What a Silly Thing
BBC Sherlock
Rating: K+
Summary: After an excruciatingly long week, John returns home to find Sherlock going through his clothes. There is simply no way for this to end well.

A chill wind rattled the windows of 221B Baker Street. Coming off of a case with Sherlock – which was exhausting as always – and a double shift at the clinic – one doctor out with the flu and the other with a broken leg from falling down his stairs had left the clinic severely understaffed – John could barely find the energy to put one foot in front of the other. The stairs to the second story seemed particularly long that day, and John trudged upstairs, scuffing his feet on the well-worn runner that was gradually slinking farther and farther down towards the lower landing.

The possibility of terrible programming on the tele was awfully temping, but he still hadn't gotten around to folding the last load of clothes he'd taken to the laundromat. Not only did the army tend to breed in an aversion to messes that bordered on the hairy edge of compulsion, but the pile was also taking up valuable real estate in what was already a very tiny bedroom and he was getting tired of having to leap over it just to get to his bed.

He gave the armchair one last longing look and plodded towards his bedroom.

Light shone from the crack under the door, and he cocked his head to one side, brows furrowing. He was certain he hadn't left the light on. Visions of the criminals Sherlock had put away – most of which threatened to kill him in the process of being arrested – flashed through his head followed rapidly by equally disturbing visions of the experiments Sherlock tended to scatter throughout the flat, and he dropped to a slight crouch in order to creep along the wall and reach for the door handle.

"Please don't open the door, John. Solid oak to the back of the skull is dreadful for the brain."

Sherlock's voice. Coming from inside his room. Strike vindictive criminals from the list, not that it made the situation any better. If Sherlock felt that it was perfectly reasonable to store a head in the refrigerator and fingers in the breadbox…. John shuddered. "Sherlock?" The silence on the other side of the door suggested that Sherlock was choosing not to waste valuable cerebral energy to answer such an obvious question. "Sherlock, what are you doing in my room?" As if in response, the door opened a crack and stuck. John could just make out Sherlock shuffling things around before the door swung completely open, framing Sherlock's lanky form against the bright overhead light.

"I needed something. Crucial for the case." Sherlock punctuated the half sentences with an expressive wave of his hand and the fabric bunched up between his fingers.

"What case?" The fabric – plaid, but John didn't own anything in plaid that Sherlock should be touching – drew his attention immediately. "Is that my underwear?"

"Hm?" Sherlock had already started into the hall, and he paused to glance at his hand. "Ah, yes it is. It was stuck under the door." The boxers flew past John's nose to land on the top of the pile of clothes. "Come on. I need your help."

"Sherlock, you've got more of my clothes in your other hand." His statement earned him a look that was reserved for times when Sherlock thought he was being particularly dense.

"Obviously."

John gritted his teeth and followed Sherlock into the living room. Sherlock was brilliant, to be sure, and John had learned quickly that he never did anything without cause, no matter how bizarre his actions seemed. He usually went right along without any substantial questions, since Sherlock's impulses always brought results, were vastly entertaining, and only rarely got John in serious trouble.

He would have done the same in this case, except that Sherlock had his favorite jumper, and he was rather afraid that he was never going to see it again.

Personal belongings were one of the many concepts that Sherlock simply did not understand.

"Put these on."

He grabbed at the clothes shoved in his direction, unbundling them and holding them out at arm's length. "Um…Sherlock?"

"Go on, John. We haven't got all day."

He gaped while Sherlock tugged on his jumper – his favorite jumper, his mind protested again – before dropping the length of blue fabric onto the chair and swinging the overcoat over his shoulders.

When the act of casting a look down at himself and then another with an added dose of incredulity at his companion failed to produce results, he spoke up. "Sherlock?"

"Hm."

John watched as Sherlock pushed his arm into the sleeve, the cuff riding up past his hand, wrist and a good 5 centimeters of forearm. "Sherlock!" He shoved the coat's sleeve up over his hand only to have it sag back down again.

"What, John?"

"I suppose at some point you're going to tell me why we're doing this." John had been racking his brain. Over the last few months, John had made a point to study Sherlock's 'science of deduction' because Sherlock had willingly sought out his observations and conclusions – a far cry from being called a moron within the first week of meeting him. John worked hard to validate Sherlock's faith, but, for the life of him, he couldn't understand why they were switching clothing. Despite his bafflement, he picked up Sherlock's scarf and attempted to wind it around his neck in the same fashion it was accustomed to.

"Isn't it obvious?"

The long scarf that looked so elegant on Sherlock hung almost to his belly button even when wrapped three times around his neck. "Not really, no."

