AN : Rated T for language and slightly dubious adult behaviour, just some mutual man-handling and implied Johnlock shenanigans. Be warned and go back if you are going to squick.
Also, Creepy!Mycroft.
The Stripy Pirate Jumper
Sherlock had a secret. John could tell because his flatmate would sometimes get a very shifty look about him (a kind of non-expression with furtive eye movements) and suddenly vanish. John was mildly curious but, as he never reappeared looking in any way strung-out on anything, he didn't feel the need to pry. After all, Sherlock was a grown man and flatmates should know the worst about each other, but not necessarily everything about each other. He was probably just off having a quick wank or something.
Sherlock was running an experiment. He had to be careful about it though, it was not one that could be done on the kitchen table, in plain view. (Well, maybe, if John was definitely going to be out for a while, but it was risky and it would introduce another variable; no - two new variables, he'd then have to control. Maybe once the initial tests were complete and he had a better idea of the ideal parameters? And he'd have to be extra sure all the cameras were disabled or he'd never hear the end of it.) John definitely would not approve of this experiment and he would certainly insist on it ending. Even if it was one of the most harmless ones Sherlock had attempted recently. He would be most upset if he discovered the uses his jumpers were being put to, for which they definitely were not intended. He might even find it immoral or something bothersome like that. Anyway, Sherlock had no intention of stopping, so he was carefully limiting himself to one "experimental subject" a week. It was better all round if John just reminded happily oblivious.
John was looking for his stripy jumper. He felt it was a casual day, he wasn't due at the clinic and they didn't have a case, and that was a casual jumper. He especially liked it because he felt the stripes made it a bit piratical, and he was intending to take a walk along the Thames and maybe eat some soggy, vinegary chips later.
John's cupboard was very well organised. Particularly his jumpers. Sherlock had a sock index, that made no sense to anyone except him (and possibly Mycroft, but John didn't want to know about the British Government's method of foot apparel storage so didn't ask, in case he actually got an answer). In contrast, John's jumper index was very simple. First they were organised on two shelves by whether they needed anything under them other than a vest. The shelves were then organised from left to right by thickness of jumper, so that the thinnest were in a pile on the left. The piles were then organised from plainest to most patterned. So, his stripy jumper should have been on the "vest-only" shelf, on the left-hand-side, near the bottom of the pile.
Which it wasn't.
So John put on a black v-neck that left a bit of his chest hair peeking out if he wasn't careful (that was manly and a bit piratical too) and went to check the laundry because he didn't remember wearing his stripy jumper recently.
It wasn't there either.
"Sherlock, have you seen my stripy jumper lying about anywhere?"
His flatmate was lounging on the sofa, still wearing his pyjamas and seemingly deeply fascinated by the wiggling of his own toes. He looked up to answer though, his mouth forming a perfect 'o', as if he was blowing a smoke ring, as he clearly enunciated;
"No."
"Uh," said John. "Wonder where that's got to then?" He went into the kitchen and checked the fridge. Shelf full of variously unidentifiable oozing/glowing/furry things? Check. Left-over take-away? Check. Bacon. Check. Milk? Not bloody likely. "Well, I'm off out for a bit. Don't worry, I'll get the milk."
There was a grunt from the direction of the sofa, which was more acknowledgement than he often received. John slipped on his jacket, pocketed his keys, wallet and phone and headed off.
Sherlock waited, frozen on the sofa until he heard the door to the street close. Then he sprung up in a pacing frenzy.
Shit! Why did John choose now to become observant? Or was it just dumb luck that made him want that particular jumper? Past experience that made him suspect Sherlock of grand theft casual wear with a possibly nefarious secondary purpose? Did he even really suspect him? Arse!
Sherlock knew exactly where the jumper was. It was lying next to his bed. On the floor. On the side hidden from the door. Scrunched up into a ball after his last experiment. Bollocks. That was one of his favorite "experimental subjects" too. He especially liked it because he thought the stripes were a bit... piratical. It could only be better if the stripes were red and white... Possible birthday present for John? Was it frowned upon to give someone a present because you wanted to experiment on it? Even if they didn't know about the experimenting? Probably. How dull.
