Title: Doing the Shopping
Characters: John, Sherlock, various
Genre: Gen, humor, disgusting amounts of holiday fluff
Rating: PG for implications in second deleted scene
Word Count: 7707
Warnings: Takes place throughout established canon, so spoilers for basically all of S2 including TRF
Summary: Five times John took Sherlock shopping, and one time Sherlock returned the favour.
A/N: Written for reidluver, in answer to my fic request thread during the watsons_woes birthday party post. So sorry it took so long, bb; my life has been entirely uncooperative of late and I've literally pounded at this thing in ten minute intervals.
A/N2: There are two scenes I cut out of this simply because I was trying to keep to a short 5-and-1 format, so those will be posted probably sometime tomorrow just so you can see them. One takes place after #3 and one after #1.

Five times John took Sherlock shopping, and one time Sherlock returned the favor

VI.

The first time, John decides, is an experience to tell the children about, if he could ever keep a girlfriend long enough to marry and have them (which isn't likely, given that part of his unofficial Mycroft-given job description is nearly-constant entertainment of the biggest child he's ever seen).

Somehow, during the first few months of their flatshare, he and Sherlock had fallen into habits which have continued to the present day. These range from Sherlock learning very quickly that no, it was not done to wake a chap up at three in the morning to joyfully inform him that the toes in the mug on top of the fridge had reached the putrefaction stage - to John finally caving under the forces of hunger and hygiene, and realising that if he wanted to eat and remain clean he would have to continually do the shopping.

Sherlock would never remember to buy bread and milk until he died of malnutrition, and he had his own toiletries ordered online and delivered (ridiculous aristocratic pickiness, John was perfectly fine with shower gels which did not cost half a month's pension). Therefore, when John had attempted to point out, surprisingly mild, that it was hardly fair for him to do the shopping and then Sherlock eat half the biscuits he bought and pour the milk down the drain because he needed the carton...Sherlock's solution had been to hand him a debit card and shove him out the door for replacements.

"Not what I meant, Sherlock!" he had yelled through the door the first time it happened, and of course received no answer.

Well, good, then. Sherlock never asked for a receipt, and if John had used the card once or twice to rent videos or pay for a cab and a hot coffee in rainy weather, he rather thought he was entitled. Also, Sherlock never questioned the reappearance of things like those fancy chocolate biscuits he preferred when the whim took him, and so all around it seemed an amicable arrangement (except for those times when the shop's check-out machines decided they hated one John Watson and ate or bent or shredded or refused to take even Sherlock's card).

But today, today is a watershed event, because today he has all but dragged Sherlock out of the flat to go food-and-essentials shopping and, surprisingly enough, Sherlock brokered only a token protest (more out of boredom than desire to be a Good Flatmate, but John will take what he can get).

He does not bring the man along because Sherlock is any real help, but rather because he cannot be trusted alone in the flat in this mood. By this point, Sherlock has already caused a scene about not being permitted to buy decongestants in bulk over-the-counter, and John has already removed a quart of mint-chip ice cream and seventeen boxes of Sugar Flakes from the cart, which had magically reappeared as his back was turned to choose some apples. (He does not ask what Sherlock had planned to do with all that cereal, as he wishes to sleep well tonight.)

All this, before they've been in the store for a quarter of an hour.

Scowling like the four-year-old he is at heart, Sherlock disappears to go look at God-knows-what, and John breathes a sigh of relief and heads to look at that most epic of bachelor food, boxed pasta mixes.

Twenty or so boxes later (they are on special, buy one get one half-off, and Sherlock will appropriate a few of them for something or other anyway, John knows he will probably find rigatoni in the shower tomorrow), he moves on to refrigerated meats, thankful that he has another pair of hands to carry the shopping this time as it means he can stock up a bit. Sherlock's suggestion last time he struggled home, that he steal a shopping cart (they make you pay to get one out anyway, John, it is only fair, and you can return it next time you go.), was considerably unhelpful, and for that Sherlock will get to carry the packaged chicken breasts and ground beef on the Tube home.

He briefly contemplates the possibility - probability - that His Royal Cluelessness will refuse and will gladly pay an exorbitant price for a cab rather than carrying the groceries, and adds two more packages of chicken and a beef stir-fry mix to the cart.

Three aisles over, he hears a display of canned goods topple over, scattering diced pineapple and fruit mixes in a two-aisle radius. He fervently prays it was not his child which started the mess, and casually heads as far in the opposite direction as he can get (read: as quickly as possible in the direction of the liquor aisle).

Sherlock reappears beside him ten minutes later, arms full of tinned peaches and a bag of chow mein noodles. John steadfastly refuses to ask.

A half-hour later they are nearly done, headed for the check-out point. John finally begins to relax, thinking they will get out of the place without serious mishap or embarrassing societal gaffe, when Sherlock espies a series of arcade games by the supermarket's doors. John's fingers clamped on his scarf prevent his making a beeline for the claw machine.

