Prompt: You should really take off that seasonal jumper and/or hat and/or pair of shoes.

It wasn't even a proper Christmas jumper. John would know, he had four - more than any adult male of a certain age should, but far fewer than most people, Sherlock included, assumed of him.

It was a young man's jumper, John had to admit. It buttoned up the front, cardigan style, though it had no pockets (and really, what's the point of a cardigan if it has no pockets), but only to a low v-neck. Impractical. And it had a hood. A hood.

He'd only pulled it on after his shift because he hadn't intended on leaving the flat for the evening.

It was a gift from an ex. A much younger ex. An ex who had wanted to see John in skinny jeans. An ex who wasn't around much longer after that particular request was denied. Sherlock never even had a chance to intrude.

The jumper was burgundy (not bloody Christmas red as bloody Donovan had cruelly joked) with narrow white stripes (not like a candy cane; Anderson could go right to hell). And Lestrade's commentary on the jumper and John's stature making him look the perfect Christmas elf (really? fucking height jokes?) actually did sting a bit. But none of the input from the Yarders was enough to push him over the top.

What finally did it was Sherlock joining in. He raised a single, carefully arched eyebrow, smirked, and said, "Perhaps you should remove the offending garment, John. It would appear you are too adorable for a crime scene, and it's putting everyone off."

John seethed. He clenched his left hand into a fist, and flared his nostrils...

Several contributing factors lent themselves to John's response. He'd arrived back to Baker Street after a dreadful twelve hour A&E rotation to find Sherlock had used what was left of their food supply for experimentation. The smoldering, dripping mess was left in the center of the table. John had binned the whole thing, decontaminated the table and floor below it, and then grudgingly headed to the shops. He'd only just arrived back at the flat when Sherlock's text arrived.

"You fucking texted and asked me to come here. Said it was urgent. Definitely dangerous."

"And here you are," Sherlock stood to face him, wearing his guarded crime scene face, though something else shined, something kinder maybe (John wasn't completely sure about that), in his piercing eyes. "I didn't expect you to appear quite so," he waved his hand as if trying to summon the correct word. It was all for show. He delivered the knock-out blow. "...spritely."

Definitely not kind, then.

"Sod off," John shoved past Sherlock and turned to storm away from the officers' shocked laughter.

"C'mon mate, we're just having a bit of fun," Donovan called after him.

"I'm not your mate," John snarled as he turned back to face her. Then he met Sherlock's eyes with a glare. "Call me if you decide to actually solve it, yeah?"

"John-"

Waving Sherlock off with an obscene gesture, John stalked through the swinging doors that separated the front office where the body had been discovered to the shipping warehouse out back. He stomped and fumed, paced and cursed, up and down the maze of industrial shelving units. It didn't take as long as usual for his level-headed, logical side to break through the haze of his anger. It certainly hadn't been Sherlock's most egregious infraction, more an insult to his ego than anything.

John turned to trudge back to the scene with a yawn. He felt dead on his feet from exhaustion, couldn't remember when he'd last eaten, and was suddenly freezing... "The hell?" Tugging the jumper off, glad he'd worn a long-sleeved t-shirt, John realized that somewhere along his angry pacing he'd snagged the damn thing on something, and it was unraveling as he walked. "Problem solved, then," he shivered, dropped the jumper and kicked it for good measure, then turned down the next aisle to head back to the offices.

"Oi!" A shout and the ricochet of a bullet sent John diving behind a forklift.

John didn't need to be a genius to deduce the fact he'd likely stumbled upon their suspect. He pulled his gun out from where he'd tucked it against the small of his back "There's no way the police didn't hear that. Just stay where you are." He stood slowly, keeping his gun trained on the other man.

There was only a split second between the two guns firing. The slight man shooting at John was clearly unaccustomed to the recoil, and the shot went wide. John hit his mark, a shoulder shot. The suspect dropped to the floor and lost his grip on the gun.

Making his way carefully to retrieve the other weapon, John realized too late an accomplice was lurking nearby. He felt a jab in his neck as he stood, and the sudden release of... something... in his system... fuck... not good... bit not... While he still had some wits about him, John drove his elbow hard into his attacker's solar plexus. He managed a knee to the groin and a well placed blow to the other man's head with the butt of the Sig before he staggered to lean against... uhm... yeah...

"John! John!?" Frantic, Sherlock charged around the corner. "Lestrade, ambulance!" He made it just as John pitched forward, and helped him gently to the floor. "Are you injured?" Sherlock did a quick assessment, discreetly tucking John's gun away under his suit coat.

"Drugged..." John lifted his hand to his neck. His movements were sluggish and his words slurred. "Cold..."

"Don't go to sleep, John." Sherlock tucked his great coat around his friend. "We have to figure out..." He scanned the area and found the emptied needle.

"Sh'lock..."

"John?" Sherlock patted John's cheek in an effort to keep his eyes open. "You found the suspects, John. Job well done."

"Hmngh..." John mumbled nonsensically.

"Lestrade!"

"Medics are on their way in now, Sherlock," Lestrade was busy handcuffing the still unconscious accomplice. "Don't suppose we know how John managed that, do we?" He nodded to the suspect with the shoulder wound.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and returned his attention to keeping John awake. "Your unraveled jumper led me right to you... Nope, come on..." He shook John rather forcefully. John gasped and managed to get his eyes partially open. "I suppose you'll expect me to replace it..."

"'S bad..." John mumbled.

"Yes, it was a very impractical choice," Sherlock chuckled. His pats on John's cheek became more forceful. "John... C'mon..."

When John woke several hours later, in hospital, again, it was to a raging headache, a roiling gut, and Sherlock pacing the length of the room.

"Sherlock?"

"John." Sherlock hurried to his side. He launched into an immediate explanation of the resolution of the case, and exactly what John had been drugged with, but it was all lost on John who was simply trying not to be sick. He lost the battle and heaved into the basin Sherlock shoved into his hands at the last moment.

"Ah, hmm." Handing John a damp flannel, Sherlock shifted awkwardly on his feet and held a cup of water to John's lips. "Are you... How do you feel?"

"Terrible. Worst hangover ever." John groaned and leaned back against the bed. He squinted and glanced around the room, his eyes landing on... "Sherlock?"

"I'll get a nurse. You'll need something for the headache and nausea."

"Wait," John caught Sherlock's sleeve. "What..." He pointed.

"Oh." Sherlock actually blushed, managing to look contrite. He retrieved the stack of neatly folded jumpers from the counter. "Ah... There was some feeling of guilt after you..." He huffed. "This is from Lestrade, and this is from Donovan and Anderson jointly." He held up two jumpers, exact replicas of the one that had been unraveled.

John would have snorted, if his head weren't about to implode. He pointed to the third jumper. Light, crisp blue, appeared to be cashmere, gorgeous, obviously above John's own price range. "And that one?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I'm sorry John, but the other one is just too... It is an affront to jumpers. I refuse to waste money on something so ridiculously impractical..."

"Thank you, Sherlock. It's lovely." John managed a smile and patted Sherlock's arm. "Now go get a nurse, yeah? And hand me the basin."