It all started out as a dare late one night in the desert. John and the rest of his buddies were sitting around a small fire, playing I've Never using water instead of alcohol since they were on watch. John still had about half of his canteen left while his friend Adam Peterson was completely empty. The others had varying levels in their canteens. Then it was John's turn again.
"I have never...," John started then paused while he thought. "Worn crazy-colored or -patterned pants." He grinned while all the others groaned and took a drink from their canteens.
"What do you wear then?" Peterson asked, the most curious in the group. The others laughed and turned to John with expectant looks on their faces.
"That's for me to know," John said, smiling around. "And you guys not to. Though if someone else is the last one with water in their canteen, I'll tell you. Bring it on boys."
The game went around, the level in everyone's canteen dropping as the night progressed. Finally, only John and his best friend Mark Grant were left with water. John shook his canteen experimentally and judged that only about a mouthful was left. Mark followed suit and they both grinned when they realized he had about the same amount.
"So, down to us, huh?" John asked, tilting his head slightly to the side. "Your round, Mark."
"All right. How about we make it more interesting? A side bet between us?" Mark asked, tapping his finger on his canteen.
"What kind of bet were you thinking?" John asked curiously.
"How about if I win, once you tell us what color pants you were, you have to wear a pair of crazy ones?" Mark replied, to the snickers of the rest of the group.
"I think I could handle that bet," John drawled. "And if I win, you get to clean my kit for a month. Think you want to take that on, Mark?" The other man laughed and nodded at John.
"You're on. I have never..." Mark laughed and winked at the others. "Gone to medical school."
John glared at Mark and drank the rest of his water. He upended the canteen, showing that it was empty. Mark grinned and high-fived the other members of the group. He turned to John, laughter bubbling out of his throat.
"So, spill Watson," he said, gesturing at John. "What color pants do you wear?"
"White or black," John replied, grimacing a bit. He hated revealing intimate, personal information about himself. But a bet was a bet. "So what are you going to dictate I wear?"
Mark made a show of thinking about it, tapping his fingers on his chin and hmm'ing obnoxiously. Finally, he looked at John and smirked.
"I know, we'll start you off with something simple but showy," Mark drawled. "Bright red y-fronts."
John blushed lightly at the thought as his comrades hooted and laughed. He endured the ribbing until his watch beeped the hour. When he checked it, he saw it was 1 am and their shift was over.
"So you going to do it?" Peterson asked, bumping his elbow into John's arm. The others stared at him expectantly as they walked back to their tents.
"Yeah, as soon as I can get my hands on a pair," John sighed, a small smile crossing his face. Any bit of fun or happiness in this barren land was welcome. They separated then to either eat or sleep. John waved goodbye to his friends and went to sleep in his own tent.
John really did have every intention of going through with the bet but he never got a chance to. Two days later his unit was attacked as they moved to another camp. Peterson was killed by a grenade and Mark was shot in the stomach. While trying to save his life, John was shot in the shoulder and that was the last he remembered until he woke up in the hospital four days later.
After he'd recovered from the bullet wound in his shoulder, John was discharged due to medical reasons. His dominant hand shook no matter how much he tried to still it and he limped. He moved back to London and lived in a small flat. His life was so empty and pointless now and John had never felt more useless. He wasn't able to use his skills in the way he'd chosen and he felt too disconnected to find a job as a doctor.
One sunny day, John was taking a walk to get out of the flat and get some fresh air. He needed to find something to do and possibly a new place to live. His army pension was small and London was expensive. An old friend named Mike Stamford called out to him and eventually introduced him to the man who would become his flatmate. And his best friend.
John threw caution out the window and decided to move in with Sherlock Holmes, strange as the man was. It wasn't until he was unpacking his things and came across a picture of his old unit that he remembered the bet he'd made with Mark underneath a starry desert sky. John fought back tears, knowing he hadn't been able to save Mark. That was one of his first questions when he'd woken up in the hospital. Carefully placing the picture in an old frame, John placed it back in his closet. He didn't want to see the smiling faces of men he'd lost. Men he couldn't save. He finished unpacking and decided to honor the bet now. It had been four months since he'd lost his unit and figured it was about time.
It was a Monday when John made it to the store to buy a pair of red pants. He found the brightest red he could and tried to contain his embarrassment at the checkout counter. John was surprised when the girl gave him a cheeky wink as he paid for them. Once he got back to 221B, John changed into the red pants and saluted in the general direction of the photograph still in his closet.
"Well, I kept my end," John said to the empty room. "Hope you guys are having a laugh over it."
He didn't have long to brood about it for Sherlock yelled up the stairs that they had a new case. John spent the day running around London looking for a kidnapped child. Sherlock finally found the clue that led them to an old warehouse once used for making pottery. John found the child, shoving her into Donovan's hands when Sherlock raced after the kidnapper.
They raced through back alleys and across busy streets, getting closer and closer with each step. They finally cornered the man and John was only a little surprised when he pulled a gun out. As the kidnapper pointed it at Sherlock, John automatically pulled out the handgun he carried with him always.
"I'll kill him if you don't let me go!" the kidnapper threatened, waving the gun at Sherlock. The detective stood there, looking back at the kidnapper with a bored look on his face. John held the gun steady, aimed at the midsection of the man in front of him.
"And if you pull that trigger, I'll kill you," John replied. "I was a soldier. Who do you think is the better shot?" The man thought for a moment, raised the gun, and pulled the trigger. Sherlock was expecting it and dodged to the side as soon as the kidnapper moved. The shot missed but John's didn't and the kidnapper went down.
Lestrade found them about 20 minutes later, following Sherlock's texted instructions. The kidnapper was still alive, groaning on the ground with a wound in his side. Sherlock had confiscated the gun, holding it in his gloved hands. They spent the next couple hours giving their statement to Lestrade before heading home.
When he undressed that night, John realized that he had worn the red pants that day. It actually gave him a small thrill, knowing everything he'd done while wearing them. He decided to keep them rather than tossing them, which was his first impulse. Getting into the habit of wearing them every Monday, John realized that he felt more confident, more sure of himself on that day. Plus, Mondays seemed a little bit better.
This trend continued for several months and John was surprised Sherlock made no mention of it. He was sure the brilliant detective noticed the change in his behavior. They solved cases and caught criminals, each wondering exactly who this Moriarty they were chasing was. Finally, the consulting criminal started his war against Sherlock.
It was a Monday when the press printed the story about Richard Brook and the entire world turned on Sherlock. They were standing in the lab at St. Bart's when John got the call that Mrs. Hudson had been injured. He hurried out, tossing a scathing remark over his shoulder when Sherlock didn't come with him. And he'd thought the brilliant detective had cared about their landlady.
Though Mrs. Hudson was fine when John got back to 221B and he realized Sherlock had lied to him. He raced back to the hospital only to find Sherlock on the roof. He suffered through their final call, trying to talk Sherlock down and convince him that John'd never believe he was a fake. All his efforts were in vain and Sherlock stepped forward, off the roof. His best friend fell, his coat trailing behind him like wings.
That night, after John got back home from seeing his friend dead, he changed into his pajamas. He stared at the red pants on the floor, cursing the feeling that they'd given him. A false confidence as it turned out. He picked them up and threw them in the bin.
He never wore red pants again after that.