"Sherlock, no. Just...no," he says, glaring. "Never again. You are not going to leave me here with all this shopping, while you go throw a tantrum because you can't get the thing to snag something after feeding it four quid in coins."

Sherlock's expensive clothing and haughty sniff as he jerks his scarf free of John's grip look far out of place in a cheap supermarket. John privately thinks he's gone from looking like a psychopathic predator to just a plain nutter, which although an improvement is still getting them many odd looks.

It doesn't help that John struggles through the cash stand himself, scanning and bagging, while Sherlock boredly reads the ingredients for the ice cream - ice cream! The sneaky, conniving little brat! - out loud, noting their laxative effects on the digestive tract with a relish that makes the woman behind him scoot into the adjoining line rather than continuing on in theirs. John bags the pasta mixes and hands them off to his entirely unhelpful companion - who is now engaged in a staring contest with a wide-eyed toddler in the next line - before running his card through the chip-and-pin machine.

Wonder of wonders, or perhaps the magic touch of actually having enough money in the bank to back it up - it works on the first try, and he scrawls an illegible S. Holmes on the keypad and then tugs Sherlock away from the baby and its increasingly creeped-out mother.

He resists the urge to call back something to the mother, to the effect of it not getting easier when they got older, but resists - mostly because Sherlock is, he notes with glee, casting a disgusted look at the plastic bags he carries. And sure enough, ten seconds later he steps out into the street and waves for a cab.

John shakes his head, but scrambles into the back after his eccentric new flatmate. Whatever the problems he has with Sherlock's lack of personal space and nauseating experiments, there are certain advantages to rooming with a well-off madman.

Now, if he plays his cards right, he might be able to finagle a pizza dinner out of his arcade-game-deprived companion...

V.

The second time, John wonders why he insists upon torturing himself so, and briefly muses on the possibility of framing Sherlock for shoplifting or something, giving him the interim of arrest-until-Mycroft-fixes-things, about three hours, of relative peace and quiet. Honestly, you would think the man has never been shopping for a Christmas gift before.

Actually...he winces internally at the thought that that might just be true. It would explain the enraptured expression on Sherlock's face this morning when he suggested taking advantage of a mild November day to get an early start on the business. John had explained over breakfast the concept of gift-giving to those you love at Christmastime, how to choose a gift right for the person, how most people just pop out and buy the first thing they see and how Sherlock would be perfect at finding presents because he deduces every detail about each person - an advantage over the average Christmas shopper. Sherlock had thoughtfully taken in every word, entirely absorbed, before spending twenty minutes deciding if the knowledge was worthy to be retained on his mental hard drive.

Judging from the sudden leap ten minutes after their discussion (startling him into sloshing coffee everywhere) for his coat and gloves, it was. And so, two hours later, John is dragging Sherlock out of Harrod's before they get thrown out by an outraged jeweller, whom his stellar flatmate has just managed to offend by personal observations about his love life, or lack thereof.

"He has no right to refuse to serve a high-paying customer simply because I said his wife was seeing her boss - female boss - not in the way he thinks during those Friday 'girls' nights' out," Sherlock complains loudly as they cross the street. "That is blatant discrimination!"

"Oh, for the love of heaven." John elbows him, then tugs him out of the way of a straggling child. "I'd love to see you make a case of that in court. Discrimination against superior intellect is not a valid charge, Sherlock."

"Not yet," the detective mutters rebelliously, yanking out his mobile to fire off an irritated text, probably to his brother.

John rolls his eyes, and drags his flatmate into a lesser-priced store to try to locate a shawl for Mrs. Hudson. Thirty seconds later his phone beeps with a text message, from none other than Mycroft Holmes.

You are a braver man
than I gave you credit
for being, Doctor.

John rolls his eyes, and texts with the hand not occupied in checking price tags.

Did your people
never celebrate the
holidays, or smthg?
Have never seen a
man so enthusiastic
about finding gifts.

A gold-trimmed shawl in a lovely shade of dark plum, one of the few colors he knows Mrs. Hudson likes and looks good in, catches his eye, and he stands (embarrassingly on tiptoe) to reach it, but just barely falls short. Luckily, he is shopping with a half-giant, and Sherlock reaches over his head and yanks it down from the shelf. Unfortunately, he snatches the shawl on the bottom of the pile, and the entire pile cascades down in a shimmering cloud of rainbowy-metallic hues.

"Oh, well done, you," he sighs, as Sherlock ignores the pile and hands over his prize. "Shop girls are going to love us."

Mycroft sends him another message.

Only as small children,
Doctor. No doubt
the novelty will wear
off shortly.

