spirit cold ➙ writings

of sentiment and senselessness.

Of Sentiment and Senselessness!

SUMMARY; In which evenings hold no appeal for John unless they consist of stormy gray eyes, flashes of pale skin, low murmurs, and . . . his own jumper, apparently.

PROMPT; Sherlock wearing John's jumper(s).

PAIRING(S); Sherlock Holmes/John Watson.

TRIGGER WARNINGS; N/A.

NOTE(S); this was originally supposed to be a cute, fluffy drabble that faded into a much longer combination of fluff and angst than intended as i continued to dwell on 2x03 while writing so ?? good luck with this ??

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John Watson had seen plenty of unusual things.

His flat mate sprawled across their sofa, wearing one of John's jumpers over his regular pajamas was possibly the strangest of all.

Convinced that perhaps his sanity had finally snapped, John decided to give himself a moment. Aware that Sherlock was likely so lost in his own mind that he hadn't yet noticed John's arrival, he shut the door quietly behind himself and busied himself in the kitchen, setting down the brown paper bag that carried the milk. He took much more time than necessary to put it away, arranging their fridge so any potential lime were far from edible items.

Eventually, there was no more he could do. He had to face this.

And possibly reschedule his first appointment with his therapist in months, assuming his sanity had shattered. Maybe living with a mad man was contagious. Maybe this was a long time coming and not at all related to Sherlock.

Or maybe Sherlock was actually laying there, wearing one of John's oversized jumpers he had previously referred to as "monstrosities."

No. Definitely losing his mind.

John took a deep breath. Braced himself. Made sure he still had Ella's contact number in his phone. Took another excessively deep breath. And there he went. One step, two, three . . . .

Four.

He hadn't watched the last string of his mental stability rip apart, after all. As there Sherlock was, perfectly unmoving and presumably oblivious to John's presence, yet visibly clad in his beige jumper. John blinked. Actually, he blinked several times. He blinked so many times at such a rapid pace that he wondered vaguely if that could cause a man to go blind. That might be a welcome alternative to asking Sherlock about this.

Absolutely nothing had prepared him for this moment.

Things had been relatively normal when he'd left earlier for his date. Sherlock had been dipping eyeballs in lit candles, which, while mildly concerning, was not that strange of an event. He'd bid the younger man goodbye, unsurprisingly received no response, and went to meet Jeanette at the bar for their first date. Although one thing had been out of the ordinary.

Sherlock hadn't texted him once.

John had grown used to receiving a multitude of texts from his flat mate during dates. He'd never admit it aloud, but some part of him had started looking forward to them. It was unlike Sherlock to text for no reason unless John was out with a woman. In which case, he'd make up an array of reasons, practically threatening to get himself into dangerous situations unless John returned home immediately.

And so John would return.

He'd pretend not to notice the confused looks from his girlfriends that would gradually shift into knowing, irritated looks. Just as he pretended not to look forward to every one of Sherlock's ridiculous stunts to get him home.