He hadn't had the willpower to force himself to take his laundry to be done yet this week, or to force Mycroft to do something about it either. So really, he was in luck. He got dressed, threw everything in a bag, with the jumper in an extra plastic bag on top and set off at a brisk pace to the dry cleaners down the road.
"Afternoon." He greeted the girl behind the counter with a friendly smile (number 23 of his carefully compiled list, mildly flirtatious, for use on service personnel when asking for something).
"Afternoon Mr Holmes." She replied.
"I need this done in an hour." He said, fishing the extra bag with the jumper out. "I'll collect it then. The rest, delivered as usual."
"Ok, I'll see to it."
"Much obliged." Said Sherlock and went off to kill an hour communing with The Network, his mind much more at ease.
"Here you go." The counter assistant looked a bit flushed as she handed over the jumper. "I, eeer, got the stain out for you."
Sherlock felt his ears suddenly get warm. Stain?
"Eeeer, thank you." Stain? "Bye!" Sherlock legged it. He was definitely not blushing.
Back at the flat, Sherlock ripped the jumper out of its plastic and subjected it to a detailed examination. Fortunately, his subject did not seem to be any the worse for its experience. He took it into the bathroom and dropped it down the side of the tumble dryer a few times so that it collected some fuzz. Then he shook it out, so that it didn't have too much fuzz on it. He had just left it lying over the back of John's chair, when the sound of John and numerous shopping bags could be heard at the door. Safe! Sherlock grinned and threw himself on the couch.
"You found my jumper then." John said once he'd put the shopping away and made tea. "Thanks. It's a bit fuzzy, where was it?"
"Bathroom, down the side of the dryer. Really John, if you just walked about with your eyes actually open occasionally, who knows what you'd see?"
"Hm, must have fallen down there while I was folding stuff."
"Presumably. Did you have fun waving at Mycroft and covering yourself in vinegar while you left me alone to amuse myself?"
Ever since John had discovered where Mycroft's actual office was, he liked to wave at the cameras when he wandered past along the Thames. He liked to think it confused Mycroft's security minions. The reality was that Mycroft had told his minions the doctor was harmless as soon as this odd behaviour had started, and that no harm was to come to him without extremely specific orders from him. What John didn't know (but Sherlock did and found highly amusing) was that if Mycroft saw him waving, he waved back.
John ignored his flatmate's sarcasm; "Yes, and what have you been doing to amuse yourself? I see you managed to get dressed."
"Laundry." Sherlock replied in a dark voice, hinting at exactly what he thought of the world for unfairly forcing such a dull task on him.
"Sounds like a good idea." Said John and took his stripy jumper with him to put a load on.
The Purple Shirt of Sex
"John!" Came the shout from the direction of Sherlock's room. John ignored it and continued reading his paper. "Jaaawn! Have you seen my purple shirt?"
John took a large swallow and his position could now be described as hiding behind the paper. At least it could, until it was torn away from him and he found himself looking at his shirtless flatmate's slightly ginger treasure trail. Thank god he'd already got his trousers on, John thought.
"It's important John. I have to convince Molly to give me a sample that might be considered just a bit hazardous, and she always responds positively to my requests when I wear that shirt."
"If you consider it just a bit hazardous Sherlock, then I don't think Molly should be convinced to hand it over." He tried to deflect. "And I don't think I want it in the flat either."
"But John, it is vital for a case! So it is vital I find my shirt. Have you seen it?"
"No." John tried an outright lie as he was left with very little option.
Obviously that was never going to work. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as they focused on his flatmate. He considered.
"No?" He asked. "Hmm." Perhaps Molly was not the only one who responded positively to that shirt. "So if I were to go into your room, and look say, on the back of your door, I wouldn't find it hanging there? In clear view from your bed?"
John let out a defeated sigh. Sherlock however beamed widely.
"John, have you been using my shirt for some kind of masturbatory purpose?"
