With a frown Sherlock stopped playing the violin. He could hear John stomping up the stairs. Angry? Exasperated. Why would he be exasperated? Sherlock went through his no-good list, but drew a blank. No toxic body parts merrily rotting away in the fridge and the mould from last weeks experiment had been cleaned away after the small fire caused by — no. John had had his sulk about that particularly unfortunate event. This, this had to be something new. Before Sherlock could put away his violin and assume an air of casual boredom, the door to their flat was thrown open and John stood in the doorway, their laundry basket held accusingly out in front of him. The laundry dried, neatly folded, divided into John's on its right and Sherlock's on its left side. Looking up from the laundry, Sherlock was taken aback when he realised that John was furious.
"This," John let the laundry basket fall to the floor in front of him. "This is the fifth pair, Sherlock. Five pairs in three weeks!"
He had to take a deep breath, before he could continue. This time pointing a finger at Sherlock.
"What kind of sick test is it this time, Sherlock?"
Sherlock probably looked even more confused than he ever would admit, despite not having a single clue for once, why John was this angry. John didn't seem to realise Sherlock's confusion or he took his silence as a confession of whatever wrongdoing had occurred.
"Five pairs of pants. My red pants, Sherlock. What are you trying to prove? How to kill a man by stealing a particular set of pants repeatedly? How to create a shortage of said pants in the wider area of London? WHAT?" The last word was all but spat out. John's hands curled into fists, stance that of the soldier.
Sherlock swallowed. While one part of his mind tried to figure out how the apparent theft of five pair of pants, red pants even, could lead to this much anger, the other part was very much occupied with fighting down his arousal, forever a problem when John went into soldier mode and especially problematic when it was directed at him. John's commandeering of Lestrade's team last Thursday during a spectacularly badly executed bank robbery, had Sherlock occupied in the bathroom for more than an hour afterwards, the John-as-a-soldier fantasy on loop in his mind palace, replaying the sound, smells, and sight of John yelling 'Down' and — with an effort, Sherlock pulled himself out of his palace. Only to be met with said John-as-a-soldier standing in Sherlock's personal space and practically fuming. Taking a step back, Sherlock lifted his hands placatingly.
"Why would I take your pants?" Sherlock drawled, managing an air of indifference, while his mind lingered on the image of John in red pants and nothing else, randomly applying the fact that today was a Monday, the sun was shining, and he was reaping the dubious benefits of a too lively fantasy.
"How would I know? Remember, I'm the idiot? Right? Who else would steal a similar pair of pants every time I hang them out to dry?" John watched Sherlock intently. "Do you have any idea, how hard they are to come by these days?"
Sherlock's face went blank, while his mind was buzzing. Beside the obvious mystery of the missing pants, Sherlock was wondering why John was this upset. Clearly, there had to be more to the pants than met the eye.
"Show me," Sherlock demanded.
"Show you?" Now it was John's turn to look puzzled. "Show you what?"
"Where the pants went missing," Sherlock refrained from rolling his eyes even if it was a close call.
John huffed, then turned, straightening his back and marched out of the door and down the stairs. Sherlock followed, while still contemplating the meaning of pants, shifting through several metaphors, memes, and proverbs without getting any closer to why John would become emotional about losing them. When John stopped abruptly, Sherlock just about managed to avoid stumbling into him.
They were in the backyard of 221B. Beside Mrs Hudson's bins, a neat little flowerbed, and the now empty drying rack, nothing overtly suspicious stood out. John indicated the rack, pointing out where the missing pair of pants had been hanging and then stood back at parade rest. Sherlock took a few steps forward, knelt, taking his magnifier to the ground. Standing again, he walked across the yard towards a small, black cat, which was eyeing him suspiciously. When he almost had reached the cat, it bolted and disappeared through a broken window in the basement of 3A Siddons Lane. John had followed Sherlock to the other side of the back yard and was now watching him climbing through the basement window.
After having adjusted to the darkness Sherlock looked around the small room. He could make out an old sofa, a few garden utensils, and a cupboard. The cat sat on the sofa, an apprehensive look on its face.
