John thinks it's absolutely ridiculous. It's ridiculous because the coat is, as marvellous as it appears, already a little worse for wear. The hem is frayed and encrusted with dirt and the sleeve cuffs are a little torn. Parts of it have been patched up, like the elbows and the collars. The lapels are the one that have seen a thread and needle far too much. John knows this is because this is where people grab him and pull him in so they can spit threats all over his face. This is where Greg holds him when he tries to shake some sense into him.
John doesn't want to think this is where people hold him so they can pull him towards them and kiss him.
The coat smells. It stinks of Sherlock's sweat and chemicals from his countless experiments. It smells of rain and occasionally, the Thames. Sometimes it smells of blood and this is when John puts his foot down and says that no, the coat has to be washed. Sherlock hates him when he tells him this. He will hand John the coat but he will act like a spoiled five-year-old and make John's life a living hell until the coat is returned to him, clean until Sherlock wraps it around himself.
To say that Sherlock is attached to it is an understatement. The coat is his oxygen. He will wear it even when the sun is a burning red eye above them and John, who is sensible in a thin blue shirt, is sweating beside him, worrying that Sherlock might suddenly collapse because of heatstroke. He isn't comfortable when he doesn't have it on. People who don't know him the way John does (John thinks there aren't any) cannot see how he feels when the coat isn't there to hide his skinny frame. Sherlock is jittery without it. He snaps at Anderson too often, and sometimes his insults directed at John actually hurt and John will have to fight the urge to pull back his arm and slam a fist in the detective's face.
At first John thought it was just for show. When he saw Sherlock don the coat the first time at Bart's, he thought that it was just Sherlock's way of adding more mystery to him. But he was wrong. Sherlock cannot survive without it. Sometimes John thinks that if he were to burn the coat, Sherlock might jump off the nearest building and die for real this time. And John doesn't really want that to happen again because he still can't shake off the memory of seeing Sherlock lying on the pavement, his blood painting his pale skin, the colour somehow bringing even more attention to the blue eyes that looked up at John.
John absolutely despises that moment, the one where he looked into Sherlock's supposedly lifeless eyes, because they looked like they couldn't see anything at all. It was the one that screamed that Sherlock was dead because Sherlock always saw. It isn't the blood that gives him nightmares. It's those eyes and when John wakes up with his throat raw from screaming, he thinks that it's ironic because waking up to those same light blue eyes, this time full of life and knowledge and worry, is what comforts him.
When Sherlock returned from the dead without the coat around him, John understood that it was his comfort zone. Without it, Sherlock looked so small and frail. Or perhaps it was because he had been running around god-knows-where dodging Moriarty's cronies. John finally decided that both were correct answers. Still, that didn't stop him from hitting Sherlock until Sherlock was bleeding all over again and John's anger faded into something akin to happiness. An outsider would have thought that the feeling was actually sadness from the way John clung to Sherlock so that John's tears were on the front of Sherlock's shirt and the blood coming out of Sherlock's nose had gotten into John's hair.
It didn't take long for Sherlock to slip back to his normal self after John returned the coat to him. It smelled of mothballs from having been stored in Sherlock's closet for so long. And his blood (was it his, though?) was still there. But Sherlock seemed grateful because he smiled at John. It was the smile that made John forgive him for blowing up the kitchen and for leaving entrails in the bathtub. John fought against it but he didn't really have a choice but to forgive Sherlock for the three-year absence.
He still thinks it's ridiculous though. The coat makes him think of a toddler Sherlock with a blanket. Because that's what the coat really is: an adult blankie. He knows Sherlock will be furious if he says this out loud so John keeps his mouth shut. But sometimes, when John sees Sherlock pacing in a crime scene, the coat sweeping behind him like a cape, he will think of this and he will laugh. It makes Sherlock's eyes narrow and he will spit, "What?"
John never answers.
People don't ask Sherlock about the coat. They don't ask because they're too distracted with how good Sherlock looks in it. John can see them following Sherlock with his eyes, can see them wondering how he looks without it on, or with him in it and with everything else gone. When people do this, John's jaw aches from gritting his teeth too much and he leaves crescent impressions in his palms, given to him by his fingernails. It makes him want to tear the coat off Sherlock and tell him to never wear the thing again because it's too distracting and John can't focus.
It also makes him want to tear the coat off and everything else but that is not something he plans to tell Sherlock as long as he is alive. Sherlock left once and John is determined not to do anything to make him go again.
But one day Greg asks. John can't blame him for asking because they are a little drunk and alcohol is the bridge to things unexplored. Greg has been staring at Sherlock for quite some time. It isn't attraction. It's merely drunken curiosity but it still makes John's gut twist and turn, and his hands are curled into fists beneath the table. He is glad that he is drunk because if he were to punch Greg right now he can use it to explain himself. They will buy the story.
