#decemberdaze

“Brother?” Mycroft asked, surprised to see Sherlock at his door.

“Yes, well, no need to stare,” he snapped, pushing past his brother and into the apartment. He moved straight to the kitchen, unravelled his scarf, placing it on the counter, and grabbed an apple out of the fruit bowl, biting into it aggressively.

Mycroft watched as Sherlock paced alongside the kitchen counter in silence. He did this when he was worked up. He’d spit it out eventually. While he waited, Mycroft grabbed a crystal tumbler and opened his freezer to pull out some vodka. He poured himself a bit and then held it up in question to his brother. Sherlock waved him off impatiently. Apparently drinking wouldn’t help. Mycroft knew to wait in silence until Sherlock was prepared to speak.

“He’s just… so infuriating!” Sherlock finally burst out with.

“I can only assume you mean John.”

Sherlock flashed his brother an angry glare.

“Want me to have another little talk with him?” Mycroft offered.

“Don’t you dare,” Sherlock snapped, pointing his half devoured apple at his brother.

“Okay but you’re here. You have… feelings to express apparently.”

“Huh. Feelings.” Sherlock scoffed and continued to pace in silence for a time and Mycroft let him. “The thing is, there’s this case. And John’s reaction has been… difficult to understand.”

“Right…”

“When he first moved in, he asked…” Sherlock paused, looking at his brother to assess his level of judgement. Mycroft wasn’t giving anything away.

“He asked me about my situation.”

“Situation?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock simply gave his brother a look in answer and continued. “Yes, and I said the usual.”

“Not your area?” Mycroft checked.

“Quite so.”

“Seems reasonable,” Mycroft agreed. “You barely knew each other and given Dr Watson’s hobby of serial dating, I can’t see how—“

“He’s bisexual.”

“Oh? I hadn’t… spotted that.”

“Well he covers it well,” Sherlock mumbled, clearly irritated by it.

“He told you this?” Mycroft asked.

“No.”

“Okay… then…” Mycroft was confused.

“Only, now, we’re dealing with a case and it seems to really be bothering him. I can’t understand how it should bother him, though, if he is also…”

“Not publicly though,” Mycroft suggested. “Publicly, he makes a point of being straight.”

“True. Although to be precise he always says he’s not gay.”

Mycroft paused. He didn’t like seeing his brother so distressed. It often coincided with danger nights. “Sherlock, won’t you sit. The pacing is… distracting.”

Sherlock hesitated, ready to argue as usual and instead pulled out a stool and sat at the centre bench.

Mycroft relaxed against the opposite bench. “So tell me,” he began, before taking a sip of vodka. “I can decipher why the case might be bothering John - perhaps some hidden truths he’s not ready to acknowledge - but why is it bothering you so?”

Sherlock munched quietly on his apple for a while.

And Mycroft sighed. “Oh. I hadn’t noticed it before. But now I see it.”

“What?” Sherlock asked, annoyed.

“You love him.”

Sherlock instantly choked on a piece of apple and stood up again, beating at his chest to move the piece of apple lodged there. He shot his brother an angry glare.

Mycroft simply stood watching his brother flail about dramatically with a knowing smirk. “Confirmed,” he said, when Sherlock finally sat again. Without a word he grabbed another glass and poured his brother some vodka after all, sliding the glass across to him. “I can’t believe I hadn’t seen it until now,” he said.

“Well you are the slow one,” Sherlock teased, taking a sip and sitting back down.

“Lucky for you John is the slowest.”

Sherlock gave him another annoyed look.

“What do you need then?” Mycroft asked more gently.

“He’s oblivious. Irritatingly so. I don’t think he’s aware of his own identity. I can’t… see a way past it.”