Sherlock straightened the jumper and smoothed it over his expensive button-down. The hem of the jumper barely reached Sherlock's pants even when he pulled it taut. He turned sideways to the mirror, scanning his profile before giving a small, satisfied nod. "This will do." The words had barely cleared his lips before he was taking several purposeful strides towards the door.

"Do what?" Yet another question that went unanswered, and John unwound the scarf from his neck – it really looked too ridiculous for words – and stuffed it into his pocket. He chased Sherlock down the stairs.

They emerged onto the thankfully empty street. John was immediately grateful for the cold of impending winter. Had it been warmer outside, they would have been surrounded by crowds, all of whom would be wondering why it looked like they'd forgotten which dresser was which when they'd gotten dressed in the morning.

A cab slowed at the sight of Sherlock's upraised hand. The action pulled the jumper's sleeve even farther up his arm and only served to increase the general hilarity of the situation. Sherlock leaned in and gave the cabbie an address, blatantly ignoring the smirk plastered on the cabbie's face at his bizarre attire.

"Where are we going?" John asked while the clambered into the backseat. Unlike Sherlock, John didn't have the whole of London memorized. The address sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"They're looking for a shelf stocker at Sainsbury's. I'm planning on inquiring."

John stared at the back of the cabbie's head, trying to figure out if he'd heard correctly, and then shot a look at Sherlock, looking for the telltale signs that he was being joshed with. When Sherlock didn't throw a half smile his way, John looked out the window to run through the conversation again before turning to stare at Sherlock. "You're getting a job at Sainsbury's?" He paused for a moment. "You're getting a job?"

"I am applying for a job."

Fair enough. Sherlock hadn't exactly perfected the art of appearing normal, and who knew how he would come across in an interview. Pompous and condescending, no doubt.

"It's going to be boring."

"Oh, I highly doubt it, John."

His eager smile was infectious albeit unexplained, and John found himself both grinning back and wondering what he'd gotten himself into.

The cab ride was relatively short and passed in silence besides Sherlock's intermittent muttering. When they stepped out at Sainsbury's, Sherlock pointed at a spot right outside the automatic doors and informed John that he was to remain there for the duration.

He braced up against the rough wall and tried to look less like a hobo. Loitering outside Sainsbury's in an overcoat that was several sizes too big did little to improve his image, and the cold wind made it impossible to consider removing the coat.

Perhaps the pavement would open up and swallow him to save him from his embarrassment. He shuffled around for a minute, alternately pulling the coat tight and letting it fall loose, leaning against the wall and standing straight a few steps away from it. All this effort was for naught, and he eventually stood as still as possible and hoped that the people of Sainsbury's were like a T-Rex – if he didn't move, they wouldn't be able to see him.

Once he settled down, he was able to just make out a faint voice coming from somewhere over his shoulder.

"….interested in applying for it."

"Alright. Fill this out, please."

A small window was set into the wall just above John's head. He craned his neck up and realized that he could hear almost all of the conversation from inside between Sherlock – because that first voice had definitely been Sherlock's – and the man he presumed to be the store manager.

Had Sherlock known he would be able to follow his progress from this location? Undoubtedly, knowing him.

After several seconds of extended silence, Sherlock spoke again. "Do you have a pen? This one's run dry."

A brief rustling followed. "Here. This should work."

"How tedious."

Papers fluttered, and John could picture Sherlock tossing the application in the manager's face. He hadn't expected this new fancy to last long.

"On second thought, I don't think I'm going to apply for the job."

"Wha…Why?" A note of desperation colored the manager's surprised tones.

"The job looks dreadfully dull and, unsurprisingly, so does being dead."

"Dead?"

"Yes. If I turn this application in to you, you're going to kill me."

"What on earth makes you think that I'm a murderer?"

"…. You've been eyeing me since I came in. Possibly gay, but unlikely given the wedding ring, the fact that you call your wife at least twice a day from work and that you have two children with a third on the way. You are a foot shorter, so it might be motivated by jealousy, but like I said, happily married so you have no need to compare yourself to other men to evaluate your shortcomings."

"Now wait just a minute…!"

"No, I think you've been watching me because you're trying to figure out whether or not you could handle me if I were, say, a dead weight. Or if am I simply just too big." Sherlock drawled out the last few words.

A rattling bang practically vibrated the wall John was leaning against. He sprang forward, almost missing Sherlock's shout.

"Stop him, John!"

Honed skills from the desert had him in motion before his brain completely processed the words. Sherlock's coat deployed behind him like a sail, scarf trailing even farther behind, but his forward motion kept it out of the way of his legs, so he ignored it for the time being. His target cleared the doors only seconds before he reached them, and he only had to take a two more steps before he was close enough to throw himself forward and tackle the man.

