The first time it happened, John protested. Loudly. Sherlock ignored him, and in the end, John wore the damned jacket.
The second time it happened, Sherlock threw out lines of reasoning, and defense against arguments John had barely drawn breath to make. John rolled his eyes and ignored Sherlock's badly hidden smirk and wore the bloody jumper.
The third time, John flatly refused. Sherlock sulked, but John would not show up to his first date with Amanda in a button down shirt selected by his flatmate. For a case, or a meeting with the faces (if not the authority) of the British government, yes. On a date, no. That was just too odd. No matter how nice the shirt was.
When John got home that evening, after having abandoned Amanda to meet Sherlock for a case that involved a chase through the alleys of Croydon, the shirt, which really was very nice, was hanging in his wardrobe.
John wore it the next day.
The fourth and fifth times it happened, John debated arguing for form's sake. His pride was a bit bruised by the implied criticism of his sartorial taste, and the reference to his limited budget. In the end, he found the bruising wasn't that bad, and so he said nothing. John stopped counting.
He didn't question the jeans that appeared in his dresser, nor the gloves or scarf that made an appearance when the weather turned cold. Another pair of jumpers, a shirt, a sturdy pair of shoes, a gorgeous cardigan, and a dozen pairs of cashmere blend socks found their way into his clothing rotation. Each discovery of something new tucked away in his wardrobe or his dresser, or hanging on the hook behind his door, only made him smile. And his smile only grew at the way Sherlock brightened to see him wearing his selections. Sometimes it was just a hint of a smile. Sometimes it was a hint of a blush. Occasionally it was an appreciative glance that … lingered.
He left it all behind after Bart's. The only articles of clothing that left Baker Street with him were the ones he'd had when he moved in.
After Sherlock returned John occasionally found things he knew Mary had not purchased for him hanging in the closet or folded neatly in his drawer. John wondered exactly what Sherlock was trying to say. He also wondered what it meant that he didn't wear Sherlock's offerings, but also didn't return them, or tell Sherlock to stop.
When Sherlock was shot, John stayed at Baker Street for three months. Mycroft had a bag brought from his house in Chiswick, but John found that he didn't need it. In addition to the clothing he'd left behind when he'd moved out, more pairs of jeans and trousers, shirts and jumpers, socks and shoes, scarves and jackets, had come to populate his dresser and wardrobe. It seemed that even when John wasn't living there, Sherlock hadn't stopped dressing him.
John unpacked his pants and vests from the duffel, and left the rest in the bag. He didn't wear any of those clothes until Christmas day, when he delivered his planned words to Mary.
After the debacle at Appledore, with Sherlock locked away in solitary confinement, and John back at the house in Chiswick, he found himself wearing the things that Sherlock had sneaked into the house. Things he'd never worn, but never protested.
Wearing them helped. A bit.
Later, there was a recalled suicide mission, and an investigation into the return of a dead man - or at least, of his organization. There was a stillbirth, and a child stolen to cover it up. There was a standoff, and John shouldering Sherlock out of the way of a bullet and sending his own to bury itself in his wife's brain.
There was Sherlock, keeping pressure on the wound in his leg, keeping John alive until paramedics arrived.
John didn't take anything with him from the house in Chiswick when he was released from hospital and moved back to Baker Street.
When the pants appeared in his drawer, John didn't hesitate to pull on a pair. The silk blend black boxer briefs fit like a second skin. Because of course they would. John finished dressing and limped down the stairs.
Sherlock was standing at the window, tension radiating from his too-casual posture. From the slight loosening of his shoulders before he turned around, John knew that Sherlock had observed him in the reflection. He realized that Sherlock had been braced for John's reaction to be negative. Buying him pants was a whole new level of intimacy, and in spite of John's having long since stopped even rolling his eyes when a new item was added to his wardrobe, Sherlock must have feared this would be a step too far.
John glanced down at himself, then back up at Sherlock, offering a half smile.
"What do you think?" he asked lightly.
"You look …" Sherlock started, then trailed off.
"I look?" John prompted.
"You look nice, John. Very nice."
"Very nice," John said, looking down again and taking in the outfit. He wore a fine indigo wool cardigan over a dark chocolate shirt, which was tucked into a pair of dark wash jeans. Inside the brown oxford brogues, John's feet were snug in merino socks that were a near perfect color match for the cardigan. He looked back up and met Sherlock's gaze with a soft expression. "They are quite nice, aren't they? Though, they are terribly revealing."
"Is that so?" Sherlock asked. "In what way?"
"Everything I'm wearing, Sherlock - every single thing - came from you. It's all yours."
"All …"
"Yours."
"... mine."
"Yes," John replied, taking a few halting steps closer. "Seems appropriate, I think."
"Does it?" Sherlock asked, reaching out to steady John as his weak leg wobbled a bit, and forgetting to let go. Sherlock's hands gripped John's arms, his thumbs stroking back and forth over the soft wool.
"Definitely," John said, smiling, his own hands lifting to find Sherlock's waist.
He tipped his head up to meet Sherlock's kiss, then slipped forward into his embrace.
It was the most comfortable thing he'd ever worn.