Mycroft took a leisurely sip of his drink. “When we were children, Mummy used to read us a book. I don’t know if you remember it. Well, she read it to me and so I assume to you also. The one with the ribbons?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock frowned. “Why would I keep a children’s book in my mind palace?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Well the gist of it was about two people who loved each other so much that a connection grew. Two ribbons that tied them together. Tied their hearts together. And everywhere they went these ribbons connected them. No matter how far, the ribbons just grew long enough to keep them connected. I think Mummy used to read it so we understood that when they travelled so much, we were all still connected through love.” He huffed then, realising how it sounded. “The idea that someone could fly to another country entirely and still have their ribbons remaining connected is, of course, completely ridiculous and romanticised. Children are so gullible and stupid,” he scoffed.

Sherlock laughed. “Speak for yourself. I clearly dismissed it early on, which is why I hold no memory of it. I never took you for such a romantic, though.”

Mycroft snorted, looking down at his drink. “Actually, I loved that book so much. I used to read it to myself even when they were away. There was something… hopeful in it,” he admitted. “I think part of the reason I’ve remained single is because I refused to give any time to anyone who wasn’t worth that kind of love. I never found it.”

“You’re not dead yet, brother,” Sherlock said, suddenly feeling very sorry for his older sibling. Sherlock did tease him constantly about being a sad, lonely old man, but in truth he had always hoped Mycroft might find someone to share his life with.

“It’s fine. I’m… comfortable,” he said stiffly. They remained together in silence for a long time. Finally, Mycroft decided to impart his wisdom.

“When I first met John. When I picked him up and tested him, I was… quite taken aback. He was nothing like any of your other friends. He was instantly loyal, virtually unshakeable, in fact, yet with a vulnerability he tried desperately to hide. I couldn’t have found a more perfect partner for you, with all the resources I have at my disposal. The two of you connected instantly and I saw it.”

Sherlock looked up. “Saw what?”

“Ribbons,” he said softly, finishing his drink. Sherlock looked taken aback.

“You want my advice?”

“Please,” Sherlock said, watching his brother closely.

“John has trust issues, yet he trusts you. But he doesn’t really trust himself. He’s never going to tell you he has an interest. He’s never going to admit to being bisexual. He’s going to assume you are too far above his station in life. He’s going to assume you have deduced everything about him, including any feelings he has about you. He knows how you operate. He will expect you can see and hear his every thought and are wilfully ignoring them out of disinterest. I suspect all it would take, to win him, is to make the first move and he would topple over the cliff with you.”

“I see,” Sherlock said, swallowing hard.

“That is, if he will allow himself to admit he has feelings for a man. He could just as easily deny it to the death,” Mycroft added.

“Well that’s been very helpful,” Sherlock said, the comment dripping with sarcasm.

“You asked,” Mycroft replied smugly.

Sherlock stood and reattached his scarf to his neck. He swallowed the last of the vodka and gave his brother a little bow.

“Thank you brother. I will take that advice with the usual level of disregard that I always give it.”

Mycroft pursed his lips tight. He had tried.

And with that, Sherlock stormed out of the apartment again, out into the snow.

— —

Thanks @notjustamumj for the prompt list

@lisbeth-kk @helloliriels @totallysilvergirl @safedistancefrombeingsmart @naefelldaurk @a-victorian-girl @peanitbear @starlitkeys @lumilama @yorkiepug @talkativeanxiousturtle @kettykika78 @kittenmadnessandtea @whatnext2020 @egregiously-chuffed @chriscalledmesweetie @catlock-holmes @battledress @kholkate @randomquadballpun @221beloved @little-owls-things @daltongraham @sillygirlsmindpalace @phoenix27884

@oetkb12 @odditiesandeverything @johnlockficclub @rainstarboii @bheadhe

It was the middle of the night when John was surprised by a cup of tea being placed down beside him.

“It's late, John,” Sherlock scolded in a low, deep, yet concerned rumble.

“Sorry, did I keep you up? I thought you'd actually gone to bed,” John replied, rubbing a hand over his face.

“What time is it anyway?”

“You know I don't sleep when we’re on a case, John. It’s just past 2am now.”

“Weren’t you in your room?” John asked, surprised.
“Nope. Went out. I did say so.”

