#drellaholmes

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"The blue one."

John sighs and turns around. Sherlock is leaning in the door, long arms crossed over his chest, watching.

"What?"

"The blue one. With the red bit."

"Sherlock. What are you doing here?"

"Helping you dress, clearly. The blue one, John."

John stares at him, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “How did you—”

"Oh, please. You were chatting up that sales lady last night and you clearly exchanged numbers. The fact that you shaved twice today would have given it away if your trousers hadn’t."

"My trousers."

"You’re wearing your date trousers."

"I don’t have date trousers."

Sherlock gives him a somewhat pitying look. “Of course you do. Now. The blue one, John.”

"What? Why?"

"Because you think it makes you look safe but stylish. It doesn’t, of course, but since you’ve never listened to me before I don’t suppose you’re going to start now."

"Sherlock. Get out of my room."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and disappears. John watches him go and turns back to the wardrobe.

He wears the blue one.

~~~~~~~~~~

"The dark green."

John doesn’t even turn around anymore.

"I was going to wear the beige one."

"I know. Good thing I’m here, isn’t it?"

"Jesus Christ, you pompous git," John sighs and snatches the beige one off the hanger. Sherlock says nothing but gives him a look as John stomps by him down the stairs.

John spends the rest of the day hyperaware of his jumper, wondering what’s wrong with it. People keep looking at him. Is there something on it? A hole? A stain? Is the jumper just that ugly that people can’t help but stare?

He wishes he’d worn the green one.

~~~~~~~~~~

"The grey one."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

~~~~~~~~~~

"The maroon one."

John frowns at his shelves. He doesn’t have a maroon one.

"Bottom shelf, at the back."

John’s frown deepens, but he kneels down, rifling through the stacks of trousers and jeans until his hand touches something soft and unfamiliar. He pulls it out and stares at the maroon cardigan in his hands. He knows he’s never seen it before.

"Sherlock. What—"

He stops abruptly. Freezes at the soft touch of a hand on his head and he turns, mouth dry to find Sherlock directly behind him, looking down at him with an expression in his eyes that John is suddenly frantic to misinterpret. He swallows.

"Sherlock?" he says again, aware of his heart beating too hard, his breath just a little too fast. He is on his knees and he is abruptly and unequivocally aware of just where his head settles in relation to Sherlock’s body.

Sherlock just stares down at him, light eyes gone dark, one large hand on John’s head and John feels fingers settled in against his scalp, tightening slowly around the tufts of his hair.

"John," Sherlock says, and his voice is low, a physical texture of velvet and gravel, something heated and smouldering in its tones. "John," he says again. "The maroon one."

~~~~~~~~~~

He wears the maroon one. Eventually.