Judging by the eager look Sherlock is giving a selection of lock-boxes, John highly doubts it. It is rather adorable, actually, though he values his life too much to say so, and he smiles as he makes his way across the shop to prevent the man buying something so expensive that it will embarrass Lestrade permanently (or make him search Sherlock on the spot for narcotics).

IV.

John doesn't learn from the first Christmas-shopping experience, or rather learns too much; namely, that the novelty does not wear off, the next year at least. It surprises him, Sherlock's wholehearted fling into holiday sentimentality, but it really shouldn't; he knows better than anyone else that the man doesn't mean what he says the way it sounds, and this opportunity must be a brand-new once-a-year avenue of communication where he literally does not have to say anything to get his message across to people. And after the Events-Which-Shall-Not-Be-Named and Sherlock's miraculous return to life, John has noticed that the man has changed. Just a bit, just a tiny bit - but that change is obvious to anyone who knows him, and knows his reasons for faking his own suicide. Moriarty threatened to burn the heart out of Sherlock - and, John will always be grateful, Moriarty only succeeded in proving to the world that Sherlock had one.

But it makes John painfully angry, more than anything, that it took until last Christmas for someone to even explain the holiday traditions to a grown adult. He does not want to think about what that says about Sherlock's university and young adult life; it is utterly disheartening. Sherlock's eagerness to test out a skill which he is good at by virtue of his own deductive prowess is almost childish in its glee, and he has had to actually rein the man in (Sherlock, unless you intend to ask Lestrade to marry you then yes, that watch is far too extravagant. And no, Sally is likely to punch you in the face if you buy her anything more personal than black gloves.) more than once last year and already this holiday season.

He made the mistake of showing Sherlock the joys of online shopping late in November, and regrets it now with every fibre of his being. The man is an eBay menace, and John is tired of their meals being interrupted by bidding war alerts on Sherlock's mobile every fifteen seconds or so.

Last year he at least didn't really have to worry about Sherlock buying him something horrendously awkward, simply because John was depressed and irritated with his flatmate about his latest girlfriend leaving, and Sherlock had been a bit moony about Irene Adler's apparent death and his brother's even more apparent meddling in his private life. Their holiday season had been strained at best, awkward at worst, and the small tokens they had exchanged had gone mostly unnoticed in the drama unfolding around them.

This year, Sherlock is up to something, he knows, and not just because it is their first Christmas since Sherlock's dramatic return to life early in the fall (holiday expenditure aside, John thinks he's entitled to nothing less than a cruise to the Bahamas, to make up for that little venture).

But they are past that by this time, and he now knows the man better than he ever did before Moriarty wrecked their lives for a while. Sherlock has his tells, even to the Regular Bloke portion of the population who can't deduce a life story from a clipped fingernail - and he fairly vibrates with suppressed nervous energy for the week before Christmas. Even Lestrade notices, and comments on it with a grin that should irritate Sherlock to no end but which apparently only sets him off into another fit of childish glee, leaving the police at the scene staring at each other in dismay and plotting another drugs bust.

John is getting a bit scared by this point, three days before Christmas, because the only other times he's seen that look on Sherlock's face it has always portended something explosive (sometimes literally) which needed governmental involvement to cover or clean up.

Sherlock has also taken to locking himself in his room armed with three rolls of wrapping paper and six rolls of cellotape and ribbon, informing John that attempts to enter or open the stack of boxes which have migrated to the hall to await their turn will result in Dire Consequences and his Great Displeasure. John mildly points out that he has absolutely no reason nor desire to enter the death-trap Sherlock calls a bedroom, and is given nothing more than a tolerant roll of the eyes and an actual, honest-to-God pat on the head before his insufferable flatmate vanishes with a click of door-latch.

Thirty seconds later, Sherlock's iDock is blaring out a radio channel of horrendous Christmas pop music.

John looks up incredulously from his laptop (he has long ago given up password-protecting it, but he wishes Sherlock would stop giving out John's email address for his online shopping accounts because the amount of marketing spam he gets daily is positively ghastly), head cocked in disbelief, and decides that he has created a monster.

III.

The fourth time, is actually Christmas Eve - the worst and best shopping night of the entire year, in John's opinion. Snow had begun to fall around mid-afternoon, much to the entire holiday-loving world's delight, and by the time John realises they have absolutely no food in for Christmas Day and Mrs. Hudson is in the country visiting her sister, there is a thick, fluffy dusting on the ground, pavement, and everything else without a pulse.

It's a veritable fairytale-esque winter wonderland, and he has no idea he's been rambling enthusiastically about it for thirty minutes until Sherlock flutters by him, wrapped in a fleece blanket, and snaps a grumpy "Cut out the poetry, John, do," before appropriating the last of the coffee and hurling himself into the couch like a stroppy toddler. The man's holiday cheeriness has dissipated in the last twelve hours, for reasons only known to Sherlock; whereas before he had been full of boundless enthusiasm, now he lies a brooding jumble of dressing gown and blanket on the couch, scowling at the world.

