Bargain Sale

A BBC Sherlock "Red Pants" Story

By

Nana

Author's Notes: Hello! This is written for Alex, Devin, Shoy and Reapersun's fabulous "Red Pants Contest"— the fic challenge for September at FYJFF. These three lovely ladies' blog is the best, and I adore Reapersun's "Red Pants Monday" movement. "Bee Pants Tuesday" too!

I hope you guys will enjoy this. Rated T/M for a little bit of sexy times at the end, though nothing explicit. More author's notes can be found at the end. Reviews are welcome as always.

If anyone were cheeky enough to ask him where he got the thing, John's answer would be at a bargain sale at Tesco. Which would be nothing less than the truth. Where else would he be shopping for underwear pants that had a buy-three-get-one-free deal?

And no, he had absolutely nothing to do with the choice of the color of the free pants. In fact, after the initial frown and the pursing of lips that the item had managed to elicit from him, he had even gone so far as to ask the store attendant (a man, of course) whether the unfortunate color could be replaced by something less…jarring, only to be given a dry look that had said it all: That's the reason why we're having a bargain sale in the first place, mate.

And it was true. Every selection, boxed in transparent plastic, had a pair of red pants that was the plus-one. The freebie. The other colors were randomly varied: white, grey, black, brown, blue. The only thing that remained constant in all the plastic boxes was the red.

But hey, a bargain was a bargain. And John liked the brand. He had never been the adventurous type to sample brands all over. Nor did he think it was worth his time. This one had been his mother's pick for his dad (yes, luckily his dad had his mum to do his underwear shopping for him), and this was the brand that he had grown up with (he had allowed his mum to do his shopping up to a certain point when he was still young, and her choices had stuck), so there was hardly any point in giving the matter any more thought. And no fancy prints, either. John was very much into solid colors.

So he had picked a box that was his size the way he would pick a head of lettuce in the vegetable section of the supermarket and, after concluding his transaction in the men's wear section, proceeded downstairs to buy some milk.

Like most men, John had waited until he had absolutely no choice but to shop for new pants (i.e. he had discovered a hole in his favorite pair, its other counterparts were showing similar signs of wear, and his last shopping spree in this area of clothing had been at least a couple of years ago). Of course, he had some boxers at home, but boxers were boxers— great for sleeping in but never the right choice to wear inside jeans or trousers for going out. He liked the snug feel of pants best because their hold and support over the crucial areas were just right.

Upon returning home, he put the milk into the refrigerator and got his laundry started. Opening the plastic box with the four new, neatly rolled pants inside, he looked at the red one once again and sighed. There really wasn't anything wrong with wearing red pants…if you were a man under the age of 25. Or 20. But to be caught wearing pants the shade of such a vibrant, unrepentant red as the pair that John held before him when one was over 35 years old was simply inviting endless rounds of psychoanalysis. Oh well. At least he would have a spare to use in case of some unforeseen emergency when he suddenly ran out of pants to wear. Whatever that could be. Or when he wasn't out on a date, which was often enough these days.

Tossing them into the washing machine along with the rest of his clothes, he gave it no more thought as he turned his attention to making some tea.

Sherlock was out. John read the newspapers for a while, then got out his laptop to update his blog.

He was absorbed in the blog entry when Sherlock came running up the stairs, taking them two at a time. The door was flung open and he strode in, his hand holding the front of his shirt as far away from his chest as possible.

John took one look at the nasty, orange stain on the front of Sherlock's white shirt and grimaced. The smell did not help any, either.

"A little accident at Bart's," said Sherlock, already stripping off his coat and suit jacket. "I need to use the washing machine, quickly, before it starts to eat away at the fabric."

"Can't you just rinse it out first?" said John.

Sherlock threw him a glance that said he was not even going to answer John's question and proceeded to the bathroom.

"I've already got a load in the washer," John called after him.

He gave it no further thought until Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, wearing a fresh shirt. He headed for the washing machine with his soiled, bunched shirt just as John heard the ping! that signaled the end of the washing cycle.

"Sorry John, I'll need to take out your clothes now. Let's get them to dry later," he heard Sherlock say.

"Okay," said John abstractedly.

Then it hit him.

Sherlock was going to take out his laundry. His laundry with that damned red thing included…!

"Sherlock!" he said, leaping up from his chair and striding briskly to the washing machine. "Wait, let me—"

He was just in time to see Sherlock fork the red pants slowly out of the machine. Holding the underwear at the very tips of the index and middle fingers of one hand, Sherlock turned ever so slowly to pin John with an incredulous, slyly amused look from the corner of his eyes.

John could feel himself flushing, could feel his face going the same color as those pants. He realized his voice had died in his throat. He cleared it emphatically and said in a voice as normal as he could make it, "Bargain sale at Tesco."

