WARNING: Any mistakes made regarding U.K. English vs. U.S. English is due to my ignorance. Also: tense shifts, they tend to be my weakness.

**This story has been fixed for errors since its original posting.

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'of jumpers and other such frivolities'

john watson/sherlock holmes

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first.

John Watson prided himself on being a man of simple joys in life: a perfectly brewed cup of tea, a good night of telly, and a particularly warm jumper. Throughout his life he had acquired quite an extensive pile of jumpers, one of which was his absolute favorite. Though it appeared as a simple, unsuspecting shade of grey, it boasted warmth and had survived quite a long time. He wore it as much as he could, though it hung slightly baggy on him. He supposed he often looked a little ridiculous standing next to Sherlock in his designer suits, undoubtedly sent from Mycroft for some nefarious holiday or another.

Yet, the first time his favorite jumper went missing he found himself quite stumped. He spent most of the morning searching his room for the grey article of clothing before coming to the conclusion that it must have gotten mixed in with Sherlock's washing. It was a logical choice and he briefly felt pride at the thought of Sherlock being pleased with his deduction. John generally ended up doing most of Sherlock's washing with his own anyway, thus losing the jumper in the mix would be relatively easy.

Sherlock was out on a case that didn't require John's insight and thus he felt it the best moment to seize the opportunity to enter Sherlock's room. The thought of entering the detective's bedroom seemed rather ominous as John made his way to the door, pushing it gently open. He realized that this was the first time he had ever entered this part of their flat. Sherlock generally slept on the couch and therefore there was never much need to enter his room.

Still, the clutter in Sherlock's room surprised him - not the fact that there was clutter, because Sherlock tended to live in clutter - but because of what comprised the clutter. There were the typical test tubes with god knows what floating in them along with microscopes and some haphazardly stacked books, but in the far right corner stood a shiny telescope.

John knew for a fact that Sherlock had never cared for astronomy or which stars showed at particular times of the year, so why on earth would he be requiring a telescope? He scratched his head for a moment wondering if it was because he had almost lost his game with Moriarty over his lack of knowledge of the solar system that he had taken up to star gazing. Shaking his head, John resolved himself to focus on the actual task at hand.

He turned his back on the telescope and walked smack into a stack of books and tried to stack them back in order before one title caught his eye. "The Sociopath Next Door" stared up at him from its place atop the stack of books, causing John's chest to constrict. He found it a fairly sad idea that Sherlock might have been reading a self help book, though knowing his flatmate it probably was only used at one point for research. John secretly hoped he was correct on this assumption.

As he turned to leave the cluttered room, he spotted a grey swatch of fabric on Sherlock's unmade bed, laying wrinkled on the pillows. John grabbed it with a sense of victory and pulled the jumper on, pointedly ignoring that it smelled like Sherlock.

When Sherlock arrived later that evening with a cooler of some sort, which gave the doctor a dreadful sensation that it probably contained some bastard's poor limbs, John took the incentive to ask about his jumper.

"Oy! Sherlock, I found my jumper on your bed this morning. Did I mix it into your washing?" He didn't look up from his paper, reading about the latest political scandal with only half his brain.

"How should I know, John? I hardly think that trivial things such as jumpers should concern me." He answered swiftly and that is that. John simply sighed into his chair, returning to his paper with rapt attention as Sherlock briefly glanced at the grey jumper, a smirk lighting his features.

–

second.

It was nearly two weeks later when his jumper went missing for the second time, leaving John confused yet again. He assumed it must be in Sherlock's room, but when he goes in to look, it was nowhere to be found. He found himself even more confused because it wasn't like he just took off his jumpers in any old place, in fact he only took them off in his flat.

He spent several hours combing the flat and his room for the grey fabric, but he came up empty handed. However, Sherlock swooped in and dragged him off to another gruesome crime scene, and for a little while the doctor's mind was completely taken off the matter of the missing jumper. Sherlock leads him all over London, as per usual, and John barely managed to sleep six hours over the span of three days.

After Sherlock's brilliant mind has finally pinned the killer, the two head back to their Baker Street home, bruised and incredibly tired. John didn't even bother with undressing before he fell into his warm bed, a heavy and deep sleep overtaking him. He slept for nearly sixteen hours before being awoken by an explosion from the area of the kitchen.

He leapt to his feet imagining what state Sherlock must be in before taking the stairs two at a time. He skid into the kitchen to find a thoroughly pleased Sherlock standing over a blackened microwave. John was at a loss for words, because this was the third microwave the mad genius has managed the blow up in the past month and he really doesn't feel like going out to buy another one in the hellacious London winter.