Eyes closed, head sunk, face bright red, John gave a single nod.
"Excellent!" Sherlock exclaimed. Then his brow wrinkled. "Then why do my shirts never smell like your laundry?"
John was extremely taken aback by this. It was not the reaction he had expected at all.
"What do you mean excellent?"
"I mean, now I don't have to worry about you finding out about my masturbation experiment with your jumpers!"
"You what? My jumpers? So that's why they sometimes smell like they've been dry cleaned! What the bloody hell do you mean by masturbation experiment?"
"Well, I had to find out which jumpers provided the best experience." Sherlock entered lecture-mode. "Generally, I prefer the ones you've just taken off and thrown in the washing basket, that seems to be due to the combination of residual body heat and smell. Normally, I like the feel of the sweatshirt type material better, but occasionally, with appropriate amounts of water-based lubricant, the roughness of some of your cable-knits makes a pleasant change..."
"Roughness?! Sherlock! Have you been wrapping my jumpers around your cock when you wank?"
"Well... yes. Why? What have you been doing with my shirt?" His flatmate looked deeply confused. His comment did wonders for reminding John that he was not exactly innocent here either.
"Eeer. Well. It just kind of hangs there. And I look at it. While I'm..." John let the sentence trail off.
"Oh. Well, can I have it back then, please? I really need that sample from Molly."
"That's it? We are not going to discuss this?"
"Didn't we just do that?"
"Sherlock, I am a visual type and I masturbate whilst looking at a shirt that generally looks like it is going to explode off you. You get off whilst wrapped up in jumpers that are warm, soft, slippery and smell of me. I think we have a few more things to discuss!"
"Alright, but it will have to be later. I need that sample. I'll just get the shirt from your room and be off."
John had the feeling that his flatmate had almost certainly missed the point.
"Have you got time for an experiment before you go?" He asked, resigned to having to demonstrate the problem to his idiot genius.
"How long will it take?" Asked Sherlock. "I want to catch Molly before lunch."
"Oh, I don't think it will take all that long. Do you have a favorite jumper?"
"The black and white stripy sweatshirt, why?"
"Of course it would be that one. Just wait there."
John went upstairs, pulled his stripy jumper from its place in the wardrobe and exchanged it for the one he had previously been wearing. He collected a handful of tissues, lube and Sherlock's shirt and returned to the sitting room. Sherlock was hopping from bare foot to bare foot impatiently.
"Put the shirt on Sherlock, but leave it open."
Sherlock shrugged the shirt onto his shoulders and raised an eyebrow at John in a silent what next?
"Alright, lean again the wall. You'll have to trust me Sherlock. Do you trust me?"
Sherlock backed himself again the wall, nodded and waited.
"Ok." John took a deep breath and opened his jeans. "Trust me Sherlock." He reached out and opened the fly of Sherlock's suit trousers carefully. They promptly slid down his legs because, obviously, he didn't believe in the need for underwear.
"Alright Sherlock?" John asked, his flatmate's eyes were wide and a bit wild-looking, but he gave a nod. John pulled the lube out of his pocket and warmed a good dollop between his hands. He pulled his thickening cock out of its nest of jeans and boxers and gave it a few slow strokes, then he reached for Sherlock's with his other hand. It was definitely beginning to show some interest in the proceedings, for which John was thankful. He slowly stepped right up against Sherlock and took both their cocks in the ring of his hands, pressing them together. There was a loud hiss from above his ear, but no protest, so he continued slowly stroking them both, occasionally letting Sherlock's crown rub against his striped jumper clad stomach. He was careful to keep away from the purple shirt, but he could not help looking at the creamy skin that was taking on a light flush in front of his nose. It did not take long until Sherlock was shuddering, held up between John and the wall. Then with a massive inhale of surprise, he came over John's hand and John's jumper. John cleaned them up gently, tucked his own raging erection back in his jeans then bent down and retrieved Sherlock's trousers from their puddle at his ankles and did them back up, before stepping back from his still silent flatmate.
