An ill-fitted sweater for an ill-fitted man. The sweater was a perfect analogy to life, surprisingly enough. The threads of the cotton/polyester/wool blend woven together like the strands of life, all piecing together to make a whole. As perfectly shaped as it was—it looked like a sweater, felt like a sweater—it was still ill-fitting. Sherlock looked like a man, felt like a man, but he didn't exactly fit in with the rest of society. Just like the way John's sweater fit him.

It had been a kind gesture, really. When your friend has a coat that has been soaked through with blood, it's only fair to offer up your sweater to fight the cold weather when your friend was freezing in the London rain. Unfortunately, the hem had been at a somewhat awkward level and the sleeves were far too short, but it had been a kind gesture all the same. He hadn't even asked to borrow it. Now he found himself back at the flat alone, still in John's sweater. His roommate had gone back out to do some grocery shopping, while the detective was folded in his favorite chair with his warm, borrowed sweater.

Long fingers grazed lightly over the fabric, a small smile pulling at the edges of his lips, until he reached a lump that he hadn't noticed before. Alarmed, he blinked. How had he not noticed something so obvious as a hard, rectangle-shaped protrusion in the folds of the knitwork? He swiftly plucked the rectangle out into view and held it flat in the palm of his hand.

It wasn't very big. Quarter of an inch thick, if that. Black front, silver sides and back. Square screen that took up half of the front side, scratched from light wear. A labeled wheel to navigate it that took up the other half. Headphones. Music. Apple. iPod. Curious. He thought only young people carried those these days.

He flipped it over in his hand a few times before holding it up inches in front of his face with a finger on either side of it to keep it from slipping out of his grasp. "And what sort of music do you fancy, John Watson?"

Of course he knew the kind of music John listened to. He didn't have to look through a digital rectangle to figure that out, but it never hurt to check one's deductions. A swift slide of the lock button on the top, and the iPod came to life. A bright light shone from the screen and reflected off of Sherlock's watchful eyes, making his face look even paler than normal. He pressed the buttons he figured would take him back to the main page and located the playlist option. Curiosity getting the better of him, he scrolled down the list, his eyes taking in each one he passed.

He seemed to have normal playlists that anyone would have. How unexciting. A. AA. AAA. Obviously he liked those three and wanted them to be on top. Car Mix. Apparently, that one was for tuning him out in the car since John didn't drive himself. Exercise Mix, New Music, New Playlist 1, Old Music, On-the-Go 1, Playlist 1, Playlist 2, Relaxation Playlist, Running, Running2, Sherlock, Workout Music.

Sherlock froze, his finger dialing back once to land the highlighted bar on his own name. Sherlock. What could John possibly have in a playlist with his name as the title? Was it full of songs used to vent when he was irritated with him? Were the songs the loudest ones in his library to tune him out? What could they be? He wanted to click it. He really did. But he was also afraid. It hadn't been very long since John had told him that he was his best friend. What if he had created this playlist a long time ago or very recently when he had been angry with him for not coming back after his "death", and the songs were more painful than praiseworthy? Did he really want to see that?

Yes. Yes, he did. He clicked the center button harder than he meant to, and a list of songs filled the screen. No, not actual songs. Voice recordings. They littered the screen with jumbled numbers and letters like he hadn't quite been sure what to name them. Maybe they were his opinions on him when he was mad at him. He had to find out.

He frowned at the headphones that lay across his lap. They were tangled and looped around themselves so badly that he dismissed the idea of untangling them before he even attempted it, and he pulled them apart just enough so he could place them in his ears. He tried to ignore the mass of wire and casing hovering beneath his chin. With one more click of the button, the first track started.

There was no voice talking about how he had betrayed his friend. There was no voice saying how much he missed him or how bad of a friend he was. There was no voice singing some whiny song about death, lost friendships, and troubles. There was no voice at all, in fact. Only music. His music. The gentle ballad on violin strings that he himself had composed. He held the iPod up before his eyes again, this time gazing at it with wonder and confusion.

His music. He must have used the voice recorder when he wasn't paying attention—he did tend to go off into his own little world when he was composing—and saved the finished product. John listened to his music. John appreciated his music. Absentmindedly, he scrolled back until he found Top 25 Played and found an identical list of jumbled letters and numbers. John listened to his music a lot. John liked his music.

He let his hands fall into his lap, pulling the headphones out of his ears with a painful pop as he stared at the wall. The music drifted up from his lap, barely audible. He didn't even turn his attention to the door when he heard footsteps as distant as the music and a huffing, breathless noise coming up the stairs and stopping at the door. He didn't look at the door when he heard a kick rattle the door in its frame.

"Sherlock? Could you open the door? I have a lot of bags, and I really wouldn't like to have to set them down just to get my keys out. So if you could be so kind and open the door. I know you're busy deducting, but for the love of god, Sherlock, could you please open the door?" When he didn't make a move to open the door, he heard a sigh and the thump of exactly eight bags hitting the floor at once. "You know, I go to the grocery store to make sure we have enough to eat, and what do I get? I don't even get an answer at the door. You know, sometimes I think I need to put a buzzer on you so you know exactly when to open it—" he continued to mutter as he entered the flat and turned to drag the groceries in with him. He turned his attention after they had crossed the threshold and the door had been shut and locked. "And another thing—" He fell silent when Sherlock held up the iPod and turned the music loud enough for John to be able to hear it through the headphones.

"John, what's this?

John's face blanched to match the color of the borrowed sweater, and he dropped the groceries onto the floor, suddenly awkward and uneasy. "Oh. Oh, that. I—I can explain. There is a good reason—I—" He sighed, stepping over the groceries to take his seat across from Sherlock, who didn't drop the iPod back into his lap. "Let me start at the beginning of the first time I recorded one of your songs. I have a reason, I swear."

"Yes, I think the beginning is a great place to start."