“Oh, sorry I was typing away. I must have missed it entirely.” John was surprised with himself. He usually noticed every move the detective made. Or so he thought.

“I slip in and out all the time and you barely notice. It's endearing actually, that you are so involved when you're writing up your case notes,” Sherlock said, sitting himself in the chair opposite, and nestling his own tea between his hands. “I read some of them earlier.”

“Oh?”

“Do you really think that the fourth wife was lying when we interviewed her?”

“Do you really want to talk about this in the middle of the night?” John asked, brow cocked in amusement.

“You know I do.” Sherlock’s mouth twisted ever so slightly into a smirk.

“Casework is what we do,” John parroted in a little sing song reminder of Sherlock’s usual words but when he looked at his friend, Sherlock was giving him the strangest expression. He almost looked affronted.

John grabbed the tea and sipped it, only to grimace at the heat of it. Too early to drink it yet. He nodded slightly in reply to Sherlock’s question, tilting his head to the side. “I don't think if I was with someone, if I was married to someone, that I would want to share them,” he said. To which, Sherlock simply hummed in thought, bringing his own tea cup to his lips, looking enthralled, as if John were about to tell him a bed time story.

John hesitated for a moment before continuing: “So I find it very hard to believe that all four of these people were completely unaware of each other, particularly with the two linked best friends. That they never noticed anything amiss, and that they might all be okay with it and have not done anything about it.”
“You think the fourth wife found out about the others and killed him for it?“ Sherlock smirked into his tea.

“I don't know. I definitely think it's possible. The first wife could have been unaware. They'd been married the longest and marriages - so I understand - tend to lose some of that passion. Therefore, it’s feasible that she may not notice his absences or his lack of attention. From what I understand, though, newlyweds should be more attentive to each other. Don’t you think the fourth wife would be the most likely to notice something was amiss? And the other two with the shared friend? I absolute believe that somebody must have seen something. I think out of the four of them, the first wife is the least likely to be a suspect and the fourth wife is the most likely to be the suspect.” John nodded with satisfaction. It was the longest Sherlock had ever let him speak with a theory.
“Interesting. You really do still sound a bit perturbed by the whole thing, John.”

“I don't know how anyone has the time… I certainly don't have time to date people. You don't have time to date people. How do people have time to keep up more than one relationship? And somehow this man was managing four different lives? Four different lies? It sounds exhausting.”

“You've managed to see lots of women, John.”

“Not at the same time, Sherlock. None of them for long periods, in any case.”
“I imagine if one was determined to, they could put in enough effort.”

”Hmmm. Maybe,” John sighed, deep in thought. “You never date anyone, Sherlock. Don’t you ever—“

“The body's just for transport, John. You know that. I’ve told you many times. If I don't need to eat or sleep when I’m busy, why on earth would any of those other ridiculous human behaviours hold any interest?”
“I see.” John watched Sherlock closely in silence for a time. “Do you ever think about dating or—“

“God no.”

“Or, I don't know, marriage? Do you ever think about marriage?”

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth a few times staring into his tea before answering. “I learnt very early on, John, that people don't respond to me the way they respond to others. That's partly my own fault, but I don't plan to change how I am, so I simply learned not to expect anything more for myself,” Sherlock stated stiffly.

“I don't agree,” John said gently as he sipped his tea. “We instantly got along.”

“Yes.” Sherlock smiled very slightly and sipped at his tea. “You are one of the rare exceptions and I appreciate you for that. This is why I talk to you now, instead of my skull.”
“Well thanks very much. but you still drug my tea occasionally,” John said, suddenly realising his words, and looking at his tea cup in horror before glaring back at Sherlock, who was watching him.

“No, not tonight, John.” He shook his head with a smile. “We have work to do.”

“Is that why you managed to make me green? Boredom?”

“Are you really not going to let that go?” Sherlock asked.

“Not in a hurry, no.”

“Hmmm, fair enough. Come on, John. I have an idea. There’s something I wanted to investigate and I need your eyes on it.”

“Really?” John sat up in his chair, already intrigued.

