Title: The Pink Short of Domesticity (or The Day John Decided He Didn't Mind Doing the Housework)

A fanfiction concerning the origins of Sherlock's new mysterious pink shirt, as seen in set photos.

Rating: PG (fluff-tastic)

Author's Note: My first published fic in the Sherlock fandom. More to come. My personal response to the Purple Shirt of Sex and my way of bringing a bit of head!canon to life. Please enjoy, and try not to trip on the fluff.

"You know..." huffed John as he clambored into the living room laden down with a large basket, "the shopping is one thing, but you really could do your own washing."

It was a cold and dreary Sunday afternoon. John had a day off from the surgery, and Sherlock found himself quite miserably between cases, so the fates landed the two of them home together for the day with not much to occupy them. Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa in the only clean (relatively) clothes he had left, his dressing gown. He grinned at John's words, but didn't look up from his laptop. John sighed emphatically at he dropped the basket prominently on the floor. "For someone who seems to take such pride in what he wears, I thought you'd at least put a little effort into this."

"I did," murmured Sherlock, "until you came along. Now I don't need to."

"I'm not your housekeeper either Sherlock. I'm not here to clean up after you."

"No," said Sherlock, finally turning around. "You're John Watson. And you understand. I can't be bothered with...domestic habits like laundry. There are at least 714 things more worth my time at any given moment than washing, and as I'm me, it's rather important I focus on them instead."

"Is that why you've been baiting commenters on the Daily Mail's site all day?"

"Oh, shut up," said Sherlock bitterly, tossing his computer aside, but the corner of his mouth crept up.

"Sorry, was pissing off people on the internet number 358 or 359 on that list? I can never remember." John called as he went into the kitchen, grinning devilishly.

"I said shut up," he called back loudly, "and if you're putting on the kettle, make me one."

"I know," mumbled John to himself, his hands already on two mugs.

As John puttered with the kettle, Sherlock stood and stretched himself out. He wandered over to the doorway and watched John work for a moment or two before turning to his freshly cleaned and meticulously folded pile of clothing. He lifted the items one by one, inspecting. Not a large load: a lot of John's jumpers, a pair of two of jeans, some spare socks, and-

"John!"

"Yeah?" he called back, his attention remaining on the sugar bowl.

"John!" Sherlock repeated, more loudly. Sensing the urgency in his voice, John scrambled back into the front room, his eyes searching Sherlock.

"Sherlock? What is it? What's wrong?" But Sherlock didn't meet his eyes. Instead, he stared decidedly down at the article of clothing in his hands.

"What did you do, John?" Sherlock whispered, clutching it firmly. John bent over a bit to examine it closely.

He was holding one of Sherlock's shirts. One that had gone into the wash white and come out pink.

Pink.

John looked up at Sherlock with sincerity in his eyes. "Sherlock, I'm so sorry, some of my red socks must have gotten mixed in with this batch and it must have dyed your shirt. God, I'm really sorry. I can replace it don't worry. Is anything else ruined? Sorry, I'll-"

"No," Sherlock cut him off. He studied John's face, watched him carefully as, after months of taking care of Sherlock's household chores, apologizing profusely for a single stray sock. "It's...fine. Really," he said to John's confused face. He straightened out the shirt in front of him, holding up to assure that there was no other damage. "I quite like the color actually."

"You...you do?" asked John, derailed by the turn in the conversation.

"Certainly. An improvement, I think. And I have several other white ones."

"Oh," said John simply, looking up. For a moment, they just looked at each other, Sherlock smiling faintly above the newly pink garment, John torn between contrition and surprise. "Right. Well...good then."

"Yes. Good," replied Sherlock. The kettle interrupted with a whistle.

"I'd better get that," said John, turning for the kitchen. When he finished preparing the cups, the wash upstairs buzzed for attention.

"Sherlock?" he called. "I have to run up and get that. Tea's on the table." He got no reply, but he knew Sherlock heard him. When he returned about ten minutes later, he found only one mug on the table. He sat down to it and the day's paper to enjoy a break while he could. A few minutes later, to John's astonishment, Sherlock passed through on his way to the bedroom carrying the basket of fresh laundry.

"I though we might go for Chinese tonight," he said pausing to look at John, who merely looked up and nodded.

For the rest of the afternoon, John busied himself between laundry and telly. It was a peaceful break, and he hadn't seen Sherlock since the laundry incident. He had just clicked off the telly and was starting to feel hungry when Sherlock appeared in the room already donning his coat and scarf.

"Ready?" John nodded, grabbed his own coat, and they walked down to their usual restaurant on the corner.

John slipped off his coat and sat down. Sherlock stood for a moment, watching the street through the window before slipping off his own coat. He wore beneath it the pink shirt from that afternoon. John stared.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked casually.

"No...No, not at all," replied John.

It wasn't a "thank you." It wasn't a symbol of affection. But for Sherlock, it was the most John could expect. For now. And it was enough.