"Careful, John!"

Kneeling on the bloke's legs to keep him in place, John twisted slightly to look over his shoulder, surprised at Sherlock's sudden concern for his well-being.

"That's an expensive coat."

"I don't know whether you've noticed, but I've caught a criminal here. I'd think that you of all people would be more interested in that than your outwear."

"Nonsense. I've already solved the case." Sherlock dug his phone out of his pocket, fingers dancing over the keys. "Catching the man is a problem for the police."

"He's murdered people, Sherlock."

"True, but they were all idiots."

The police were on their way, no doubt, but the man under John seemed to be having little of his current situation and bucked suddenly, almost throwing John off of him.

"I don't suppose you've brought something to restrain him?"

Sherlock tossed a pair of cuffs at him as if it was an afterthought.

With only minor difficulty, John managed to secure the man to a nearby cart corral, pulling his arms through the uprights and snapping the cuffs tight around his wrists. He picked himself up, stepped carefully out of kicking distance of the man on the ground, and made an effort to dust off Sherlock's coat. "So why are the victims idiots?" He shook his head, realizing that wasn't the important question. "Who are the victims?"

Surprise raced across Sherlock's face. "This is the case we were hired on, John. The four murders that Lestrade hasn't managed to solve."

"What, they all relate to here?"

"Isn't it obvious? All of the victims lived within five blocks of this store. They all recently lost their jobs, but none have a significant enough savings to survive for long without income. Not only is this the sole place with a job opening within walking distance to all the victims, but the advertised salary is obscenely high - far higher than what the job actually pays, I'm certain. Anyone in a pinch for money would undoubtedly apply here." Sherlock held up four slips of orange paper between his fore and middle fingers. "I found these in their apartments."

John took one. The digits imprinted on the paper matched the ones on the door. "It's the telephone number for this store."

"Ergo, the one motivation and location all of the victims had in common was being hired here."

"But why would he be killing them?"

"Is that important?" Sherlock answered John's disparaging look with a sigh and an uninterested wave of his hand. "He was stealing their identities. He lured in the unemployed with promises of a lucrative job and asked highly irregular questions on the application – credit card numbers, typical security questions, parents' dates of birth – all under the pretext of finding previous employment records."

"You wouldn't need any of those."

"That is why the victims are idiots." Sherlock chewed on the last word. "Anyone with half a brain would have walked out without filling out that application."

The pieces that Sherlock had failed to explain slowly connected. After deducing the connection between the victims, he must have sought out an opportunity to meet with the hiring official. With multiple store managers, it would be impossible to discretely determine who was responsible to interviewing prospective employees – though John would not have put it past Sherlock to be able to tell that simply from where his office was located, what crease he had in his pants, or whether his shoes were worn on the outside or inside edges. So he had come down here to find out first hand. Who knew what he had observed inside the office, but it had provided him all the clues he needed.

There was just one thing still nagging at John's mind. "Why the clothes?"

"Don't be naïve, John. Had I arrived in my normal attire, they would not have taken my job application seriously. I could have purchased some lower end clothing, but why bother when I have an entire dresser worth of it just next door?"

John decided to ignore the insult to his clothing. He liked his clothing, but knew an argument with Sherlock would get him nowhere fast. "Yes, that's all very straightforward, Sherlock, but why – exactly – did I need to wear your coat?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm not going to be running all over London in your clothes; I look far too silly."

"And I suppose it was just more efficient for me to wear your coat than to wear my own and carry yours?"

"Exactly, John!" Sherlock's eyes brightened with the same childlike satisfaction he always seemed to have when John was able to deduce something himself.

John had yet to decide whether he should be flattered or irritated at that reaction, and he had no time to make up his mind in now either. Sirens wailed from a side street just a block away. He could just spot the flashing lights through the narrow alleys between the buildings.

"We ought to change before they get here." He turned back just in time to catch Sherlock tugging at the hem of his jumper in a vain attempt to close the gap between pants and top. Even the presence of a multi-murderer currently hanging from the beaten cart rack couldn't stifle the giggle that scene evoked. "We look a bit ridiculous."

Sherlock's lips pressed together in a barely suppressed grin, and he gave the jumper another tug. "Just a bit?"

"Just a bit."

OOOOOOOOO

Inspired by the piece by Lenap on Deviantart ( lenap . deviantart . com /art/what-a-silly-thing-to-do-227415255). Hopefully she will forgive me for the ridiculousness of this and hopefully this was enjoyable. First time writing these two, so if I've totally botched it, please let me know!