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Sherlock’s bedroom is an undiscovered no-man’s land for John, so when Sherlock is hauled away for the evening on a case that John isn’t invited to, he cannot resist the temptation to show total disregard for the sociopath’s privacy and find out just what he keeps in that private chamber of his.
When he’s sure Sherlock is gone - he has become so attuned to his routine of flouncing in and out of the flat for a good twenty minutes before deciding it’s really time for him to go - he casually strolls down the hall to Sherlock’s room, briefly considering putting gloves on before touching the doorknob, lest he leave fingerprints or some other tell-tale sign that he’s been snooping.
He twists the handle and pushes the wooden door open, surveying the room from the door frame. It is basically the same as John’s own bedroom, except it appears that Sherlock has more personal possessions than John. Up in John’s room, the furniture is minimal and he keeps his important treasures in a box at the back of his wardrobe. His gun rests in the drawer of his desk and he has a lamp and some books and his little collection of sweaters folded with military precision in his dresser.
Sherlock’s room is tidy; a stark contrast to the toxic mess he leaves in his wake in all other areas of the flat. He has a nice wardrobe with a full-length mirror, his bedside table is clear and there is an uncharacteristic lack of chemistry equipment - probably because it is all strewn haphazardly across the kitchen table.
John steps in and closes the door behind him with a soft click. He stands in the middle of the room and laughs slightly to himself, huffing in Sherlock’s scent. He remembers the saying his mother used to tell him when trying to get him to tidy his bedroom: a tidy room means a tidy mind. Or something like that. Well, Sherlock’s room was certainly spotless, but his mind was buzzing like bees in a hive, ideas flying here, there and everywhere at the speed of sound. John wonders absently if Sherlock allows Mrs. Hudson in here to clean.
He runs his fingers delicately over the top of the wooden dresser, imagining Sherlock cooped up in here when he’s in one of his moods. The room seems to lack any of Sherlock’s personality; he is an enigma and John frowns as his brilliance is in no way reflected in any of the items in here. He wonders what his bedroom says about him. Nostalgic memories filter through his brain of teenage bedrooms, walls plastered in posters of bands and celebrities and photos of family and friends. John feels sad that Sherlock probably never had those kinds of normal interests.
He walks over to the wardrobe and opens the doors towards him, careful not to disturb what lies inside. Sherlock’s pristine blazers, shirts and trousers are hung carefully, with his polished Oxfords placed side by side in the bottom. John continues to be impressed with Sherlock’s tidiness and ponders whether he just leaves a mess in order to annoy him.
John retreats when he finds nothing of interest in the wardrobe. He passes by the bed, which Sherlock has made an attempt to straighten, but the soldier in John can’t help but notice that the sheets aren’t tucked tightly enough and the crinkles in his pillow bother him; they also make him smile as he can see the indentation of where Sherlock’s head lies when he gets those rare hours of sleep.
He perches carefully on the bed and hesitates before pulling open the drawer of Sherlock’s bedside table. The glass of water on the top ripples with the movement. There are paperclips and torn up pieces of paper and what looks like a burnt piece of plastic that has gnarled and become misshapen. John picks up a small A5 notebook with a blank cover and flips through the pages quickly; pages upon pages of rushed notes that make little sense to him, as they are mostly just single words. Right, dogs, brother did it. John raises his eyebrows and smiles slightly to himself as he realises this must have been the notebook Sherlock used when he went on cases, that was, before John arrived. John is surprised that he needed a notebook at all, considering he brags so much about his superior mind.
He puts the notebook back in the drawer, his fingers caressing the soft pages on the decline of his touch. He shuffles the other contents around but again finds nothing of interest. It doesn’t altogether surprise him that Sherlock doesn’t have anything incriminating in his bedroom. If such incriminating objects even existed, Sherlock Holmes certainly would not leave it in his unlocked bedroom in 221b, where clients and Moriarty and the British Government alike can wander freely when the need strikes.
John stands and does a final circle of the bedroom, slightly disappointed that he didn’t even find a single thing that would let him into that mysterious mind of his flatmate. On his way to the door, one drawer of his dresser catches his eye, as it is not completely closed. Being a man of habit, he pushes it shut with his fingertips but it doesn’t budge. Irritated, he pushes harder but the wooden drawer resists, as though there is something blocking it from closing. He pulls the drawer open and feels a rush of warmth in his chest at what he sees.
The sleeve of an oatmeal cable knit jumper is caught in the side of the drawer, preventing it from shutting. John pulls it out and holds the article in front of his face, confirming that it is in fact his oatmeal cable knit jumper, not to mention his favourite jumper that mysteriously vanished a few months ago. What on Earth was Sherlock hoarding it for? John looks down and sees the other items hidden beneath the jumper in the drawer: about a dozen sheets of newspaper clippings, held together with a paperclip. Folding the jumper over his arm, he takes the newspapers out and flips through them; they are all articles about Sherlock, but he has taken careful precision in preserving the ones that were about John, too. He has saved the pictures of himself in that ridiculous hat and John spies himself standing loyally at Sherlock’s side in every single one. He is flattered and surprised that Sherlock felt compelled to keep them, even though he slagged off the press daily.
A strange tugging in his chest, John folds his jumper up carefully and after a quick mental debate, tucks it neatly back in Sherlock’s draw and pushes it closed. He can’t fight the stupid smile on his face as he leaves the room, pulling the door shut behind him. Sherlock doesn’t need to know that he’d been prying - although the smart arse would probably guess eventually, John would just have to say he was looking for a stamp or something - but in many ways John is glad that he did. And Sherlock Holmes says he doesn’t believe in sentiment? John snorts. Yeah, right.