“Yes, John, of course,” Sherlock looked genuinely surprised at John’s lack of confidence after all this time. “Of course.”

“Very well.” John left his tea and followed Sherlock. He could never resist when his detective needed him.

— —

Thank you for following along my first attempt at a December prompt!

Thanks @notjustamumj for the list

Sherlock stormed into the lab as usual with all the confidence of a man who owned the place.

“Molly. Good, you’re here. I need to see the body. It's imperative that we do it as quickly as possible. I have suspicions about new bruising and you know how time is of the—“ Sherlock froze and blinked at the sight in front of him.

“Oh, hello Sherlock, John. Lovely to see you both,” Molly said brightly.

John also froze and looked at the desk where Molly was working. Her hair was in a mess, a knot clasped violently with a clip and almost as much hair falling out of it. She was typing away at the computer, her desk covered in papers. On top of the papers, though - and the cause of their staring - was a small ginger kitten padding up and down over her work. As they stared, it found a pencil to paw at.

“Ah… Molly…?” John began, looking up at Sherlock and back at the bench. Sherlock looked deeply offended.

Molly had paused to take a sandwich out of her mouth when she first spoke to them but had already returned it back to its resting place in her mouth, as she typed furiously again. “Hmmm?” she asked, not even looking up at them.

“Cat,” Sherlock spat out.

Molly lifted the sandwich out again. “Sorry?”

“You have a cat,” Sherlock said stiffly.

“Oh yes, this is Milo. Say hello, Milo,” she said to the animal, which only seemed to offend Sherlock more. The kitten meowed back appropriately.

“Molly, this is a lab,“ Sherlock said with a frown.

“So?” She laughed, abandoning her sandwich to the plate this time.

“Well, there’s… certain levels of hygiene that should be… should be…” Sherlock didn’t really have a good answer for her and looked to John for support.

“Sherlock, everyone here’s dead except for me. I'm fairly certain it's not going to cross contaminate or anything is it?” She laughed at him.

“The cat’s walking all over your paperwork. What about your filing system?” He tried instead.

“What about it, Sherlock?” She looked over at him and he was clearly beside himself. “You can't seriously be worried about a kitten?

“Well now I've lost my train of thought,” he sighed in frustration, watching the cat bite at some papers and spin around to tackle the pencil again.

“Do you not like cats, Sherlock?” Molly asked, mildly horrified.

“They’re dreadful creatures. They have no respect for human emotions, or personal boundaries. They can ignore the people close to them for days on end,” he scoffed angrily.

“Sounds familiar,” John mumbled.

“Excuse you?” Sherlock turned to look at him, wounded that his partner was not agreeing with him.

“Pretty sure that's the criteria you gave me before I moved in,” John reminded him.

Molly giggled. “I think you might be right, John.”

“Yes, I think you are, indeed, like a big cat, Sherlock. And you always curl up on the couch in funny positions… run around restlessly in the middle of the night...” John continued, starting to enjoy himself.

“You actually are very like a cat,” Molly agreed.

“Shut up,” Sherlock huffed, no quick retort ready to hand. “I was here for actual work.”

“Yes, yes. You wanted to see a body? Is this about the man with four wives?” Molly checked.

“Three wives… and a husband,” John pointed out.

Sherlock didn't miss the fact that John was once again stuck on that point.

They began to follow Molly out of the lab to head to the other room with the bodies. Sherlock felt something tug on his pants, and looked down to find the kitten biting at the hem.

“Ugh, Molly,” he groaned.

She turned to see Milo, biting and pulling at his expensive suit pants leg and couldn’t help smirking, before putting on a stern face. “You wanted me to get the body out? You deal with the cat.”

Sherlock let out a frustrated sigh, bending down to pick it up so he could keep walking. Milo immediately leaped out of his hands, and onto the shoulder of his coat, startling him. John snorted at the expression on Sherlock’s face. He looked mortified, horrified as the cat crawled along his shoulder and then up over the lapel to find a position between his coat collar and his curls, snuggling against his neck.

