Up to Scratch

By KathyG

In this post-4th-season one-shot, John's feet have become allergic to his socks, and he can wear them no more. Unfortunately, neither can he afford the luxury socks that Sherlock wears. What's he to do? Can the Holmeses help?

Author's Note: This story is designed to fit into sgam76's "Scheherezade" universe, which is posted on Archive of Our Own; to that end, I've borrowed her names for Sherlock's parents. I want to thank besleybean, who belongs to the BBC Sherlock Fan Forum, for beta-reading and Brit-picking this story for me! And sgam76, thank you for the help you gave me in my research.

John swore under his breath. His feet were itching once again, from above his ankles to the soles. He glanced at Sherlock in the kitchen out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock, he noticed, was engrossed in an experiment; he was peering into his microscope.

"Well, Sherlock," said John, as he rose to his feet, "I guess I'll be getting ready for bed. I've got clinic tomorrow."

"Yeah," Sherlock said, not looking up.

"Mrs. Hudson said she'd look after Rosie." John winced. "Good night, Sherlock." Wincing again, he went out of the living-room door.

Sherlock raised his head and frowned at his flatmate as he exited the living room. John was sure that he'd been hiding it well, but it was clear to Sherlock that John's feet were itching incessantly. Sherlock had been observing his friend ever since the itching had started a few days ago, and he had noticed that John's feet only itched when he was wearing his shoes. He had been keeping notes on his friend's symptoms ever since they had begun.

It's not his shoes that's causing the problem, Sherlock thought. If it were, his hands would be itching, too, just from holding them when he cleans them or polishes them. No, only his feet itch, and then only when he's wearing his shoes.

Sherlock leaned back in his dining-room chair. It's his socks. I'm sure of it. He doesn't hold his socks long enough for them to cause his hands to itch. And I'm sure it's not the fabric they're made of; some of his shirts are also made of cotton. He looked at the living room door and then down at the table. It must be the dyes in his socks that cause his feet to itch. John has become allergic to synthetic dyes.

His phone chimed. Sherlock picked it up; it contained a text. Opening it, he saw that it was from Mycroft. I, too, have noticed, Sherlock, the text read. I have noticed the grimaces on John's face, and the way he fidgets when he's wearing his shoes.

Sherlock grimaced in his turn. Mycroft was still monitoring him and John via CCTV camera even after all this time. He typed, Then we're both in agreement on what the problem must be. The dyes in his socks.

A moment later, a return text appeared on his screen. Then he needs new socks.

I agree. But he won't purchase them, Sherlock typed back. You know how stubborn John is. He won't buy anything unless he's convinced it's in his budget. And he will regard the more expensive socks we Holmeses wear as more than he can afford. Nor will he accept my offer to buy them for him.

The return text read: Not to worry, brother dear. Leave this to me. I know of someone other than Mrs. Hudson whom John would never refuse.

Sherlock smirked. Mummy? he typed.

Who else? the return text stated.

Sherlock typed, I agree. Do it, then.

One last return text appeared on the phone screen. Will do.

With another smirk on his face, Sherlock laid the phone back on the table and rose to his feet.

XXXXXXX

John pulled his socks off and gaped down at his feet. His feet had been itching for the last few days, and now a redness basically covered both of his feet from above his ankles, where the top of his socks was, to the bottom of his feet. Fortunately, the itching had been mild so far, and easily controlled with hydrocortisone and antihistamine. He raised his right foot and rested it on his left leg, to have a look at its base. Sure enough, the sole had also turned red.

I don't like this, he thought. First the itching—now this! I'd better monitor my feet to see what's happening. He placed his right foot back on the floor and stood up to remove his clothes. It was bedtime. Since tomorrow was Monday, he had to go back to work at the clinic.

I have a bad feeling it's my socks, he thought. But I've got to wear socks under my shoes. I can't wear my shoes without them.

John looked around his bedroom. Following a vicious attempt on his life from a former Chelmsford neighbour and an ex-soldier from his years in Afghanistan, resulting in serious injuries that he had only just recently finished recovering from, he had sold his Chiswick flat and his car, and had moved back to Baker Street to once more be Sherlock's flatmate—this time, with Rosie. She was now asleep in her cot in her bedroom on the other side of the loo. He would go to her room and check on her before he went to bed.