He didn't even know why he had to explain anything to Sherlock. It was none of his business in the first place. He stepped up to his flatmate and snatched the pants from where they dangled between his long fingers. He tossed them into the pile of wet laundry already in the basket and gave Sherlock a look with raised eyebrows: Problem?

Sherlock stared back, mouth not quite smiling although his pale eyes were undoubtedly amused. John could feel a prickle of awareness run down his spine and was worried.

This had been happening a lot between them lately. God help him, John did not know when it actually began, but sometime during the past month or so something just seemed to have turned itself on between himself and Sherlock.

It was all there in the looks that lingered an uncomfortable second more than they should. Silences that curdled awkwardly instead of flowing smoothly on. Of John turning suddenly to Sherlock only to see his gaze sliding away from him.

And now this.

Well, he didn't start this, so he wasn't going to back down first from whatever it was that was taking shape between them. John willed himself to continue staring back at Sherlock as the silence between them stretched on.

Come on, Sherlock, thought John. Laugh. Jibe. Sneer. Dismiss this entire incident as boring and not worth your time. Do the things that you usually do to annoy me. Just don't stand there and stare back like that and confuse me…

Damn the man, it was clear he had also decided he wasn't backing down from whatever nameless challenge John had just put forth, and the gazing continued until John finally felt something inside him quail at all the implications of that intangible thing insinuating itself between them. Too much, too soon.

"Right," said John crisply, breaking off the Gaze neatly with a snap of his eyes to a point just beyond Sherlock's right shoulder. "You'd better get to your laundry then."

He could still feel Sherlock's gaze burning into his back as he retreated with the laundry basket.

Just as he would feel that gaze in the next two months, travelling down his frame in the most inopportune times, lingering on his backside and, on one memorable occasion, finding it hovering over the small of his back, at the slit of space created by his shirt and his jeans as he squatted to collect something from a crime scene.

John wasn't sure what it was that Sherlock was seeking, although he had his ideas and they were all so appallingly delicious.

Their control finally snapped one Saturday night after a particularly difficult case was resolved.

One moment they were entering the sitting room, exhausted and laughing, adrenaline coursing through their veins after the latest escapade, and the next moment their mouths were fused. A long, sweet moment when the only thing that mattered was the drag of their open mouths against each other, their breathing loud in John's ears: deep, panting breaths— astonished, hungry, the voiceless intonation of desire itself.

At this rate, they were not even going to make it to a bedroom.

Sherlock had John down on the carpeted floor and was stripping away his shirt with efficient ease, his mouth trailing after the path his fingers had taken only seconds before.

A clink of metal as John's belt buckle was undone, followed by the sound of his trouser zippers being pulled down.

And then.

Silence.

John blinked, wondered what was going on. Tentatively, he raised his head to look at Sherlock.

Only to find him looking down at what his zipper had unveiled, a look (beyond a doubt) of disappointment on his face.

"What?" breathed John.

Sherlock quickly looked up. "Hmm? Nothing," he said.

"Liar," said John softly. "What is it?"

"Nothing." Sherlock shook his head emphatically. "Really, John, it's not importa—"

John rose on his elbows and leveled Sherlock with a look that brooked no opposition. "What is it? Tell me. I want to know."

Sherlock's lips thinned for a moment, then he hung his head. "Your pants…" he began softly.

"Yes? What about them?" John stared down at the pants he had on. The dark blue ones. Aghast, he wondered whether there was anything on them that might have turned Sherlock off. They were fresh when John had donned them on this morning, of that he was certain.

He watched as Sherlock swallowed, a look of near-pain on his face as he muttered, "I was hoping…"

John raised his eyebrows at him. Go on…?

"The red ones," said Sherlock in a rush. "I wanted to see you in the red ones."

There was something so inherently ridiculous about the entire thing that John nearly laughed aloud. He managed to rein himself in although his voice carried a hint of a giggle as he said, "Is that so?"

He had never seen Sherlock look so embarrassed. It was priceless.

John let it drag on for a minute more before he finally took pity on him. "I don't see why that couldn't be arranged," he said as he sat up.

"Will you wear them?" asked Sherlock, also sitting up, his voice gone deep and guttural. "For me?"

John nodded.

"Get them," said Sherlock, the tone of his voice practically a command in itself. "Wear them in front of me."

John felt the first prickle of uncertainty as he made his way up to his bedroom.

What was he getting himself into? Was he really ready for this? Were they ready? All of a sudden he wasn't sure whether this was such a good idea after all.

All the same, he got the red pants out of his drawer and made his way back down to the sitting room.

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa when he re-entered the room. He had shed his coat, scarf and suit jacket and he was leaning slightly forward in eager anticipation, elbows on knees, legs apart, feet planted on the ground.

John took one look at his avid, hungry gaze and felt all doubts evaporate from his own mind.

