A/N; Hello, everybody! I hope you're all doing well...*offers a plate of cookies around*...have a cookie! They're chocolate peanut butter...my favorite! Now, what was I saying? Oh, yes...this fic. Well, this fic is just a short, fluffy, Johnlock fic so that I can procrastinate from updating my other fics-I mean, so that I can, um, y'know, just do something fun! *coughs awkwardly* Well, anyways, hope you enjoy...and never fear, I'll stop procrastinating soon and get my arse moving on the others :D
Thanks to every person who's followed, favorited, even just read...and remember to review! Reviews will be rewarded with virtual cookies and virtual cake and large amounts of virtual chocolate. If you don't review, Mycroft will have to eat all the goodies, and then he'll get fat. Help Mycroft stick to his diet; leave a review!
Gotta admit, the one reason I did this fic was because the idea of Sherlock in black skinny jeans makes me have a mind seizure. Ta!
"Remind me…why did I agree to go to this 'party' at Scotland Yard?"
John sighed. "Because we made a deal. You go to this one Halloween party, and I'll allow you to have one body part stored in the refrigerator for a month." He leaned over to pick up an empty takeout container lying on the floor. "And it isn't at Scotland Yard, it's at Greg's house. More room, more people."
John heard Sherlock grumbling to himself, and then the consulting detective appeared in the living room, wearing nothing but his dressing gown and a pair of boxer shorts. He flopped down unceremoniously on the worn couch, the thin silk of the robe falling back, his hips perched slightly obscenely on the arm of the sofa. John gulped, hiding his red face by ducking down to throw away the container. Did the man know how he looked when he did that?
He took a deep breath. "Sherlock, go get dressed. We've got to leave in half an hour!"
Sherlock muttered something unintelligible.
John frowned. "And it better be something at least slightly resembling a costume."
Sherlock shot up. "WHAT?! A costume?" he spat the last word as if it were a disease.
The army doctor rolled his eyes. "Yes, Sherlock, a costume. You know, something you don't normally wear, someone you normally aren't?" Sherlock gave him a blank look. John sighed. "Look, just go into your room, find something you haven't worn since high school; God knows you could probably still fit in it, skinny as you are; and throw it on! Come on, we don't have all day!"
Sherlock observed him closely. "And what are you going as?"
John pursed his lips with impatience. "I'm wearing my old uniform. Now, I'm going to go take a shower. Get dressed, for God's sake!"
The consulting detective flopped back down to his previous position, hips jutting up again. John sucked in a breath. "A cold shower, I think," he rasped quietly to himself, and headed off to the bathroom to do just that.
John stepped out of the shower, carefully wrapping a towel around himself. His uniform was up in his bedroom; why hadn't he thought to bring it down? Silently cursing his stupidity, John opened the bathroom door…and came face-to-face with Sherlock.
Only, it definitely wasn't the Sherlock John Watson knew. Because the Sherlock he knew didn't wear clothes like this.
John wrapped his towel tighter around his body, trying to prevent an awkward situation from arising. "Sherlock." He swore inwardly as his voice squeaked, an octave about normal.
"John?" Sherlock, for once, looked slightly self-conscious. "Is this okay to wear?"
John's eyes traveled up and down Sherlock's long, lanky form. The consulting detective was wearing a simple soft t-shirt with blue and grey and black stripes crossing vertically across his chest. John could see the outline of every single one of Sherlock's ribs, giving the shirt a loose, comfortable feel. Below that was the detail that had definitely caught John's eye first; a pair of dark black jeans. Skinny jeans, in fact. They were slung low on his hips, giving off a tantalizing glimpse of tight black briefs. On his feet were a pair of simple black and white converse, perfectly worn. John could just see hints of a thin silver interlocking chain around Sherlock's neck.
"John?" Sherlock asked again, now looking concerned. "Are you okay?"
It was then that John realized his mouth had been hanging open like a fish. He abruptly shut it with a snap, and then opened it to respond to Sherlock's question. "Um, yeah. Great. Really, really great. Uh, it's good, Sherlock, you'll be fine, yes…"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "John?"
John stopped babbling, eyes still blown wide. "Well, I better go get dressed now…" he squeaked, and made a beeline for his room, leaving a very confused Sherlock in his wake.
John shut and locked the door to his room moments later, breathing a sigh of relief. God…why did this happen? He wasn't gay!
But you're bi, said an almost Sherlock-like voice in his head. You swing both ways. After all, you didn't get the name John 'Three-Continents' Watson for being completely straight, now did you?
Shut up. John dried his hair and pulled on a pair of loose pants. He wasn't gay, and he most certainly wasn't interested in his flatmate, he told himself. No, definitely not.
Downstairs, Sherlock was beginning to worry. John had said high school clothes, hadn't he? Had he said something else and Sherlock looked like a fool to him? He shook his head. For once, Sherlock couldn't deduce what had happened.
He sat down on the couch, waiting for John to finish dressing. Sure, this wasn't something he normally wore…maybe that was why John was acting so oddly? But this Halloween thing…it was all about dressing differently, wasn't it?
Sherlock sighed impatiently. He didn't understand it at all.
He heard boots tromping down the stairs, and, looking up, saw John Watson standing in front of him, army uniform and all.
It was a sight to behold. Trousers and boots still dusty from far-away sands, army-issued jacket still bearing bloodstains and little tears, unzipped slightly to reveal an equally-stained white undershirt…
To Sherlock, it was gorgeous.
He frowned. Why had he thought that? It had been completely out of the blue. He was Sherlock Holmes, for God's sake; the only gorgeous things to him were dead bodies and blood samples and chemicals under a microscope. He shook his head slightly to get control of his rambling mind. "Ready to go?" he said. No, not right, too bright, far too cheerful.
And indeed, John was more than a bit shocked. "Are you…excited about this?"
Sherlock shook his head vigorously. "No. Nooooo, no, no, no." he laughed uncomfortably. "Not at all. I'm dreading it, actually."
John smirked. "Good. I'm dreading having another head in the fridge for a month. Now let's go; don't want to be late!" He opened the door and gestured grandly at Sherlock to step out into the hallway.
And with that, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes stepped out into the night.