John suddenly blushed and was surprised by his reaction. He wasn't sure why, but the cat looked so comfortable snuggled against his flatmate. It seemed to be a cozy position that gave the kitten great satisfaction. Sherlock always seemed like such an uncomfortable being. He didn't seem like someone who would like to be cuddled, or enjoy affection. He didn't like attention from what John had seen. Never had dates over, never mentioned going on them. Was he asexual? Aromantic? Just generally disinterested? John had given up asking after the one attempt he had made to gauge Sherlock’s relationship status. The man certainly seemed oblivious to any of Molly’s advances, in any case. And he always mocked people in relationships when it came up on cases, or seemed to not understand the intricacies of them. John was always having to fill in the gaps for him.

And yet this cat had cuddled right against him. No hesitation. And suddenly, John kind of wished, just for a moment, that he was the kind of friend that Sherlock would like to cuddle up to.

“Do you need any assistance?” John asked.

“No, I suppose he can just stay there now,” Sherlock asserted.

“Oh, look! How adorable, he loves you already!” Molly exclaimed as she looked over to see what had happened.

“Yes, well it's quite a nuisance that he's making of himself,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Oh, you like it,” Molly scoffed.

“It's like a little massage gun that's purring against my neck,” he scoffed back at her.

“People pay good money for those massage guns,” Molly commented.

Again, John blushed at the idea. What was all that about all of a sudden?

“Yes. Well, that was all very cute,” Sherlock said to the kitten, “but I have work to do.” He tried to remove it and put it on the ground again. Milo meowed in the most adorable little cry and padded along behind Sherlock as he moved forward again.

Once they were all in place, Molly unzipped the body bag and Sherlock pushed forward impatiently. He grabbed gloves from the nearby container and snapped them on, leaning in to start taking note of the body. As he was looking, the kitten clawed its way up his pants leg, then onto his coat, to get back up to his position against Sherlock’s neck. Even from a couple of feet away John could hear the purring, like a little engine. He smiled, covering his mouth to stop himself from laughing aloud, afraid of embarrassing Sherlock. The kitten was struggling to balance while Sherlock leaned over the body, desperately shuffling, and adjusting its weight to stay perched there. It was irritating Sherlock to no end. He kept trying to flick it angry glances, but hidden under his chin, he couldn’t level the right amount of irritation at it.

“Why don't I do this and you can direct and observe?” John suggested.

“Fine,” Sherlock announced angrily, stepping back and snapping his gloves off throwing them into the nearby bin. He folded his arms across his body in absolute defeat and fury.

John grabbed some fresh gloves and took over, moving the victim’s arm to lift it and look at his ribs. “You're right, Sherlock, there's fresh bruising here that wasn't there the other day,” John said. “Just as you thought.” He looked up and couldn’t help smiling at the scene before him. Sherlock, looking like an aloof security guard, but with an adorable orange kitten nestled and purring under his ear, eyes closed in absolute ecstasy.

“I have to think about all of this, Molly. Can we get photos please?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh, yes, certainly.” She moved to the side and got a camera and then started taking some photos. “Um… actually… I was going to ask… if I saw you… if you would like to maybe come to my Christmas party?” She stumbled over the words awkwardly.

“Oh, we already have a couple of Christmas events,” Sherlock said absently, not making eye contact.

John gave him a stern look. “Didn't think there was anything going on. When is it?” John asked her.

“Next Saturday night?” She asked, her face lighting up.

“I’m sure we can make that work,” he agreed. “Can't we Sherlock?”

“Fine. Send me the details,” he grumped as he started to walk out of the lab.

“Ah… Sherlock?” John called after him.

“What?” Sherlock turned around to find Molly and John watching him expectantly.

“You can pack that up for us, can't you, Molly?” he said, assuming he was in trouble for leaving without cleaning up.

“No… ah…” Molly stuttered out.

“Sherlock, just…” John tried. Sherlock was clearly oblivious.

“What, John?” He asked in annoyance.

