Chapter Text
One did not look at Sherlock Holmes and think that here was a man who looked good in jumpers. Not that it was inconceivable—he was, as John often thought, a remarkably good-looking man and would remain so even if dressed in a potato sack—but the idea simply didn’t fit. Sherlock was all about sleek lines and sharp angles, trim silhouettes with an elegant flourish about the edges. He was, in fact, the sort of man who gave the impression that he was wearing a tailored suit even when he wasn’t, and it would take a small ice age to make him abandon the Belstaff for something lumpy and padded and filled with down.
And yet.
Here he was, dressed for the February cold in a thicker, woollier scarf and a soft, tastefully patterned jumper that, to John’s mind, suited him quite wonderfully.
The jumper was one of John’s: a gift from Harry he’d never worn, because a side effect of primarily and infrequently communicating via email was that you couldn’t really tell someone’s shirt size. (Sherlock had scoffed at the notion; John had pointed out he wasn’t the most enthusiastic sharer of pictures at the best of times, and not everyone could tell what size someone wore across several brands of men’s wear from a single blurry photo with only a potted plant in the background for scale, and it was a nice jumper besides, here, you try it.) Truth be told, it didn’t fit Sherlock properly either, being a tad too wide at the shoulders and only just managing to stay on the right side of baggy, but all that did was make him look comfy. Positively cozy, in fact.
Which was probably why he was striding around this particular crime scene as though he was on a mission to put the fear of god (or, rather, Sherlock) into the hapless forensics team. John supposed the idea was to distract them from looking too hard at the menacing figure in the big coat and realizing he would be more at home in a gentle wintertime advert for coffee or washing-up liquid or marshmallows.
It seemed to be working, up until one of the newer scene examiners had treated him to a kindly, “Don’t you worry, love, we’re doing our jobs” and ushered him out of the way in the manner of someone trapping a spider in a cup to carry it out to the garden. She quailed a bit under the patented Sherlockian glare, but didn’t let it keep her from photographing the missing boy’s abandoned book bag.
That rather took the wind out of his sails. He went over the cordoned-off slice of road twice more, once to put everything together and again, as far as John could tell, to shake off the weird sensation of having been treated like a normal human being by virtue of being be-jumpered. It shouldn’t have been endearing.
John, not for the first time, wondered what his life had come to: he seemed to be having most of his warm, fuzzy feelings at crime scenes.
“Not a crime scene,” Sherlock snapped at Lestrade when he drew level with him. “The boy wasn’t taken against his will, even if his father is a hired killer. Yes, of course he’s with his father—surely you must have seen the pencil stubs? And his father is guilty of many things, but kidnapping is not one of them. Not that I’d say his son was safe, by any means. Try this address”—he handed Lestrade a page torn out of his notebook—“and call me when you have something really interesting.”
And he stalked off towards John, muttering darkly about imbeciles all the while.
John took his hand, awkward though it was to do when they were both wearing gloves. “That was quick.”
Sherlock sighed gustily. “It’s not even a two, though the boy does have a remarkable imagination. Lestrade thought he was doing me a favor, throwing me this after weeks of nothing.”
“He did, and lord knows you owe him one.” John leaned into him. He didn’t think he’d ever stop being amazed that he could just do that these days, offer proximity and affection and have Sherlock accept it, even return it more often than not. One day it might become commonplace enough for him to take for granted, but not today and not for a very long while. Besides, the jumper practically invited cuddling, witnesses or no witnesses. “You should have worn that cap Mrs. Hudson gave you. Your ears look like they’re freezing.”
“I can only wear so much knit, John. Any more and they’ll start taking me for a nosy bystander.”
“You? Never.” John thought about this a bit more, then grinned. “If you wore a different coat though...”
Sherlock shuddered in a way that had very little to do with the chilly air. “Perish the thought. I’m never wearing this jumper in public again.”
“Shame, it looks good on you,” John laughed and started to steer Sherlock towards the main road. “C’mon, let’s get you home then, so you can take it off.”