John and Sherlock hadn't spoken a word to each other in over a week. John would be at work while Sherlock stayed at the flat, per usual. John took care of everyone that came in to see him, and Sherlock usually worked on his experiments. On this particular day, however, Sherlock had done something that upset and angered John more than anything else he'd ever done.
John was planning to go home and have a bit of a lie down for a bit, but as he walked into the flat, all was quiet. John felt uneasy at first, because any time it was this quiet, Sherlock would either be drugged up, sleeping (which rarely happened), or, well, he'd rather not think of that last possibility.
John quietly made his way upstairs but saw no sign of Sherlock. Odd. Usually Sherlock would text him if he went anywhere. He took off his shoes and hung his coat before trudging upstairs to where his bedroom is. Upon entering his room, John's jaw dropped, slack.
The moment Sherlock noticed John enter the room, he froze in place, stopping what he was doing. John just stared at him and closed his mouth, his eyes flashing in anger.
Sherlock looked up at him, scared and nervous. Surrounding him was a pile of John's sweaters; his favorite sweaters. They were all cut up and strewn about. Gone. Destroyed. Oh, John was seething.
"John, I-" John held up a hand, cutting him off.
"Get out, Sherlock, before I do something I might soon regret."
Sherlock stood and looked down at the mess he had made.
"John, I can explain-" He was cut off with a dead glare.
"No. Gather them up and take them out to the bins. Just get out of my sight."
Sherlock knew they were John's favorite sweaters; that's why he was cutting them up. He wanted to make them all into one. He hadn't expected John to be home so early, so he was taken by surprise when he arrived.
In Sherlock's mind, he hadn't thought that he was doing anything wrong; he only thought that he had been making a gift for John. Now that they weren't speaking, however, Sherlock began to feel guilty, and sad, and miserable.
He thought he was doing something good, and nice, but it turns out it had only upset John and he hadn't wanted that. Sherlock couldn't stop thinking about it. How John looked as he entered the room: Angry. Sad. Hurt. It made Sherlock's insides churn.
He had tried so hard to explain what he was doing, but John only ignored him.
Sherlock stopped trying to talk to John.
Sherlock sat on his bed now, staring at the pile of clothing he had destroyed. He got up and made his way over to them, sitting down on the floor and pulling them onto his lap. He sighed and pulled out the sewing needle and thread he had in his jacket pocket. Might as well finish what you started, he told himself. He then got to work.
It took him approximately two hours to sew the fabrics together to form one solid sweater. It was a mixture of five light colored browns and one patch of gray in the middle. It actually looked quite nice.
Tomorrow is John's birthday and Sherlock is honestly dreading it now. He's not sure if John will want to spend any part of the day with him. He's not sure if John will even acknowledge him anymore.
Sherlock sighed as he folded up the sweater. Getting up, he walked over to the bedside table to the left of his bed and pulled out a small, folded cardboard box from the drawer. He opened it up and made it square, then placed the sweater inside, proceeding to wrap it up in plain wrapping paper. He refused to put a bow on it.
To the right of his bed was a filing cabinet; he reached over, opened the top drawer, and pulled out a birthday card. He grabbed a pen that was sitting on the bedside table and opened the card, proceeding to write on the blank area that was meant for doing so. It now read:
My Dearest John,
I was trying to explain what I was doing, but you would hear none of it. I understand.
I noticed how you would change sweaters at least three times a day because you just couldn't pick which one you wanted to wear as they were all your favorite, so I thought up a plausible solution for your problem.
Although, now I see it was a stupid idea. It only made you angry and upset, and I never meant for that to happen. I only wanted to do something special for you. I will replace the ones I have so destroyed, but I give you this one because, well, it doesn't matter anymore. But I do hope you'll forgive me.
Yours, if you shall still have me,
SH
He placed the card inside an envelope, wrote John's name on it, and placed it on top of the box, which now sat upon the bedside table. He would sneak into John's room while he slept and place it on his nightstand, hoping he'll find it in the morning.
In the meantime, Sherlock lies down on his bed and enters his mind palace. He's in there for an hour or two before he returned to the real world and realized that it was now 2:00 A.M.
He got out of bed and picked up the box and letter as he made his way over to the door. Opening it as quietly as he could, he began sneaking his way out into the hallway and up the stairs to John's room.
Once he was standing outside of John's door, he hesitates to open it, but does so in the end. Opening it just enough so that he could get in, Sherlock entered the room and sat the gift down beside John's alarm clock. Mission accomplished, Sherlock thought to himself as he exited the room, closing the door behind him.
Sherlock made his way back to his own room and went straight to bed. It took him a while to fall asleep, but he finally did.
Later, Sherlock made sure to wake before John and leave the flat. He didn't want to be anywhere near the man in case he were to get any angrier at him.
John woke an hour after Sherlock had left. He stretched before sitting up in bed and looked over at his clock on his nightstand, which flashed 6:00 A.M. at him. He then looked at the box sitting there with a card on top of it. Curious.
Reaching out, John grabbed it and put it down in front of him. He picked up the card first, opened it, read its contents, and immediately felt bad. Sherlock was only doing what he thought was special and John and told him to get out of his sight. Slightly confused at what Sherlock wrote, he opened the box next and gasped.
He pulled out the sweater and looked it over. He took off the one he was wearing now and put on the one Sherlock made him. Standing, he made his way over to the full-body mirror and looked at his reflection. It looked, well, perfect. John looked down for a moment, guilt rising in his chest.
Making his way downstairs, he walks into Sherlock's room, only to notice that the man is gone. John frowned. Sherlock was nowhere to be found within the flat. Pulling out his phone, he decides to send a text.
Sherlock, I am so, so sorry for how I acted. It's just - well, I saw you ruining my things, only you didn't ruin them, you made them better. Don't bother replacing them; this is worth far more than either of them separately. God, I am such a git. Of course I forgive you. But would you ever forgive me? - JW
Sherlock was sat on a bench at Green Park, thinking, when his phone beeped. He pulled the device out of his jacket pocket and saw a text from John. He bit his lip, scared of what it might read. As he opened it, though, he let out a breath of relief.
Of course I do, John. You had every right to be upset, though. I meant for it to be a surprise, but, well, you came home too early. Do you really like it? - SH
Of course I do. I love it, Sherlock. Where are you? I want to hug you right now. - JW
I'm at Green Park. - SH
On my way. - JW
Sherlock grinned at the screen. John wasn't mad anymore. This was good. Sherlock looked up as a cab stopped on the side of the road across from where he sat. Out stepped John in the sweater Sherlock had made him, which only made him smile further. John made his way over to Sherlock and sat down next to him.
Sherlock only sat still, waiting for John to initiate everything. Just then, John hugged him. Sherlock wrapped his arms around his doctor and shook. He'll deny it later, but Sherlock let a few tears slip down his cheeks as he held onto John.
John pulled back to look him in the eyes, and noticed that they were now red and blotchy.
"Hey, it's alright," John murmured. He reached up his hands and wiped away the next two tears that slipped on their own accord.
Sherlock looked John in the eye and smirked. "Stupid sentiment," he muttered.
John grinned and pulled him close once more. "Sentiment is what got us together, love. Now come on, let's go home and get you washed up, yeah?"
Sherlock nodded and stood with John, who lead the way back to 221B Baker Street. They never walked alone anywhere anymore, but together they would walk everywhere.