John ignores his yowls of protest an hour later when he utilizes a video from Lestrade's secret footage stash to lever his flatmate out of his sulk and into outerwear that can hold up to a few blocks' brisk walk. Sherlock mutters and curses and threatens half-heartedly to put John's laptop on the top shelf of the bookcase again, but in the end John's blackmail wins out, and they find themselves strolling down Baker Street in a curtain of softly-falling, fluffy snowflakes.

It's like something out of a storybook, a rare occurrence in rainy London, and John thinks it's rather appropriate, given that his life this year has been fairly storybook. He'd be willing to wager that no other man in London basically commanded his best friend to come back from the dead - and was obeyed. His life is surreal on a regular basis, but far more so these nine months, and he thinks he can be excused a bit of sappy sentimentality on such a beautiful Christmas Eve.

"You have no right to be so cheerful in such frigid conditions," Sherlock mutters as they walk, crunching snow underfoot.

"What right have you to be so dismal? What right have you to be morose?" (1) he half-quotes back, and shakes his head when Sherlock misses the reference entirely (no surprise there). "It's the time of year to be happy, Sherlock. Joy to the world and all that?"

He receives a glare which could incinerate wet bricks. "It is the time of year for the general populace to force society into celebration of an increasingly commercial holiday usually spent in purchasing token gifts for people who do not deserve or need them, and inflicting enforced fellowship with the extraneous members of one's family or circle of acquaintances."

John stares at him, and then has to dodge a lamp-post, taking two steps to every one of Sherlock's as he hurries to catch up. "Sherlock," he says as he reaches him, and tugs at the man's coat sleeve to turn him.

Sherlock yanks free but stops, folds his arms as he turns to look at John. He is oddly haloed in the light of a street-light, like an unwilling dark angel, and John shakes off an eerie shiver at What Might Have Been. "Sherlock, seriously now. Even you aren't usually this sulky, holiday or not. Is something the matter?"

Grey-blue eyes refuse to meet his, sliding from side to side like a cornered animal looking for an escape route. Then Sherlock sighs, a dismal puff of ice-crystals in the crisp air. He rolls his eyes heaven-ward, and then absently sends a lump of snow flying off the toe of his shoe.

"Sherlock?"

"I..." He looks embarrassed, to John's surprise, a spot of flaming pink high in each cheekbone, the only colour on an already pale face chilled more with cold. "I have been unable to decide what..." he trails off, clearing his throat.

John is no world's-only-consulting-private-amateur-whatever-else-detective, but he is an expert in his field - one Sherlock Holmes. He grins, feeling the irritation with the man melt away like the snow is doing on their exposed skin. "You haven't got me a Christmas present, have you?" he asks suddenly, trying his best not to sound like he's holding in laughter at Sherlock's adorably embarrassed expression.

"No," his friend mumbles gracelessly. He scowls at a man who passes them carrying three brightly-wrapped gifts held safely under an umbrella, as if that man is solely responsible for his lack of gift-choosing prowess.

"Oh, well, if that's all." John carefully conceals his amusement, and gives Sherlock a gentle push toward the warmly-lit door of the Sainsbury's. "Come on, we need food if we're going to survive being snowed in for the holidays."

"I still do not see why my presence was necessary," Sherlock grouses, though he looks relieved that the subject of gifts has been dropped so smoothly.

"One, we need enough food for a few days if necessary and I only have two arms. Two," John scoots out of the way of a harried-looking woman lugging a plastic basket and four children under the age of six, "you are the best person I know for the job of clearing a path through humanity. People just seem to edge away from you, which works in my favour in a supermarket. Can't imagine why." He hands Sherlock a basket and plops a bag of cheap oranges into it.

Sherlock scowls, and snatches a pomegranate and a package of blackberries with a well-bred sniff.

They continue in much the same manner; John tosses a box of saltines into the basket and Sherlock adds a packet of gourmet party crackers. John chooses dish soap due to the buy-one-get-one sticker; Sherlock spends nearly ten disdainful minutes deciding on an air freshener for the hall. John decides to splurge on a bottle of wine, only to find when he turns back to the shopping basket that Sherlock has switched it out for one at least three times the price.

As he fully plans on returning to their pre-Reichenbach arrangement (he morbidly chuckles at the idea that he seems to designate his life now as B.S.D. and A.S.D. - Before and After Sherlock's Death), namely paying for household goods and food with Sherlock's money and not his, he decides to let it slide; after all, he should be grateful that Sherlock is actually taking an interest in food at all. If the man wants an eighteen-quid cheesecake sampler for some bizarre reason, he is not going to argue, only to make sure he stashes one of the raspberry pieces somewhere safe like Mrs. Hudson's body-part-free fridge before Sherlock gets his forceps and test tubes on the remainder.