XXXXXXX

For the next several days, John kept an eye on his feet as often as he could, and he used hydrocortisone and took some non-prescription antihistamine to ease the non-stop itching. This became progressively more severe and harder to control. He kept notes on the symptoms and their severity, detailing when they began and how long they were lasting. The redness and itching were soon joined by mild swelling, which made his shoes more uncomfortable than usual, and then by blisters. On Thursday, to John's dismay, hives broke out on both feet for the first time. He shook his head as he gaped down at his red, swollen, rash- and blister-covered feet, gritting his teeth as he tried to endure the now-painful itching. He reached for his notebook and wrote down the new symptom and the date on which it had appeared.

"John, it's quite obvious." Sherlock's baritone voice startled the doctor, so that he jerked up to see his flatmate standing in the doorway, gazing down at him. "It's your socks. Your feet have become allergic to them."

"No kidding, Sherlock. This is contact dermatitis," John said through gritted teeth. Reaching for the tube of hydrocortisone that he was keeping on his nightstand, he squeezed some onto his fingers and slathered the cream all over his now-bare feet. Setting the bottle back on the nightstand, he reached for the bottle of antihistamine and took a dose, washing it down with a glass of water that he had brought upstairs from the kitchen earlier. As he set the glass back on the nightstand, John added, "These socks and the ones in my drawer are the only socks I have."

"Well, then, you need new socks," Sherlock said, as he entered the room. "And not the kinds you buy at Oxfam and at Primark, either."

"Well, where would you suggest I buy them, then?" John snapped. "I can't afford the expensive kinds you Holmeses wear, you know! Even Mark and Spencer is a little out of my budget."

Sherlock shrugged, unperturbed. "You can't go on like this, John; you know that. Your work as a doctor, and as my colleague, requires that you be on your feet much of the time, and you can't do that if your feet are too uncomfortable. It's clear that they can no longer tolerate the synthetic dyes that are used in your socks. You need a plant-based dye."

John sighed. "I hate to say it, but you're right. I do. Unfortunately, socks that contain those dyes are pretty expensive, and out of my budget."

"Use the money from my trust fund to buy some," Sherlock suggested.

Smiling, John shook his head. "Thanks, but no. That's your money, Sherlock. I won't use that." With another sigh, he gazed down at his feet. "I suppose I'll have to call in sick tomorrow. Because you're right, I won't be able to stay on my feet while they're like this."

"No." Sherlock suddenly left the room, with John staring after him, wondering where he'd gone; he could hear Sherlock's thuds as he descended the stairs. Minutes later, the detective returned upstairs to John's bedroom with a pair of his own socks. "These socks are made of silk, John. Borrow them for tomorrow. If they don't affect your feet the way yours have been doing, we will know for sure that the cause of your allergies is in your socks." He paused. "In their synthetic dyes, to be exact." He held them out toward John.

Smiling again, John took the socks from Sherlock. "Thanks. I'll return them to you tomorrow, when I get home from work, Sherlock, and we'll see how my feet fare in the meantime." He ran his fingers over the socks, marvelling at their soft smoothness. "I have never worn silk socks in my life. All of my socks have always been made of just plain ordinary cotton." He laid them on the dresser, and Sherlock went back downstairs.

XXXXXXX

The following afternoon, John returned home from work to find Sherlock and Rosie in the living room. Rosie squealed with delight at the sight of her father, and John kissed her on top of the head. "Well, you're right," he told Sherlock. "It's definitely my socks. My feet are back to normal now, and have been since noon. But the fact remains, I really cannot afford your brands of socks."

"You may not, but I can." A female voice startled John; to his startlement, Mellie Holmes entered the room from the hall.

"Uh, Mellie!" John said. "It's—it's good to see you again." She kissed John's forehead, and he cleared his throat. "Forgive me, I didn't know you were coming."

"Neither did Sherlock." Smiling, Mellie glanced down at her son. "I had a meeting here in London this morning, John, so I thought I'd stop by to pay my son a visit when it was over. He told me you were at work. He also told me about the problem you're having with your socks."

John nodded. "It's contact dermatitis. My feet have become allergic to my socks."