John sighed, removing his gloves as he walked over to Sherlock, grabbed the kitten from its position against Sherlock's neck and gave him a look. He walked it back over to Molly. “Sorry, Molly,” he said, handing Milo to her.

Sherlock, who now felt slightly embarrassed and affronted at the error, left the lab in a huff.

“Thanks John,” she said with a little smile. “Doesn't like cats,” she mumbled under her breath.

“Oh, he says that about a lot of things,” John said. “But we know his bark is always worse than his bite. I think he quite enjoyed that kitten cuddle. Milo is very cute, Molly.”

She giggled. “Thank you,” she said sweetly, as John left to find his sulking detective.

— —

Thanks @notjustamumj for the prompt list

This one is for @phoenix27884 today. You know which kitten this is. His name’s been changed for anonymity 🤭


“Do we really have to go to this party?” John moaned.

“Greg asked, and he asks for very little from us. It’s with the people from the Yard, John. They felt like we should be there,” Sherlock explained, as he rifled through his closet. “I think he just wants us there for emotional support.”

“Look, we both hate people. Why would we go to a party?” John argued, frowning as he watched from the corridor. Sherlock was invested, shoulder deep in his closet.

“We're doing Greg a favour. Besides, they’re celebrating the big break in the case. We need to be there for that.”

“Do I get extra credit for working out that it was the fourth wife?” John said, puffing out his chest.

“Yes, yes, they’re very impressed by that, John,” Sherlock said excitedly.

“Do we need to bring anything?” John asked, still standing awkwardly in the corridor, still wondering what on earth Sherlock was fussing with in his sacred bedroom.

“No.” Sherlock paused to look at John for a moment. “Maybe a tie?”

“Oh really? That posh? Okay?” John disappeared to get a tie.

By the time John came back out of his room, Sherlock was in the lounge, jiggling impatiently on the spot, his coat already on and buttoned up. John paused, assessing the situation. Something was not right but he couldn’t put his finger on it. When Sherlock looked up at John, finally, he froze with an odd expression on his face.

“What?” John asked, pausing on the stairs. Sherlock continued to stare at him. “What? Was this not what you had meant?” John pressed on, suddenly doubting his wardrobe choice. He had settled on a Christmas themed tie but it was a particularly classy one that was a deep maroon silk with a very subtle holly embroidered onto it. One of his terrible ex-dates had given it in an over enthusiastic gesture. John had taken her on a second date and she apparently thought he was a permanent boyfriend. It had ended badly but the tie had stayed in the wardrobe because it was actually lovely. He never had cause to wear it and something had possessed him to put on a fancy tie, to impress Sherlock and now, Sherlock looked… possibly disgusted at it, at least that was the only thing John could attribute his particular expression to. It resulted in a very silent cab ride to the pub in which John had no idea what to say to rectify the situation.

Sherlock paid the fare while John stepped out and made his way into the pub to get out of the very cold night. When he paused in the foyer to undo his jacket, he caught sight of Sherlock on the pavement heading in, already undoing his coat. He caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s outfit under his coat now that it was open.

“What are you…” John paused, mouth gaping open as he caught sight of it. “Ah… wearing?” He took in the sight of Sherlock as his friend entered the foyer and took off his coat properly.

“But… You told me to wear…” He was completely confused.

“Well, it’s a Christmas party, John,” Sherlock replied, somehow keeping a straight face.

“I wore a bloody Christmas tie. You told me to! What the hell is that?!” he shrieked, pointing at Sherlock.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked calmly.

“Come on, Sherlock. What are you wearing? Is that my jumper?” John asked again.

“I'm just… borrowing it,” Sherlock said, raising his nose high in the air defensively. “Sherlock Holmes, you have never worn a Christmas jumper in your life. I don’t even think I’ve seen you in a jumper, period. What are you doing?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You're going to stretch the wool out! You’re way taller than I am,” John said in frustration.

“Hush, John. Let’s head in before we miss the start of the party,” Sherlock said as John glared at him.