They quibble good-naturedly over the merits of trying to cook a small turkey (I assure you, John, it is simplistic chemistry, which even you could follow under my direction) or simply buy a cold-cut tray (Typical bachelor approach, John. What will the tabloids say.) for Christmas dinner, finally settling on a rotisserie chicken and the necessary ingredients for paninis. John heads toward the dried tomatoes, and shoos Sherlock down the frozen goods aisle with instructions to buy some bagged vegetables and possibly a frozen lasagne. He should not be surprised, he knows, to see the man return with one solitary bag of frozen crinkle-cut chips (potatoes are not vegetables, Sherlock, did you delete basic nutrition facts?) and a tub of double chocolate mint ice cream instead, both of which he stubbornly - and loudly - refuses to part with, much to John's embarrassment.

After a few lesser battles than the War of the Ice Cream Aisle, they struggle through the holiday checkout line (half an hour wait, which is simply asking for trouble when one is shopping with Sherlock Holmes), and then head out into the crisp, snow-sprinkled night. Sherlock grumbles for half a kilometre about having to carry groceries (it's next to impossible to get vehicular transport on a beautiful Christmas Eve), before he subsides into an introspective silence which raises a small flag of alarm in John's Sherlock-senses.

"You all right, Sherlock?" he asks finally, deciding the blunt approach is the most likely to get a response.

Sherlock looks at the pavement before them as they walk, footsteps crunching in the tingling air. "Perfectly," he replies, quick and curt.

John is not deterred. He deftly shifts the heavier of his bags to his right arm, half-twirling as he makes the switch. "Are you certain?" This gets him a supercilious look which is half-familiar, half not so, mostly because he can see some slight sadness in it. "You don't look it," he adds with friendly bluntness.

"I have been...thinking, overmuch, of late," Sherlock finally admits unexpectedly. His shoes scuff ever so slightly, kicking a clump of sparkling snow off to the side. "I did not expect to be back in less than a year, I will admit. I was prepared for far longer."

John nods; they both have Mycroft Holmes's scary efficiency to thank for exterminating the remainder of the Moriarty syndicate before Sherlock had even been in hiding for three months. John, highly skeptical, had demanded the photographs to prove the elder Holmes's claims, and they had not been pretty.

It will be a cold day in hell before he, for one, thinks about crossing Mycroft Holmes again.

"I can't say I'm sorry," he says, smiling above his scarf at a striking young brunette who hurries by. "If you hadn't come back I'd probably be at Harry's flat about now, and what a pair we'd make. Bizarre eating habits and all, I much prefer hauling you in and out of supermarkets to waking up Christmas Day with nothing more pleasant to look forward to than a hangover and unpleasant sibling dinner."

Sherlock flicks him a glance, though his lips do quirk at one side in amusement, before he looks back at the pavement. This is a different Sherlock, a new Sherlock: one that John still has not, even after almost four months, quite figured out yet. They have both changed much in the last year, and while their relationship has weathered the storm successfully there yet remains some vestige of uncertainty between them.

In a way, John feels like he's just returned from another war; this one not an ongoing territorial dispute full of bloodshed and atrocity, but a kind of cold war - full of unseen menace, political intrigue, slander and lies. It's the difference between the front lines and the spy-realm, and for all their falling back into old habits, he still feels sometimes like they've both been through another type of war. He, emotionally - fighting to not succumb to the all-encompassing desolation which had threatened for so many weeks, battling to clear Sherlock's name and reputation, grieving for the loss of what had felt at the time everything, moving on through the stages of grief, and most of all: struggling to understand why. But for Sherlock, it had been mental and physical - John still half-believes the man burned down the gates of Hell itself to return, simply because he never could resist a touch of the melodramatic - and Sherlock still seems a bit off, a little unsure of himself and his standing with the world, including his friends and acquaintances.

And who wouldn't be, John reasons, when half the public still has no idea if they believe you're alive, much less deems you innocent of past accusations.

"You know," he remarks conversationally, as they move down Oxford Street, "...it is the season for forgiveness, Sherlock."

The man glares at him peripherally, lips pressed into a whip-dash of thin tension. Snowflakes flutter down to clump, sparkling, on his eyelashes and contracted eyebrows. "Spare me your petty sentimentalism, John," he snaps, with more rancour than John has heard in quite a while. It's actually more reassuring than anything else, a return to normality that has been slightly lacking of late. "And whatever happened to forgiving a perceived offense and then dropping it - why else rehash what we have already at length discussed?"

John exhales in a cloud of vapour, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Or smack the insufferable idiot upside the head with a frozen dinner. "Wasn't talking about me, you great berk," he says in exasperation.

Sherlock pauses, having the grace to look slightly abashed, and shakes the snow from his hair to hide the fact. "No?"

"No," John repeats dryly. "I forgave you the minute you reappeared in the lounge. Granted, I still hate you, a bit, but I did forgive you and that hasn't changed. I've no right not to do so."