Sherlock pushed the sofa away from the wall. Despite himself, he couldn't help giving an admiring whistle. A huge accumulation of underwear was revealed, while the cat was anxiously meowing at Sherlock. John's red pants, Sherlock deduced about the five red pairs neatly stashed on top of another pile of pants. Tsk'ing at the cat, Sherlock took John's pants and climbed back out through the window. The cat followed him back out, weaving through his legs, while John couldn't hide his surprise and relief. The latter sent Sherlock's mind reeling again.
"Here is your burglar, John. The neighbour's cat seems to have taken a liking to any kind of underwear with a red hue, it seems. Quite an impressive collection, I might say," Sherlock said with a smirk to hide his confusion. Clearly, John had an overly emotional attachement to his pants. Which probably should be worrying, Sherlock contemplated.
John's thanks and admiration were duly noted, yet now John's demeanour was subdued. Sherlock was lost in thought, trotting slowly behind John's slumped figure. Somehow Sherlock missed some vital clue as to how the red pants were connected to John. Once more, Sherlock retreated to his mind palace when both of them had returned to the flat.
John was puttering around the flat, clearly avoiding the living room with Sherlock's meditating form in it. By the evening, Sherlock heaved a deep sigh. Nothing. He simply couldn't make the connection. It was endlessly frustrating, and endlessly intriguing. Having come to a decision, he stood and went into the kitchen, startling John who had settled down with the newspaper. Clearly not reading, but doing his own form of contemplating the situation. Sherlock put on the kettle and prepared two cups of tea, then settled opposite of John.
Waiting.
They both sipped their tea, Sherlock watching John like a hawk, John avoiding any kind of eye contact. Finally, John broke the silence.
"You have questions."
"Why red pants?" Sherlock asked.
John put his cup on the table and buried his face in his hands. When he looked up again, Sherlock knew he had made up his mind.
"When we first met, you deduced about my wound and me having been in Afghanistan," John began, then faltered before soldiering on. "I was shot."
Sherlock bit back the 'Obviously' sensing John's distress. John cleared his throat then looked directly at Sherlock, determination in his eyes.
"I was shot trying to save my," John hesitated, then looked away. "Trying to save my lover." His voice broke at the end of the sentence.
"Your lover?" Several pieces of the puzzle that made up John fell into place.
"Major Sholto," John said quietly. "James Sholto."
John took his cup and drank the rest of the tea. Sherlock waited patiently.
"Not that it mattered," John continued, looking into his empty cup. "The sniper got him just a few seconds later."
Sherlock stood and put the kettle on. John sat still as a statue looking unseeingly down at the table. He didn't react when Sherlock took his cup. The silence was enveloping, soothing even. Sherlock sat down once again, looking expectantly at John.
"The red pants?" Sherlock asked, nudging the newly filled cup at John's hands.
"Hm?" John had been lost in reminiscence. He took the offered cup, surprised when the tea was hot. "Oh. Yes. The red pants. Well," John tried to hide a smirk. "Our last night. Before," John gestured dismissively with his hand. "James had given them to me. As a Valentine's present." John chuckled. "Not exactly standard army issue."
With a deep sigh, John leaned back in his chair. Now it was Sherlock's turn to look at the table. He had made a decision and he was going to go through with it.
He looked up, realising John had been watching him intently. Probably expecting some kind of derisive comment about his 'not being gay' exclamations in the past.
"I love you," Sherlock said, looking straight at John. John's eyebrows shot up, he opened his mouth, just to close it again. Sherlock kept silent. Observing a range of emotions crossing John's face. Surprise, hope, disbelieve, questioning. Open as a book, Sherlock thought, and yet, keeping secrets hidden in plain sight. Then, resolve. John put his cup down, stood and walked around the table to stand beside Sherlock. Sherlock's heartbeat went up, looking up at John, who slowly bent down, cupped Sherlock's face with gentle hands. Close, so very close. Their lips touched, chastely at first, then the kiss deepened.