"I think I have finally found the perfect temperature at which to melt flesh off the human finger without damaging the cells!" Sherlock exclaimed, a slightly mad look lacing its way across his rather defined facial features.

"Couldn't you have managed that without blowing our kitchen appliances up?" John asked weakly, trying not to think about the fact that Sherlock has been essentially roasting human flesh in their microwave.

Sherlock shot him a disapproving look before disappearing into his room, no doubt to find a book on melting flesh. John simply dropped onto the couch, running his hand under the cushion for the telly remote when he felt the soft touch of fabric. He pulls the fabric out of the crevices of the couch to discover that it was, in fact, his favorite jumper.

He stared at the baggy over shirt for a moment before he glances up to where Sherlock has re-entered the room and was also looking at the jumper. He seemed oddly bemused by the sight of it and John was puzzled.

"I see you've found your jumper again." Sherlock remarked idly, leafing through a stack of papers clutched in his pale hands. John merely looked back down at the jumper and at the couch that often served as Sherlock's sleeping quarters.

"Sherlock, were you aware you were sleeping on my favorite jumper?" He asked cautiously, but Sherlock simply scoffed in return.

"I have already informed you that I have better things to do with my time than worry about your wayward articles of clothing." He spoke in a flat tone, buried behind a thick tome. John looked back to the couch before the logical solution comes to him.

"I must've dropped it when I was folding my clothes." He deduced. Sure that must be what happened, he stood to take the jumper back to his closet.

Sherlock merely made a non-committal noise in the back of his throat before returning to the kitchen to tend to his other experiments.

–

third.

The grey jumper was absolutely no where to be found. About a week since the "last incident," as John has taken to calling it, he truly could not the article of clothing anywhere. He searched all the usual places as well as Sherlock's room, the kitchen, even to go so far as to ask Mrs. Hudson. Still, the jumper was no where to be found, and John decided to ask Sherlock for his help when he got back in from wherever he'd dashed off to this time.

In the mean time, John headed to the local corner store to restock the milk supply along with the tea and beans. He paused briefly to wonder at what his life has become: errand boy and sidekick to the great Sherlock Holmes. He felt decidedly more cross as he made his way back toward 221B. However, as he rounded the corner to Baker Street, he managed to slam into someone.

"Sorry! Sorry!" John said hurriedly, helping the blonde woman he had knocked to the ground back on her feet. She was quite pretty, with her hair in a messy pony tail and big blue eyes staring back at him.

"It's fine, no worries." She said kindly, looking John up and down, "I really should pay more attention." She smiled gently toward John and he grinned in return.

"Yes, well, it would help if I weren't so clumsy." He laughed. She joined in before saying goodbye to John, leaving him in a much better mood than he had been in only moments before.

He finally arrived back at the flat to find Sherlock playing the violin in manner that made his skin stand on end. He'd often contemplated just chucking the thing out the window and being done with it, but knowing Sherlock, he'd simply sulk around the flat until he went out and bought another one.

"What's gotten you in such a good mood?" Sherlock inquired as John placed the milk in the refrigerator that was, thankfully, devoid of human body parts for the time being.

"I had a nice chat with a pretty girl on the street a moment ago. Sherlock, I was rather hoping you could help me find my jumper, it's gone missing again and this time I literally cannot find it anywhere." He spoke from the kitchen before emerging in the living room, where Sherlock seemed preoccupied.

"How did you meet the girl on the street?" Sherlock asked, ignoring John's previous request and turning to look up at his colleague.

John stopped pacing for a moment to look at his friend queerly in response to the question. "I bumped into her whilst rounding the corner. I should've gotten her number or name at the very least." He said, suddenly filled with an itch of regret for not thinking of this sooner.

"You have mistaken interest for attraction once again, John." Sherlock said calmly, before placing his violin on the coffee table and standing to face John. John simply stared back at Sherlock in vague irritation.

"I wasn't aware those were mutually exclusive terms?" He asked candidly, trying understand where Sherlock was going with all this.

Sherlock paced the room looking amused. "Well they are one of the parties isn't heterosexually inclined," He explained as if it were the most obvious thing in the whole world.

"How could you possibly tell that she was a lesbian from my description of a brief meeting?" He asked incredulously, staring at Sherlock in complete befuddlement.

Sherlock scoffed slightly. "I am not speaking about her, John, she is most certainly not gay," he concluded and it took a moment for his implication to completely sink into John's mind.

When he finally understood what Sherlock had meant, he found it hard to speak. "Are you- are you suggesting that I would- that I am a-," but the detective cut him off with an odd look of his own thrown in.

"John, did you not sleep well? You are generally more intelligent in the morning." Sherlock stated as if he hadn't just accused John of being gay right to his face.