Sherlock grins, tiny but genuine, at that, and they continue walking. "Who, then?" Sherlock asks finally, after John is beginning to wonder if his obvious lead-in is a bit too obvious for the man's whirring brain to grasp hold of.

He bumps Sherlock's arm companionably as they turn onto Baker Street, walking more briskly at the sight of their warmly-lit windows. "I don't think you've forgiven yourself, yet, Sherlock," he says quietly. "Remember, you don't have to keep apologising. Bad example, sorry," he adds, as Sherlock's face twists in embarrassment at the memory of his own thoughtlessness. "But really, Sherlock. Let it go - the rest of the world can go hang if they want to keep bringing it up, but let. It. Go."

Sherlock stops on their doorstep, staring at him as if he's just been given the world for Christmas - and possibly he has, if John can read his reactions as well as he should. Evidently Absolution is a far greater gift than the new violin case he's got upstairs wrapped under their tree; obviously even the great Sherlock Holmes needed to hear just one more time that he had done the Right Thing, the Good Thing - the thing that very few men, much less self-professed sociopaths, would have had the nerve and selfless love to do.

Sherlock never has viewed himself as being, as he put it, 'on the side of the angels.' John begs to differ. Because, if he remembers his grandmother's old stories correctly, angels have two jobs in the world: to fight off demons, and to protect people. And for him at least, Sherlock has already accomplished both those tasks many times over.

John doesn't need any other Christmas gift than that, and he says as much after dinner (when they've both mellowed quite a bit, a bit too much actually, from the bottle of wine Sherlock purchased). Sherlock, sitting on the couch nursing his fourth glass, looks at him with unmitigated horror, pronounces him a maudlin drunk, and slurs at his 'mawkish sentimentality' until John finally silences him with a pillow to the head, whereupon he flops over onto the couch and starts snoring softly, pillow still half-covering his face. John has the presence of mind to run the heating up and plug Sherlock's mobile in, so as to prevent much ado about nothing in the morning, and then falls asleep himself, grinning over the picture he snapped of Sherlock drooling onto the couch cushions.

Life is good. It is also utterly insane.

But mostly good.

II.

The fifth time, he is close to threatening, cajoling, blackmailing, and finally forcibly yanking Sherlock into the shop. Sherlock Holmes, he is informed (quite loudly, to his indignity), has never been inside a second-hand or thrift shop except in search of coats for his homeless network, and has no intention (still stated loudly) of sullying his own wardrobe in that hideous fashion for recreational shopping.

A year ago, his vocalizations would have embarrassed John. But now, not so. A few months ago, John commanded a dead man to return from the grave and he obeyed - and that, according to mythology, accords him power over the netherworld. One mere human is hardly a challenge.

"I'll just ring your brother and tell him who nicked his keys and umbrella and locked him out of his car yesterday in the pouring rain, then, shall I?" he inquires, scrolling down his mobile's calls menu.

"He deserved it!"

"He certainly did not, Sherlock. Now, I want to look for some things, since someone-who-needs-to-find-a-hobby has destroyed about half of the flat's furnishings in the last two months, including some of my old medical texts and all but two of the coffee mugs." John folds his arms, impassive, and refuses to retreat in the face of Sherlock's (failed) attempt at dramatic looming. "Coming quietly?"

Sherlock comes, though not really quietly, and protests as loudly and continually as he can without drawing undue attention to themselves (a moot attempt, really, John thinks with a sigh, since Sherlock I-look-like-a-bloody-fashion-model Holmes draws attention wherever he goes). John ignores the smatter of grumbling insults and heads for the book section, intent upon replacing a few tomes which Sherlock appropriated for nefarious purposes involving setting the tablecloth afire last week. Sherlock follows in his wake like a rebellious child, occasionally stopping to examine various items which pique his catlike attention span.

John starts perusing a bookshelf of hard-backed books (Sherlock has been instructed to not touch the hardbacks, though the softbacks are fair game unless John is reading them at the time), and only realises when everything has gone quiet in the nearly-deserted shop that that is not a good sign. He peers warily around the shelf, cursing his stature, and is relieved to see that Sherlock is strolling aimlessly between shelves of knick-knacks, hands safely in his pockets.

Honestly, it is a bit like shopping with a toddler. John has no idea why people continually ask if they're a couple; it would be like his dating a charming but completely mental nephew or something.

He shakes his head and returns to his bookshelves, pulling out one dusty volume that looks interesting merely because it must be nearly seventy years old, the binding still in good condition and the pages brittle and browning with age. John has always loved books, has ever since a child, and though he's a firm believer in the technological age of e-readers (he keeps dropping hints to Sherlock about getting him one for his birthday and Sherlock is of course selectively unobservant) nothing will, in his opinion, ever quite feel the same as holding an antiquated tome in one's hands. He loves books, and has never had much room to possess very many, so he chooses and reads with loving care.