"Yes, they have." Mellie's voice turned firm. "Now, John, I want you to listen to me. Mycroft and Sherlock have lived on their own and have supported themselves ever since they became adults, but I still buy gifts for them—and for my daughter, too—when it suits me to do so. You have long since become a surrogate son to Siger and me, and so we reserve the right to buy gifts for you and Rosie as well."

John smiled sheepishly. Mellie certainly knew how to get past his stubborn pride. "Well—uh, well, thanks, Mellie."

Mellie nodded. "I'm going to spend the next few days with Mycroft before I return to Surrey, and Sherlock tells me that you and he are going to be out on a case this evening. But he also tells me that you're going to be off work tomorrow." John nodded in his turn. "Then tomorrow morning, John, you and Sherlock and I are going shopping for socks, and I'm going to buy you some that your feet can tolerate. Bring Rosie with you while we're at it. I'll have the spare car seat ready for her."

John raised his hands in surrender. "All right. I accept." Beaming, Mellie hugged him.

"And speaking of Rosie, I should like to spend some time with her while you and Sherlock are out." With a laugh, John picked up Rosie out of her playpen and handed the baby over to her surrogate grandmother. Mellie kissed Rosie on the cheek. "I'll be downstairs with Mrs. Hudson for now, so you two go do your detective work."

She left the room, and Sherlock slipped on his Belstaff coat and led the way out of the flat. The two men spent the rest of the afternoon and evening searching for clues and catching a criminal for Lestrade, who arrested the man before the evening was over. Mellie left for Mycroft's mansion when they returned.

The following morning, after breakfast, Mellie stopped by in her large car to pick up Sherlock and John; at Sherlock's insistence, John put on another pair of his flatmate's socks before they left the flat. Mellie had already attached the spare car seat that she kept for Rosie to the back seat, so John strapped her in. "Where do you usually buy your clothes, John?" Mellie asked.

"Usually Oxfam or Primark. That's where I can get them the cheapest."

"Yes, and he gets his toiletries at Boots. He usually gets them when they're on sale," Sherlock added. With a smirk, he added, "All except for his shampoo, that is. He used to purchase it there, but now he gets a more expensive brand from another store."*

"Yeah." John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock took it upon himself to replace my old shampoo quite a while back, before the Fall, and to buy me some conditioner. He also replaced my old sheets and pillowcases while he was at it!"

"And with good reason," Sherlock added. "Your old shampoo was doing quite a number on your hair, John, leaving it dry and damaged. It was necessary to get you a better-quality shampoo so you wouldn't end up losing your hair. As for your sheets—I don't know how you endured those coarse sheets for so long!"

John raised his hands. "Point taken, Sherlock. And it's true, my old sheets were less comfortable than yours, and I have slept much better ever since I started using the replacements you got for me than I did before. And at least the shampoo you bought me, I can get for myself at Mark and Spencer."

Mellie nodded. "Well, we'll discuss all that later. Right now, we've got some socks to purchase, and we won't be going to any of those stores, John, but to Harrods. I know of two kinds of socks there that your feet may be able to tolerate," she said. "Silk socks, for one: we know now that your feet can take those. The other kind is Egyptian cotton. The dyes used on both kinds are made from plants."

John nodded. "So I've heard."

As soon as they arrived at Brompton Place, just a short walk from Harrods, a valet approached the car. With a smile of thanks, Mellie slid out of the driver's seat so that the valet could park her car; after John had unhooked Rosie from the car seat, he and Sherlock stepped out of the back seat, with Rosie in John's arms. Mellie led the way toward the store, through the entrance into the lower ground floor, and down the hall toward the men's socks, underwear, and nightwear department.

"John." Mellie turned toward him. "I will be paying for the socks, so don't worry about the cost. Right now, the condition of your feet is more important."

"Mummy's right." While John handed Rosie to Mellie, Sherlock strode toward the nearest rows of socks. "Here is a row of Egyptian cotton socks. The Falke brand, John—they're made out of pure Egyptian Piuma cotton. These socks will fit your feet." He picked up a pair of white ribbed socks and handed them to John.

With a nod, John sat down in a brown cushioned chair by the wall, and then he removed his shoes and Sherlock's borrowed silk socks. He tried one of the pairs of ribbed Egyptian cotton socks on. Sure enough, the socks fit, and their fabric felt so soft on his feet. "These definitely feel good on my feet," he said, "but I would need to leave them on for a time, to see if my feet can tolerate them."