Not Sherlock, though.
"Why do you wear that all the time?"
The words are slurred. Greg has had too much. Molly thinks so too because she's pushing the beer away from him.
Sherlock doesn't answer. He's been quiet all this time, just sitting next to John. His glass remains full but his fingers are around the drink, as if promising it that he will drink it soon. John keeps looking at his fingers and the part of his brain that isn't drunk or lusting after his best friend is grateful that no one, not even Sherlock it seems, notices.
John knows the answer even though he doesn't know the why. It plays in his mind, over and over again. And Sherlock must have heard because he turns his head and looks at John. He's studying him, wondering, and John blushes. His face is already red because of the alcohol so he wonders if it's possible that it's gotten even redder. He may look like a tomato right now.
The others have resumed talking. John hears something about rugby but it doesn't pull him in like usual. He's looking at Sherlock and Sherlock is looking back at him. His mouth opens, unexpectedly, and the words come out. His voice is quiet so the others don't hear save for Sherlock.
"It's safe," he says and Sherlock nods.
They don't talk about it anymore after that. The coat is Sherlock's comfort zone. Sometimes it stinks and it never fails to be distracting, but John can't really hate it especially when one day, Sherlock kisses him. It happens in Bart's, in the same lab where John first met Sherlock. John has no idea why Sherlock decided to do it now. It's not that he minds, of course, and they've been building up to this since Sherlock returned from the dead. But it's stupidly romantic, really, and John wants to tell Sherlock this. But then Sherlock grabs him by the waist and presses him to the front of his coat and John forgets.
John grows to love that coat. He likes how it feels beneath his hands and he likes that it keeps Sherlock warm when it's cold. He begins to appreciate how it calms Sherlock down and keeps him safe. And Sherlock allows John to fetch it for him and sometimes even button it for him. There is less hissing whenever John tells Sherlock that he has to wash it. There is no sound at all when Sherlock lets John take it off him.
"Are you sure?" John asks for what must be the third time. They are in Sherlock's bedroom and it is funny in a way because John is already shirtless while Sherlock is lying on the bed beneath him, but still fully-clothed. His coat is open, allowing John a view of the lithe body dressed in black trousers and that terribly distracting purple shirt.
Sherlock is looking at him. "I'm always sure," he says and John laughs a little as he slides the coat off Sherlock. It falls on the floor and is soon joined by everything else on Sherlock's body.
They have been together for four months when Sherlock finally lets him wear it. It is not John who asks. He never asks because the coat is clearly Sherlock's and he doesn't really have the desire to wear it. It is too big and too showy and John is more than comfortable in his woolly jumpers.
But it is winter and it is freezing and John lost his jacket somewhere in the warehouse. He's sitting on a crate, watching Sherlock tell Greg all about the diamond thief they caught. There is a bruise on his cheek. John has a cut over his right brow. It stings but the pain is the least of his worries. He feels like he's naked for all the warmth his clothes provide. He is envious of the orange blanket wrapped around the woman they found tied up. But they've long stopped providing them with shock blankets after Sherlock complained, and John doesn't really want to hurt his pride by going to one of the paramedics and asking for one. So he settles for rubbing his hands together and breathing on them, praying to God that he doesn't get frostbite.
Sherlock looks annoyed when he walks back to him. "We have to wait," Sherlock tells him, wiping the hopeful smile on John's face. He sighs and scoots over to let Sherlock sit beside him.
"It's cold! Don't do that!" John tries a glare to put a stop to Sherlock taking his coat off. He can survive for a little longer but Sherlock has absolutely no body fat to protect him from the chill.
But Sherlock doesn't do what he says. Instead he moves closer until he's pressed against John's side. He pulls the coat around them, and even leans against John a little. It's warmer now and John's ears burn when he sees Greg and the others looking at them, dumbfounded. They never told anyone as Sherlock deemed it irrelevant and John didn't want his private life exposed.
"People are definitely going to talk," he whispers.
"People do little else." And then Sherlock is smiling at him in that way that makes John's heart skip a beat. His eyes skim the cut on John's forehead, his smile faltering a little. But then the smile returns and he says, his voice so quiet that John has to lean closer, "I'm pleased your safe."
John smiles and presses against him more. The coat isn't large and his hands are still freezing, but for now, it's enough for the both of them.
A/N: Le fluff.
Edit (noticed a mistake. there may be more mistakes but, er, i'm not very good when it comes to grammar): Oh god, haha, I am not used to writing fluff or short stories. So tada, this is my attempt. I know it's not very in character but I couldn't resist. If I ever write anything like this again, i'll make them a little more subtle. Thanks for the reviews and favorites so far. I really appreciate them.