Now, he felt completely out of sorts. Standing in his button up shirt with his classy tie, beside Sherlock Holmes in one of his bloody Christmas jumpers. The jumpers that Sherlock teased him about. Constantly. Only now, Sherlock was wearing one. His favourite, in fact and…

“You were fishing this out of your closet,” John suddenly realised.

“Hmmm?” Sherlock hummed the question as if he hadn’t really heard it.

“You were trying to find this… in your closet. Why was it in your closet?” John asked angrily.

Sherlock ignored him and walked past him to ensure they got moving, and the moment John walked in, he realised the whole group were all wearing terrible Christmas jumpers.

“Whaaat is happening, Sherlock?” John whispered, feeling incredibly out of place. “Did you forget to give me the memo?”

Everyone let out a cheer and flooded towards them, with excited greetings, and pats on the back coupled with congratulations. The whole team seemed so excited to see them both. John had an out of body experience as he tried to process what was happening - everybody else in what could only be described as ugly Christmas jumpers, even though John liked quite a few of them. This was exactly why he was the butt of all of Sherlock’s fashion quips wasn’t it?

Finally Lestrade tapped his keys against his beer glass to silence the team in their little corner of the pub, settling the rabble.

“Well, John Watson,” Lestrade said, to which the whole team cheered. “We’ve been waiting for the day you would finally snag a win. Sherlock always outdoes you - and all of us - and this time, you outdid Sherlock and we thought we would celebrate with you. Besides, this arrogant arse needed to be taken down a peg or two.” Everyone chuckled and made noises of agreement. “And as your Christmas jumpers are always a source of Sherlock's teasing, we told him that since you were the genius this week, he had to wear one of your jumpers… case in point,” he added, pointing to Sherlock’s jumper, to which everyone cheered. “And in return we agreed we would all wear a bad Christmas jumper too.”

“So, I'm the only one here without a Christmas jumper,” John mumbled under his breath.

Sherlock leaned in closer to him. “Correct, but you wear them the rest of the time, so we felt like it was a fair trade.

John blushed and tried to laugh along as he drank his beer, taking it faster than he should, in a bid to get out of this whole nightmare as quickly as possible. He wanted to enjoy the glow of the recognition. He had helped break the case open. But somehow the fuss over it just made him feel like they were pointing out how stupid he was the rest of the time. Stupid little John, with his stupid little jumpers.

It wasn’t even an hour later when John slammed his third beer down, interrupting one of Greg’s sorry. “Yeah, I’m… gonna go,” he said, storming through the pub, past his coat and made it out to the street to try and hail a cab.

By the time he had found a cab to stop, Sherlock was by his side, silently watching. He had the coat on and had John’s jumper in his hands. They sat quietly through the entire trip home as John ground his teeth together. They got all the way up to the flat before John finally snapped.

“Is that really how you see me, Sherlock? Just the idiot who wears the bad jumpers?”

Sherlock looked as if he’d been slapped. “No, John, it was all in good sport. We thought you would have a laugh with us.”

“I know they see me like that. But do you really see me… like that?” he asked, his voice quieter.

“No. Of course not. Of course not.”

Sherlock stood in the same room, but didn’t seem to be able to look at John now. His shoes were suddenly very interesting, apparently.

“John, I'm sorry.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “We just thought it would be fun. You always seem, to me at least, to be feeling… or perhaps I make you feel… lesser and like a tag along and I wanted you to be the main character.”

John looked surprised but not long enough to get rid of his feelings of complete humiliation. “Yeah, well, you know, once in a while, it would be really nice if I wasn't the main character that was also having the piss taken out of them you know? Like being green, being drugged, being teased, being pointed and laughed at. It’s like I’m the Robin to your Batman…” He frowned at the ground. “That’s not what I… wrong example…or maybe what I mean is… it’s like…people treat me like… I’m your secret gay lover who’s downtrodden and can't tell the world and I…”

“No,” Sherlock tried to scoff casually at his remarks. “Of course you’re not.” His face heated at John’s words.