Mellie nodded agreement. "I will purchase this one pair, then, today, John, and you put them on, wear them home, and leave them on till bedtime. If your skin remains unaffected, we will know that you can tolerate the plant dyes in Egyptian cotton. Now let's have a look at the silk socks."

She led the way toward the men's silk socks in a nearby row of shelves. The three of them examined the rows of silk socks. John smiled wryly. I never thought the day would come when I'd be wearing expensive socks made of silk or Egyptian cotton! I'm just not posh enough to qualify. Out loud, he said, "Perhaps this pair." He tapped a snowy-white pair lying on top.

Sherlock nodded agreement. "Yes." Gazing intently at the socks, he added, "That pair has been handcrafted out of Japanese silk. These socks will fit your feet, John, and their colour will go with any colour you wear otherwise."

"Then I will buy it," Mellie said. After handing Rosie back to John, she picked up the pair and laid it in the shopping trolley that she had commandeered upon entrance. "These two pairs will suffice, for starters, and you wear them both for the next two days," she told him. "The good news is, they're both machine-washable."

John nodded. "OK, I will. Thanks."

Mellie insisted on buying a couple of designer dresses and a pair of shiny black leather shoes for Rosie, as well as a snow-white dress shirt for Sherlock. She paid for the purchases at one of the check-outs at the front of the store. As soon as she had dropped the three of them off at Baker Street, John removed Sherlock's socks and gave them back to Sherlock, and then put on the new Egyptian cotton pair. For the rest of the day, he wore them; to his relief, the symptoms did not recur. When he wore the new silk pair the following day, the skin on his feet remained unscathed.

On Monday morning, while John was in the process of getting ready to go to work, Mellie returned. "John, I have returned to Harrods and purchased two more pairs." She handed him the shopping bag. "When you get off work this afternoon, we will return there and buy you some more."

John smiled resignedly. As much as he hated taking charity even from Sherlock's family, he knew all too well that his feet could no longer tolerate his customary brands, and that the brands he would now have to wear were well out of his wallet. His work as a NHS general practitioner did not pay enough to allow him to buy his own expensive designer clothes, and he refused to help himself to any of the money in Sherlock's trust fund. He nodded. Opening the bag, John discovered a new grey pair of Egyptian cotton socks and a new beige pair of silk socks, not yet opened.

"Thank you," he told her. "I will wear one of these pairs to work today." Mellie smiled. John opened the Egyptian cotton pair and pulled them up over his ankles, and then he put his shoes on. He made sure that his penlight was stuffed into his breast shirt pocket and his watch on his left wrist, and then he put on his black jacket with the multiple pockets, kissed his daughter, said good-bye, and left the flat.

To John's pleasure, the new Egyptian cotton socks felt just as good on his feet as the other pair did; at no time that day did his feet turn red, break out in hives or blisters, swell up, or start to itch. As a result, he was able to stay on his feet as much as he needed to with no difficulty. Any doubts that his old socks had been the cause of his trouble were now firmly squashed. It would not be necessary to have an allergist take a patch test, or make notes of everything he put on his feet. When John returned home to Baker Street that afternoon, Sherlock and Mellie were waiting for him, with Rosie in Mellie's arms.

"No time to take your shoes off, John," Sherlock said, grabbing John's arm and herding him toward the door. "We've got a stop to make at Harrods, and then we're going to eat. Mummy's orders." John shook his head with a smile.

At Harrods, on Mellie's orders, while Sherlock held Rosie, John selected for himself thirty pairs of Egyptian ankle cotton socks and ten pairs of ankle silk socks, making sure in the process that every pair was machine-washable, and that it was in a size that fit his feet. From the array of colours on the shelves, he chose a variety of white, black, grey, and beige socks, since he wanted colours that would go with any shoes and trousers that he was wearing. Mellie laid them in the shopping trolley.

Afterwards, since John's decades-old wallet was becoming frayed and worn out, she led the way to the fashion accessories department, where she chose for him a shiny black leather wallet enclosed in a leather box with the logo embossed on its surface.

"This is a Stefano Ricci wallet, made in Florence, John, and it's made of pure crocodile leather," she told him.