That had been their first really serious row after Sherlock's return, actually - centreing around books. Sherlock had run out of litmus paper strips and had apparently thought that ripping the blank pages and glossary out of one of John's old medical texts to manufacture more was a worthy enough cause that John would not be annoyed.

John had not been annoyed. John had been livid. The text had cost him a good sixty-five pounds in medical school and who rips out the glossary of any textbook, anyway?

Hence, the ground rules about it being open season on paper-backed books in the flat (not when I've obviously got a bookmark in it, Sherlock!) but not his more precious hard-backed ones.

Something clatters to the tiled flooring a few metres away, but nothing sounds broken, and so he decides to ignore the noise and adds the old book to the stack of three in his hands. He moves on down the shelf, looking wistfully at a handsome leather-and-gilt edition of some French novel he's never heard of, and then continues on to the next shelf, which appears to hold cookery books and miscellanea.

Twenty minutes later, he has six books and is in a considerably better frame of mind than he had been upon entering the shop. Unfortunately, that enthusiasm is somewhat dampened when he realises he can't find Sherlock anywhere. He strides quickly through the racks of clothing, past the dishabille of unsorted donations, skims the aisles of appliances in the faint suspicion that Sherlock was buying something from which to salvage bomb components, and still can't find the man. Finally, in desperation, he makes a circuit of the back half of the shop, even though it is filled with children's clothing and accessories, and to his surprise finds his quarry in the toy and game section, something brown and blue and yellow and furry tucked under one arm and a boxed board game in his hands.

"Been looking for you," he says by way of cautious greeting as he approaches, trying to see what Sherlock is looking at. "Find something, then?"

Sherlock looks up, blushing slightly, and hastily shoves the game back onto the shelf (John notes with amusement that it is some sort of pirate-themed pop-up game). He does not, however, relinquish the scruffy bundle of fur he holds under one arm, and at John's raised eyebrow reluctantly holds it up for inspection.

It's a well-worn, though (dubiously) clean, Paddington Bear, its jacket and coat still in excellent condition.

"Ooo-kay."

"I have not seen one since I was a child," Sherlock muses aloud, inspecting it from every angle while John watches, half in fascination with learning more about his friend and half because it's just too adorable to be real. "Left it at a train station one day when I was small."

"And you never got a replacement?" John asks, frowning curiously.

Sherlock's eyes harden. "I was too old for such things," he replies shortly.

John has the suspicion that means not much older than five or six, knowing what little he did of his flatmate's upbringing, but wisely keeps his mouth shut.

"Well," he says, reading the tag, "it's in excellent condition, and it's only two pounds."

Sherlock scoffs, "Why would I need a dingy stuffed animal?"

"Why not?" John counters sensibly. After all, it at the least would entertain the man for longer than an hour. Completely worth two quid. "Think of the experiments you could run to deduce its previous owner." He schools his features into a picture of innocence. "Scientific data, that's all it is, Sherlock."

"Oh, indubitably."

"Actually quite logical."

"Quite."

A clerk who can barely be of age to work saunters by, snapping her gum loudly, and gives them both a wary are-you-two-perverts look that lets John know they've spent too long in this section.

"Well, come along then," he says, elbowing Sherlock as he passes on his way down the aisle. "And bring your precious widdle bear with you. My treat."

The glare which skims his head makes him grin down at his stack of books, but Sherlock does fall into step with him, clutching the plush animal tightly in both long arms. It's a bit ridiculously adorable, really, and completely worth the hassle of dragging Sherlock around with him for an hour.

Also, it triples the number of comments on his blog when he uploads the picture he snapped without Sherlock's knowledge.

I.

"Really, John, it's hardly asking too much of you!" Sherlock allows himself to scowl openly, because he has not counted on being told off in fine form as he is. Obviously saying You can't be seen in my company on this case wearing that ghastly knit crime-against-the-textile-industry was a Bit Not Good. "Casinos have standards, John, and if we are to infiltrate this one you must be attired appropriately. Do try to not be so sensitive; it's hardly becoming in a man your age."

"Sherlock, not all of us think it's necessary to look like a ruddy fashion plate!" John waves his jumper-padded arms for emphasis, which only serves to affix the opinion more solidly in Sherlock's mind. That horrid monstrosity of cable-knitted puce simply has to go.

"It's for a case," he says, arms folded, because that is his fall-back for any activity which John deems Unnecessary or Ridiculous or Will-This-Get-Us-Arrested. He decides to attempt a suitable pleading expression, complete with the dejection of a kicked puppy should John refuse.