“You know, just for once… for once I would like to just be John Watson, just normal John Watson without any…” He sighed, rubbing his hand over his faces. “Just forget it. It sounds stupid now.”

Sherlock stood awkwardly unable to think quickly enough to fix things, to say the right thing.

“I'm going to bed,” John snapped. He grabbed his jumper off the chair Sherlock had draped it carefully on and stormed upstairs. He slammed his door louder than he meant to and then sat, sulking on the bed for quite some time. Finally, he realised the jumper smelled of Sherlock now. Irritatingly, infuriatingly, impossibly. Before he could stop himself, he lay down on the bed, fully clothed, and cuddled the jumper tightly to his chest. He lay there unmoving until he drifted off to sleep.

— —

Thanks @notjustamumj for the prompt list

A quiet night at home was in order after the busy investigations of the day.

John sat reading in his chair, by the fire, very quiet, and very still. Sherlock felt it best not to disturb him when he was in such a mood so he settled on some violin time on the other side of the room.

Sherlock played for a while, moving between a series of songs and not able to settle on any one particular piece. He was too distracted. The moment between them, in the snow, would not leave his mind. Being so close to John, touching him so intimately, had not been something he had planned, and now, he feared he had overstepped.

John hadn’t said a single word since they had returned home and it was unsettling.

Sherlock worked his way through some Mozart, Brahms, Beethoven and even an arrangement of a Beatles song he knew John tended to like, even him along to, hoping to elicit a response. Somehow filling the awkward silence between them seemed incredibly important right now. He was speaking through music to his friend.

But what exactly was he trying to say? He didn’t even know. John had been the one stable thing in his life, the rock he could rely upon. And strangely, while Sherlock didn’t agree with everything John had been implying in his rants about the case, he did agree with him about the devotion to one person. And hadn’t they been that to each other for the longest time already? The two of them against the rest of the world? Whatever John’s issues with men stemmed from, Sherlock understood that he had a devoted friend and companion in John Watson. Whatever it meant to his flatmate, he knew what it meant in his own head and nothing ever needed to change. He never expected it to. In Sherlock’s mind, they would live out their lives working together as they had been in a de facto arrangement that was ambiguous to everyone around them but perfectly natural to the two of them, so long as no one said anything about it. Sherlock never planned to make his feelings known to John. He could see it would distress John to hear it, or at least he firmly suspected so. Maybe one day, years from now, things may progress but he knew not to assume it would ever change beyond the happy situation they were in. John seemed happy, when he wasn’t moping and thinking, at least.

Sherlock wandered as he played, sometimes looking out the window at the street below, sometimes moving closer to the fireplace for warmth, drifting across John’s field of vision casually.

He felt John’s eyes on him often and wondered what was going through that mind of his.

The case was troubling John. Was it really just the four marriages? Or was it the fact that the victim was bisexual? Sherlock had wondered since the day they met, if John had been hitting on him at the restaurant. But then after that, he had maintained a steady stream of awful women who spent their time mocking John and Sherlock’s connection. John was incredibly quick to announce he wasn’t gay, and the dates felt like some kind of direct message to prove something to Sherlock and anyone else who spotted him out. John Watson liked women. But he never seemed happy with them, aside from getting off, obviously, which, if Sherlock was honest, didn’t even seem to improve John’s mood anyway. But even so, he understood it to be John making a point, and scratching some kind of itch which never abated.

Was it possible that the case bothered John so much because he saw himself in the victim? A man who couldn’t make up his mind where his heart lay?

Or was it truly the lack of respect and health and safety John felt was on display in being sexually and emotionally prolific.

Sherlock needed to gather more data. John Watson was a fascinating work of art that he never tired of looking at and learning from. So many contradictions and hidden messages. A code he was yet to break.

“That one,” John finally whispered softly with a little smile.

“Hmmm?” Sherlock asked.

“That piece. That’s my favourite.” He let out a contented sigh and went back to reading.

Sherlock added it to the catalogue. Bach. John liked it when he played Bach.

— —

Thanks for reading. Let me know if you want to be tagged!