Nodding and removing the wallet from the box, John noticed that there was an eagle head, embossed with crystal, on the wallet's front, and a gold zipper on top. When he zipped it open, he found inside its spacious interior 12 slots for holding cards, two large compartments for holding pound notes, and a pouch in the middle that could also be zipped open and shut. The wallet also contained an additional flap to keep documents in, and a pen-holder. It was truly a luxurious, elegant, expensive wallet.

"You don't need to do this, Mellie," John told her. "The new socks and the new clothes for Rosie are a more than generous gift—for which I thank you, by the way."

Mellie smiled. "No, I don't need to, but I want to. And you really do need a new wallet, John—I've noticed how worn out your old one is getting. You must have owned it for some years now. It won't be much longer now until it starts to fall apart."

John smiled wryly. "True. I've had my wallet ever since I was in my first year of medical school. It's served me well through the years, and I never saw any reason to replace it." He removed it from his jeans pocket and gazed down at it. "Till now."

Mellie nodded agreement. "Yes. Till now. I'm sure it did serve you well, John, but its day is over."

"You got that old wallet at Primark or Oxfam, didn't you?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded. "Oxfam. You can get them cheaply there."

They strode toward the check-outs and waited in line at one of them until it was their turn. Mellie paid for the purchases and handed the shopping bag to John. Then, since it was time for afternoon tea, they took the lift to the fourth floor, where they went to the **Georgian Restaurant. There, on Sherlock and Mellie's urging, John ordered a cured English ham sandwich for himself, and a mashed potato-and-fish kedgeree dish for Rosie, which he and Mellie took turns feeding to her by spoon while they ate their own sandwiches. Sherlock ordered a mustard cress sandwich, and Mellie ordered a smoked Scottish salmon sandwich with a lemon-and-salmon mousse. For them all, Mellie also ordered some scones with some clotted cream and some Harrods jam, some Earls Grey teacakes, some biscuits, slices of Victoria Sponge cake, a cup of Harrods Earl Grey tea for each adult, and a glass of orange juice for Rosie.

When the Holmeses, John, and Rosie had finished their afternoon tea, Mellie drove them home and dropped them off. While Sherlock kept an eye on Rosie in the living room, John took the shopping bag containing his new socks and wallet upstairs to his bedroom, where he discovered that the drawer that he kept his socks in was now empty. He stood there for a long moment, frowning.

"While you were at work, John, Mummy and I donated your old socks to Oxfam," Sherlock said from the doorway.

John turned towards him, noticing that he was holding Rosie, and nodded. It would have been a waste of perfectly good socks if we had binned them, he thought. Out loud, he said, "Well, I can't wear those socks anymore, anyway, so at least this way, others will get a chance to use them." As Sherlock watched, he put away his new socks in the now-empty drawer and laid his new wallet on his nightstand. He would transfer the contents of his old wallet to his new one after supper.

Several days later, as John sat on the tube on the way home to Baker Street, he glanced down at his feet and smiled. The new Egyptian cotton socks he was wearing felt good on his feet.

These new socks feel so comfortable! he thought. And my feet haven't broken out once since I started wearing them. I can only thank Mellie for doing this for me.

John smiled wryly at the memory of what had followed their shopping expedition. When he had returned home from work the following day, he had found that Sherlock had entered his bedroom and carefully organized all of his new socks into a sock index, arranging them according to colour, fabric, and thickness.

Well, at least I don't have to worry about my feet breaking out anymore. With a contented smile, John looked ahead as the tube approached the station where he intended to get off.

XXXXXXX

Author's Note: *The reference to John's shampoo and bedsheets alludes to my story, "Shampoo and Sheets," which is a gap-filler for LyricalSinger's great story, "You've Got a Friend," both of which are posted on Fanfiction dot net and Archive of Our Own. "Shampoo and Sheets" is also posted on Webs dot com.

**In 2018, the Georgian Restaurant, which had undergone some major refurbishment since 2014, was renamed the Harrods Tea Rooms. This story is set prior to that year. Since I have no way of knowing what the Georgian Restaurant's menu consisted of, I am going with the menu of the Tea Rooms.

"Up to Scratch" is besleybean's suggestion. As she stated, the expression means that something comes up to the required standard, and of course, is a play on the socks making John have to scratch.

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