When winter hits, Sherlock is always mildly disappointed. The thin, cotton t-shirts that John wears are replaced with thick, heavy jumpers. The woolen material hides John's well-pronounced muscles, and deceives Sherlock's eyes into believing the man is softer than he really is.
It is annoying, tedious, unacceptable! John is a delectable creature made out of sharp, well defined lines. Those hideous jumpers obstruct Sherlock from being able to see the undeniable truth. Upon seeing John wearing such things, Sherlock feels a hot pricking behind his eyes, as though he is trying to develop X ray vision to compensate for what the jumpers hide. It is single-handedly the most irritating thing Sherlock has experienced to date.
It is a relief when the hot British summer settles in. Just like most houses in London, their flat is not fitted with air conditioning, which means the offensive items of clothing John wears in the colder months are packed away. Along come the thinner long sleeved shirts (the blue, stripy one is his favourite), however it is not these that Sherlock most looks forward to, but the lighter fabrics John dawns when the heat is unbearable.
The T-shirts leave little to the imagination. Sherlock is able to see and observe even the most minuscule details. There is no getting past the fact John used to be a soldier, and this does indescribable things to Sherlock.
He absorbs all of the information he can, because he knows the heat won't last long, so neither will the dawning of T-shirts. He files everything away into the 'John Watson' room he has tucked away in the very depths of his Mind Palace.
Whenever Sherlock catches himself in a black mood, he retreats to the room in his mind immediately, and sits among images of John. Lately most of the images are John in those bloody gorgeous T-shirts, and it is almost enough to drive the detective to the point of insanity.
Whereas the oatmeal jumpers are awful and frustrating, Sherlock finds himself becoming more and more frustrated with the summer clothes John wears. The reason behind his frustration, however, is entirely different this time around.
He wants to reach out to John, to run his fingers along the material. He gets urges to smother John with his own body, just so he can get close to the T-shirt, and the rippling torso muscles beneath. Seeing John like this does inexplicable, unexplained things to him, and it scares and annoys him because there is little that he can do about it.
He's not stupid. He has eyes. He knows that if he makes any advances towards John, especially advances that could conceived as sexual, the older man will withdraw.
There is currently a wafer thin line that sits between them; their relationship is stronger than a platonic friendship, but it isn't quite teetering on the edge of a romantic relationship either.
Sherlock feels beyond ridiculous. The way he feels...it can never be reciprocated. That much has been made clear by John, in the way that he protests when people think they are a couple, and the way that if Sherlock's touch lingers a bit too long the man seems to flinch away.
It hurts because even though John is physically there with him, there is a part of him that Sherlock is not privy to. There is a rift between them as of late, and with each day that ticks by, each moment of heated tension that passes between them, Sherlock feels it growing. He wants nothing more than to snap, tell John he is being ridiculous, and confess his fondness and...love...yes, love for him.
He sometimes dreams about John telling him he feels the exact same way, leaning up on his tippy toes, and kissing Sherlock lovingly. The thought of John and him becoming lovers warms hims deep inside. The ugly, gaping rift between them would at last be closed, and they would say everything they have always held back just by falling into each others kisses and feather light touches.
Those dreams are often replaced with nightmares, and thoughts of John's rejection, upon reacting negatively to Sherlock being so utterly besotted with him. He pictures John's lips forming a vicious snarl, fist clenched, and he watches as John's eyes turn dead. Then, without being able to stop him, John packs his stuff and leaves. Sherlock is always left alone in this scenario, suddenly feeling terribly small. His gaze drifts across to John's empty chair and it feels so fundamentally wrong, that it's like a bullet has torn through his chest.
Whenever he rouses from these thoughts, he feels sick, and the ache is his chest is still present. He has to play his violin just to drown out the image of John's departure. When that fails, he creeps up to John's bedroom, and watches him sleep. There is something that is quite comforting to Sherlock, seeing John still there in his bed, chest rising and falling.
A voice inside his head tells him "everything is fine, John is right here, he's not left you."
He realises that his actions are close to crossing a line. If John ever finds out that he watches him sleep there will be hell to pay. But the quiet, calm sensation that washes over Sherlock whenever he stands in the doorway, watching a sleeping John, is worth the risk of the man waking up and discovering his dirty little secret.
There is one night that it does come close. John's natural REM pattern is broken. He starts to sit up in his bed, alert of something being off, and his eyes flit wildly in the darkness to try and make out the shadow outside his room. Sherlock holds his breath, slinks back into the darkness as silently as he can manage, his tongue gravitating to the roof of his mouth. He waits there. He prepares to be scolded by John, but instead the man just sighs, and settles back down under his duvet cover.
Sherlock swears after that moment that he is going to put an end to all of this nonsense. He will just have to stop thinking about John. He will cease to dream about loving John, kissing him, touching him. And he will most certainly put a stop to his nightmares and the ridiculous notion that John might ever leave Baker Street (England might just fall).