And refuse he does, heartlessly uncaring of Sherlock's gallant efforts. "I am not letting you take me clothes shopping, Sherlock!" John expostulates, ignoring his pleading expression. Sherlock frowns. (Mental note: John's immunity to pity expanding. Must have Disney movie night to rectify.) "Especially at the kind of shops you like to go to," he adds, frowning as if Sherlock's choice of tailor somehow is unacceptable. Hardly.

"If it is the money you're worried about, all expenses are being signed over to the client, John," he reminds his flatmate - more than that, but right now Sherlock is Quite Annoyed so that is all John means at the moment - patiently. He personally is rather looking forward to a new suit and shirt set, courtesy of the casino's owner.

John glares at him defensively, and Sherlock finally takes the time to study him properly. He is in the habit of looking over and around John instead of at him, simply because if he does he becomes a bit too fascinated by the ever-unfolding mystery which is this unique being Fate gifted his short attention span (also, John has informed him it is more than a little creepy when he does that; evidently stalking one's flatmate around the house and invading personal space only to stare at a man's eyes is just Not Done). Now, he studies John's face with the scrutiny reserved for one of his experiments, and he sees more discomfort than anything else; embarrassment, rather than true annoyance.

Well, then there is no alternative. Sacrifices must be made in these situations, and never let it be said that Sherlock I-jumped-off-a-building-for-you Holmes shied away from such sacrifices.

"Please, John," he says, and tries to sound sincere rather than manipulative.

John gifts him a sour expression, and Sherlock smiles beatifically.

Their trek through Oxford and Piccadilly is rather more pleasant than he had been anticipating, given John's reluctance to darken the door of any store out of his comfort zone. But a cup of fancy coffee and a lemon pastry at one of the nearby cafes has paved the way to a more mellow state of mind, and by the time Sherlock selects the necessary accessories and then hauls John into Westwood's for fitted evening wear, his friend is more at ease.

Granted, said ease disappears when John tries the first (almost indecently well-fitting) suit on and the shop clerk starts ogling him appreciatively, but Sherlock considers it a win. John fidgets uncomfortably during the fitting, more due to the clerk's close proximity than because it takes long to make the alterations. Running to and from crime scenes (and explosions, and angry pawnbrokers, and the police on the odd occasion, and so on) keeps the both of them fairly fit, and the only real adjustment is in the trouser length, over which Sherlock teases John mercilessly.

John sticks him with a pin in retaliation, Sherlock tosses a purple shirt over his head, and they both laugh. The clerk beams at them both, eyes sliding meaningfully between them as he steps back for final approval. John turns slowly, a little awkwardly, before the mirror, ears reddening as Sherlock inspects him with detached interest. The suit is a deep ebony, almost blueish black, trim and showing off the compact body of a soldier - and it is even slightly reminiscent of a military uniform in cut, which is perfect for John's usual attentive stance.

"That will do," he decides, and selects a sapphire-blue shirt in John's measurements to accompany the cufflinks he's already picked out. Quiet opulence is the impression they wish to give, which is why he has chosen the step down from a full-out tuxedo (also, that way John will have a decent suit to wear when they're towed into Whitehall next time).

John is only to eager to relinquish the attention to him, and he gleefully makes the clerk run to and fro finding the perfect fit, cut, and material - nearly twenty minutes until he is satisfied. He finally decides to make a bold statement, since he is trying to attract the attention of the female con artists they are after, and puts a blood-red shirt under the black suit, leaving the top button unbuttoned, before he steps out to get John's opinion.

Judging from the yawing expanse of jaw-dropping, it will be a hit. These funny little people with their visual cortex-stimulated hormones - it is just too amusing. The clerk is unashamedly staring at him, though he ignores this and pirouettes before the mirror, appreciating the fine tailoring which makes all the difference in gentlemen's clothing.

"Well?" he asks, redundantly as he well knows it is nothing less than fabulous.

John's cool nod of approval belies his wide-eyed stare, and he raises an eyebrow knowingly.

"I'm straight, not blind, you daft idiot," John mutters only for his ears, then waves him away with a small grin.

He gives one more appreciative turn in the mirror and nods, satisfied. "Will it do, you think?"

"Conceited prat. You know full well it will."

"Do I detect jealousy, John?"

"You're the detective, you tell me. And don't come crying to me if you get jumped in that getup tonight."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

The clerk's eyes dart back and forth between them, coming to exactly the wrong conclusion.

John rolls his eyes and doesn't bother to correct the unspoken assumptions, because by now he has ceased to care, and it literally has never occurred to Sherlock to care one way or the other. That doesn't, however, prevent him from taking a bit of revenge on his longsuffering friend for John's forcing him to wash up the dishes this morning, however.

"We'll take them both, Jeffers," he calls airily over his shoulder. "Want to help me get out of this, John?"

John's strangled swearing is drowned out by the clerk's giggles.

It is going to be such an enjoyable day.

(1) From A Christmas Carol, loosely paraphrasing (by memory) Scrooge's nephew in the first chapter.