"I want you to strip in front of me, John," said Sherlock, his voice dark and rich and intimate. "With your back turned to me. Strip and replace those pants with the red ones."

John swallowed, but did as he was told.

"Slowly!" ordered Sherlock as John made to lower his trousers.

Silence. Such excruciating silence behind him as John got rid of his trousers and the dark blue pants and donned on the red ones. Ever so slowly. He could feel himself hardening further at the sound of that silence, so loud with unspoken promise.

Finished, he turned to face Sherlock a bit uncertainly.

"Well done," purred Sherlock in approval, sending John's heart racing. "Come here, John."

Slowly, he made his way over to Sherlock, stopping just in front of him, between his spread legs.

Sherlock reached out and gathered him in closer, his hands reaching out to splay across John's chest, down to his hips, fingers caressing his skin and the cotton texture of those red pants. John exhaled a startled sigh as Sherlock leaned in to nuzzle the few centimeters of flesh right below John's navel, his warm breath a shock of sensation on that patch of sensitive skin.

John's breath turned into a moan as he felt Sherlock's tongue delicately licking the soft, sparse trail of downy hair just visible on top of the white garter of the pants, just on that junction before the hair changed texture and turned coarser.

"Oh, John," said Sherlock, a mere suggestion of a groan in his voice sending John's racing heart into overdrive. "John. You sensed it, didn't you? Sensed how much I've wanted to do this, how much I've wanted you, all these months. Surely you've seen me looking, wondering how you would look in these red pants. How it would feel for me to slide them off you. I've held back for as long as I could, and I can't any longer. You want this, don't you? Want this as much as I do. Say yes, John. Do it."

At that point, John was too busy moaning, the fingers of one hand splayed on the back of Sherlock's head, urging him closer. Even if he could still retain a measure of coherence, he probably would have told Sherlock that his answer was so obvious that it was virtually unnecessary. At any rate, he no longer had the power to do so, not when everything Sherlock had said to him had been done with Sherlock's mouth against the fabric of those pants. The moist heat of his mouth, the tantalizing hint of tongue and teeth against his skin, against his straining hardness, all felt through the maddening barrier of pants the color of lust, were enough to send John to the brink.

And the best part was, they had only just begun.

John finally did manage to put enough words together to ask a question. "Why did you have me turn my back at the start when you could have me undressing in front of you?"

"John," laughed Sherlock softly into his skin. "I wouldn't have you taking these pants off when the honor of doing so is exclusively mine."

"I didn't know you have a thing for red pants."

"Not the pants per se," said Sherlock. "The color. It told me that perhaps you're ready to take a chance with things. With us."

John chewed pensively on his bottom lip for a moment, then said, "Well, the red pants wasn't my choice at all. I just got them from a bargain sale. Thought you should know."

Sherlock shrugged. "So? Here we are now, regardless of how we got here. Wouldn't you say finding a catalyst to our relationship in the form of a bargain sale is quite a godsend?"

The next day, John was at Tesco as soon as the store opened.

He had to shop. It was imperative that he did so immediately. Last night had been mind-blowing, fantastic, incredible beyond words. But he did not think his red pants had survived the encounter.

The bargain sale was over.

Damn!

He scanned the underwear shelves carefully, looking at the brands and the sizes. The colors, most of all.

There was no red.

Damn damn!

How was it possible that there was no red when they had neon selections?!

He considered dropping his pride and asking. He could just ask and they could think whatever they damned like.

He caught a passing store attendant, not caring that it was a woman this time around. But as soon as she turned to him, John felt his tongue go bashfully still inside his mouth.

"Erm…"

But how did one go about asking such a question at all?

He swallowed, tried again. Honesty was always the best policy. It had worked like a charm last night, after all. Instead of asking directly though, he found himself beginning the conversation by saying, "When is the next bargain sale coming on? Please don't say it's never coming back on because I've got to have some underpants of a particular color and it's not really for me. Well, it is, but it's for the sake of my...for someone special."

John paused as the enormity of his words gradually sank in on him. That was what Sherlock was to him now, wasn't it? Someone special?

But then, Sherlock had always been someone special to John. What was more difficult for John to grasp was that he was now someone special, too, to Sherlock. Like a pair of red pants out of a huge drawer filled with whites, blacks, blues, greys and browns, Sherlock had picked him.

The saleswoman smiled at him understandingly. "Which color would that be?"

John smiled back. That wasn't so hard after all. John would very quickly learn that one could get away with a lot of things in the name of love.

Author's Notes: Before writing this, I never really had an idea how men shopped for their underwear! Isn't it so strange? And it's not something that I can simply ask in the family. Hahaha. So I did a little research, and this link is quite helpful, in case anyone is interested: www . askmen fashion/fashiontip_500/585_mens-underwear-dos-and-donts . html