The sight of a six-foot, lanky man tucked up in a chair with a pair of knitting needles and a tangle of heather gray yarn would have been laughable, if one had not noticed the intensity of concentration on his face. His brow furrowed, eyes narrowed, frowning in focus as he drew his spindly fingers which clutched metal knitting needles towards his face.
"Now, right needle goes through and behind," he muttered. "And then wrap the yarnaround…push it through…slide the left loop off…and…Damn!" He threw his head back, eyes pinched shut, and exhaled a long, frustrated sigh. "MRS. HUDSON!" He waited a beat, staring down at the mess of loops and knots in his hands. "MRS! HUDSON!" Perhaps she had gone out; more likely, she was ignoring him.
Sherlock's housekeeper—landlady, not his housekeeper—had taught him to knit at his request. When she asked with a bit of a twinkle in her eye why he'd like to learn, he replied, "Well, John's birthday is coming up. He doesn't have a scarf—trust me, I've looked among all his possessions—and I've heard that a handmade gift is traditionally more treasured than a store-bought gift." And more heartfelt when given, he thought to himself, praying Mrs. Hudson wouldn't notice the slight flush in his cheeks. (If she did, she didn't say anything. She was good at that, pretending to ignore how Sherlock flushed when he spoke of John, or how John looked at Sherlock from across the drawing room, all starry-eyed.) She provided him with a set of needles and a ball of kitten-soft gray wool, taught him to backwards-loop cast-on and how to knit and purl. "Let me know when you're ready to cast off, dear," she said gently.
Cast off! Sherlock couldn't even get the first row done correctly. "I shouldn't be having this difficult a time! I'm a genius for God's sake!" He pulled the yarn off the needles and ripped all the stitches out. "I can name each person who's discovered an element on the periodic table and the year in which they discovered it and the most useful purpose of that element—even the transuranic ones!—but I can't make a stupid needle make a stupid stitch!" He threw the needles and the jumble of yarn on the floor and jumped up, angrily pacing from the window to the door.
"Okay," he said, and blew a deep sigh through his lips. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and stared at the mess of crafting on the floor, his hands on his hips. Classic aggressive stance, designed to intimidate one's opponent. He narrowed his eyes, dropped his voice a tone, and spoke softly.
"This is what is going to happen," he growled at the yarn. "I am going to cast on forty stitches. I am going to use a knit four, purl four pattern to make a nice scarf for John for his birthday. And you. Are going. To comply."
The yarn lay silently on the floor, clearly fearful of what the man in front of it might do.
"Good," said Sherlock, and strode towards the fireplace. He picked up the yarn and needles, folded himself back into his chair, and began counting as he twisted loops onto the needle. "One, two, three, four…" This was going to be a magnificent scarf. This was going to be the most incredible scarf in the history of scarves. John would know this because Sherlock had knit it for him.