Shirt Tale
Inspired by a delicious piece of NSFW-ish fanart by @anotherwellkeptsecret. Will link if I get permission! "John wanted to be the one wearing Sherlockâs shirt when he saw Janine wearing it."
*
âI reckon youâll think itâs silly,â said John.
âWhat?â Sherlock hesitated on the last button: small, pearl, white as the Italian cotton of the shirt. âThat weâre ââ he circled one hand in a flummoxed gesture that took in the disastrous mess of a bedroom, his own disheveled hair, John already half-undressed (and chilly from the look of it).
âNo, you berk. I meant â that shirt. Thatâs the one Janine had on when Mycroft met us here, after ââ (Well. Donât go too far into that.) âOnly white one I think you own.â He lifted the edge of the placket with one finger.
Sherlockâs brows drew together in genuine perplexity. âAnd the silly thing about that would be?â
Johnâs chuckle was a little sheepish. âSeeing her swanning about in it â there I was, pregnant wife back at our flat, you were still high, youâd just given bloody Mycroft the right about against the kitchen door â and all I could think was how much I wished I were the one popping out into the hallway with that shirt on.â
âJohn, in these circumstances, if you were to suddenly require⊠coverage, your own shirt is. Um.â
âOver the wardrobe door, I think.â
âHm. No. Oh, there. On the carpet.â
âNot the point. Itâs that it was your shirt. And she was wearing it as if â I pictured you putting it on her, taking it off her, doing â what I assumed you were doing while she wore it, and all I wanted was to be the one who got to â â He smiled wryly. âDaft, I know.â
âJohn. It was for the case. You know I â we. Nothing happened. No matter what she said to the Mail reporters. I told her we had to⊠take things slow.â
âI didnât know that then.â
âI am aware,â said Sherlock, âthat I have been unkind.â
It was a long, slow kiss, both an apology and a promise. Johnâs flanks were warm under his hands, Johnâs trousers and pants slid to the floor with a minimum of awkward indignity. âThis is where I begin to make it up to you.â
âMmf. Bit too dressed still, arenât you?â
âKeenly observed.â Forehead to forehead, a hum of deliberation. âWe ought to check the fit.â
âOf what?â Johnâs smile again, playful this time.
âTake this off me, John.â
The sleeves whispered over long, wiry arms, Johnâs fingers tracing the curves of muscle, the tender skin at elbow-crook and wrist. Sherlock caught the shirt before it could fall, and held it out. âLetâs see how it suits you. â Hmmm. A bit long. Very snug.â
âTa very much. Havenât even started.â
âAnd⊠it seems to have, er, quite an effect.â
âI hope youâre not going to take things slow.â
âOnly enough for, ah, savour â oh.â
âYes?â
âCome over here, Captain Watson. No, leave that on. Letâs see what else fits.â
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