"Sherlock, I'm not gay." John said abruptly, trying to make the slender man understand. Sherlock's phone beeped at that precise moment.

"Well John, while you continue to have your sexuality crisis, I am needed elsewhere." With that statement, he disappeared from their flat, leaving a thoroughly baffled Watson in his wake.

When John entered his room after his shower that night, he spotted his favorite jumper laid out on his bed. He wondered for the first time what Sherlock Holmes' involvement was with the whole debacle. He climbed into bed thinking of his conversation with Sherlock from earlier and wondered if the detective's deduction could be correct. The thought did little to calm him.

–

fourth.

Since Sherlock pointed out that he believed John to be less than heterosexually inclined, John started to notice more and more things about Sherlock that should make him uncomfortable but ultimately failed to do so. He noticed the way Sherlock's hair fell in his eyes when he looked into the microscope; the way his long fingers clutched the violin; the way his dress shirts were always unbuttoned just far enough to make John wonder.

John shook his head, trying to dispel the thought that he might actually be attracted to Sherlock of all people. Firstly, John was straight, he enjoyed being with women; secondly, if he were gay, which he wasn't, he most certainly would not pick Sherlock as a potential partner. Sherlock was too stubborn and much too rude for John.

However, when John contemplated holding hands or kissing the other man, he was not filled with repulsion. Instead he ended up wondering what Sherlock's hair would feel like or the way the detective's lips would mingle with his own.

A full month passed before the jumper went missing again, and John has honestly come to believe that the jumper was either possessed or he was simply atrocious with keeping up with it. Still, he and Sherlock were on another case involving the murdering psychopath Moriarty and neither have much time to concern themselves with anything else.

They end up nearly being killed a total of three times before Sherlock finally managed to deduce Moriarty's location and can send in the calvary. John knew they'd never keep him, but at least for a few days he could rest in peace. Even if he couldn't find that damn jumper, which seemed to be proving more trouble than it was worth.

They arrived back at the flat and John climbed the stairs to his warm bed. He paused to listen for a moment as Sherlock settles himself on the couch before he finally fell into a deep sleep. He woke in the early hours of the next morning to find himself starving. He crept down the staircase with caution as he hadn't heard any strange sound to suggest Sherlock had awoken yet.

As he spotted Sherlock on the couch, he stopped, mouth slightly open, because on the couch lay Sherlock Holmes, wearing John's favorite grey jumper. It was much too big for the tall man, but for some reason he had it on top of his pajamas.

John made a step toward the kitchen and the sound startled Sherlock, who sits up, highly alert.

"Morning." John said after a moment, looking over at his friend. His life had never felt so surreal as it did in that moment. "Any particular reason you're wearing my favorite jumper that I have been searching the flat for?" He asked, leaning against the doorframe.

Sherlock looked remarkably like a small child, who had just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"It helps me sleep better." He said finally with a shrug, and everything clicks for John; how it had ended up on Sherlock's bed and in the couch, and why Sherlock had managed to return it to him.

"You mean to tell me it was you all along? You said that you didn't subject your time to my jumpers and other such frivolities!" John exclaimed in an accusatory tone. Sherlock simply smirked at his flatmate's indignation.

"It smells like you." He stated after a brief pause, "I have recently come to realize that the smell of your jumper is my favorite smell." Though it was not the most romantic thing ever said to him, John understood that coming from Sherlock, it was practically a pick up line.

For a moment, John simply stopped to take in Sherlock, his dark curls were askew from just waking up, and his nose was red from the cold of the early morning. John wondered how he could've missed just how absolutely breath taking the detective was for all the time he'd known the other man. He moved closer to where Sherlock stood stock still in the middle of the room.

"Are you trying to imply that you are interested in me?" John asked, smirking slightly at Sherlock's complete and utter inability to communicate his feelings. Sherlock smiled a genuine grin back at John.

"I believe you have mistaken interest for attraction once again, John." He said. A wave of deja vu swept over John, who was too busy being stunned by the fact that Sherlock Holmes had just admitted that he was attracted to John to really care enough to notice.

In an instant, Sherlock's lips pushed cautiously against his own. John found himself thinking this was probably the best snog he'd ever had. Sherlock leaned deeper into him, and John felt slightly odd gripping his own jumper on the taller man's body, so he moved one hand to Sherlock's curls and discovered that they were just as soft as he expected.

"You would've never deduced that it was I who was stealing your jumper." Sherlock spoke when they broke apart, his eyes alight with mischief. John simply rolled his own eyes at the genius in front of him.

"You couldn't've resisted me forever." John smiled.

Sherlock merely chuckled in response, "Excellent deduction, my dear Watson."