"Well," he said not trusting himself to look at Sherlock. "That was a bit..."
"Gay?" Sherlock suggested, his voice extremely unsure.
"Yep." Said John. "Off you go get your sample. You had better take proper precautions with it though!"
John slumped into his chair and waited until he heard Sherlock leave the flat. His penis had gone flaccid. He didn't know what kind of reaction he had expected, but any reaction would have been helpful.
He pulled on his coat and went for a walk. He suddenly felt in need of a pint.
The courier found him in the back of a dark pub and convinced him to sign for a blank envelope and a small square parcel. He didn't need to ask who it was from. The fact that it came to him while he was sulking in a pub would have told him that, even if the quality of the envelope didn't. Reluctantly, John opened the envelope and removed a single folded piece of paper.
The message was written using a black fountain pen, in flowing copperplate. It was the most Holmesian communication John had ever received from Mycroft. It managed to call him an idiot, let him know he had no secrets and order him about all in a few very precise words;
"Deflowering Sherlock Holmes
1. Send a text telling him to be wearing his black Jacobean shirt when you return at 5pm, you should make it back by then if you hurry. If he asks you how you know about this item, deflect.
2. Be wearing the contents of this parcel when you arrive.
3. For optimal results, the phrasing you require is;
"Captain, permission to buckle your swash?"
4. Proceed according to your superior knowledge and experience.
If you follow these steps, the results should prove more than satisfactory for all concerned.
This message will not self-destruct. You should most definitely dispose of it before Sherlock has any chance of becoming aware of its existence."
John's mind boggled. Absolutely boggled. He sat for several minutes before he managed to collect himself enough to open the parcel. He found a red and white striped jumper. Of course.
John finished his pint and fished out his mobile. He sat staring at it for a moment. Right, well apparently he had some swash to buckle. By creepy government command. He vaguely wondered if that made him a privateer. He sent the text and then went to change in the toilet. As he was there anyway, he tore up the note and envelope and flushed them both.
He walked out of the pub, feeling more like a "Where's Wally?" extra than a first mate (oh good grief!) and, suspiciously, as that trick only seemed to work for Sherlock usually, straight into a taxi.
He climbed the stairs to 221b and tried not to feel as if he was walking the plank. At the door, he paused and pulled himself together. If anyone knew what Sherlock Holmes was thinking, it was his brother and John did not get the impression that Mycroft wanted to provoke Sherlock into murdering innocent flatmates, so the advise was probably good and sincerely meant.
John opened the door to the living room and beheld a sight that made his eyes bulge and his jaw drop. Sherlock sat on the sofa, vibrating with bottled up something, eyes completely wild, hair tousled, wearing a loosely tied Jacobean shirt... And nothing else!
John was staring. He knew it and he couldn't help it. He temporarily forgot everything.
Sherlock stared back.
Suddenly, John remembered the rest of the note. He gave a smart salute and said;
"Captain, permission to buckle your swash?"
At which point he was taken to the ground by an extremely effective and professionally executed tackle and found himself with arms full of extremely enthusiastic but uncoordinated long limbs.
It was not until long afterwards, once all the limbs had settled into a satisfied, contented, cuddling position that John had a horrible thought. He sat bolt upright, receiving a muttered complaint.
"The cameras!" He shouted. "The god-damned, thrice-blasted cameras!" He groaned and wondered precisely how satisfying it had been for Mycroft.
His voice was heard in crystal-clear surround-sound quality by the sole occupant of an office overlooking the Thames, who smiled like the cat that got all the cream.
AN : No, I do not have a jumper fetish. Even if it is starting to look like it. I do like Jacobean shirts though.
I may have a jumper index that might bare a passing resemblance to John's, but you can't prove that and I am not admitting to anything. I most certainly do not have a sock index based on length, material and season of intended use with subdivisions for sports socks and colours other than black. My black socks categorically do not have identifying features on the heels or toes so that I know that I am really wearing a pair. Nor have they ever been described as "neurotic". There is absolutely nothing OCD about my wardrobe. Move along, nothing to see here!