself known by pushing against the front of his trousers.

Sherlock peaked around the door into the bathroom. John was only prevented from jumping out of his skin by his skin itself, which objected strenuously to having nothing to wrap itself around. "John, you have a stain on your shirt."

The Sheet wrapped around Sherlock winked at the towel on the floor. The linen had it in for John since day one, when he had thrown a rather raggedy old towel in the bin, which had actually been their leader.

Oh fuck, thought John, Sherlock looks like a sex burrito. John awkwardly waddled out of the bathroom, praying that Sherlock thought that his very obvious erection was a case of morning wood and not related to the towel on the floor. "Yes… it's okay, I'm about to put on a jumper. Don't mind me!"

"And your tie is- Oh for gods sakes." Sherlock huffed, taking John's tie in both hands and yanking it straight. The Sheet drooped down to the ground, chuckling.

The tie was mildly insulted at being yanked about. This other man really didn't have much concern for The Way Ties Should Properly be Straightened. It glared at the sheet, hoping that this would not become a regular occurrence due to The Linen War.

John covered his face with his hands, wishing he could cover his crotch too without drawing attention to it.

Sherlock stepped back, observing His Work with a self-satisfied smirk. "Much better. See you later then." He picked the sheet and walked to his room. While the sheets had it in for the Army- Doctor, the doors really had it in for the Consulting Detective for being slammed and banged around too much. As Sherlock pulled the door shut behind him, it remained open an inch rather than shutting completely. Sherlock ignored it and laid down on the bed. Time for his monthly nap. He slept in nude, peaceful and oblivious to John's discomfort.

John whimpered and felt his knees buckle as Sherlock left the room. He hadn't been this disoriented since the swimming pool incident. John's hands were having a quarrel with his erection. [Look, the hands said, we've touched you LOADS of times. Really. We want something else.]

(Good luck with THAT, the erection snorted, bobbing slightly in the direction of Sherlock Holmes, THAT turned down John on the first day)

[Oh but COME ON, said the hands, we could at least try. I mean, it's either that Sherlock's SUGGESTING something or the linen of the flat somehow has it in for John. What's more likely?]

"I'm going to be late," John muttered, "I really don't have time to work this out."

Sherlock would have had something to say but he was taking a nap, and therefore was unable to respond.

[He's out cold, whispered the hands. Do it!]

"Wouldn't that be molestation?"

[DO IT!]

John awkwardly peeked into Sherlock's room, and looked at the long thin body stretched out on the bed. A bit not good, John Watson, he thought to himself. Then an idea hit him. If he just put a blanket over Sherlock, and accidentally brushed his pale, probably soft, probably firm, probably tasty…

(OH GOD YES).

"Shut up Erection."

…skin, he would have a legitimate excuse. He stepped in Sherlock's room, picked up the sheet on the floor and draped it over the detective, letting his hands brush lightly over the soft warm flesh of the other man's hip, and audibly caught his breath.

Sherlock was still out of the count, but every single household object, knick knack, bit of cloth, and appliance inwardly shouted one word in unison. "GAAAAAAAY!" All except, of course, Sherlock's Purple Silk Shirt, who decided that sensitivity training was needed for the politically incorrect bric-a-brac in John and Sherlock's flat.

As if feeling a disturbance in the force, John shrank away from the room and left for work. He mentally scheduled his sexual identity crisis for later that evening at approximately 8pm and sincerely hoped Sherlock would be available to witness it.