Written for johnlockchallenges Grab Bag Challenge! I got ohgodwhatdoidowithmylife's prompt!

Prompt: "Sherlock are you really gonna go out in my jumper?"

I had lots of fun with this, I hope you enjoy.

It all started when John went away for a week. Just a short holiday to get away from Barts'. Or maybe Sherlock.

Actually, definitely Sherlock.

He had been a damn horror for over two months straight. The bastard stole his things - which was, well, usual, but as of late it had gotten to be a damn-near nuisance (on one such instance, John's mobile was snatched out of his hand in the middle of an important call, and, needless to say, his latest girlfriend was not happy) - he trashed John's room, kept even more exotic things in the fridge that should never be in the fridge, and confiscated his laptop for three weeks. When it was returned, it was essentially ruined (John didn't even want to know the kinds of crazy shit the dodgy bastard had done to it).

"I'll only be gone for a week, half the time you don't even know I'm here anyways," he had said with a smirk before he left. Sherlock had jutted out that lower lip of his, brows furrowing in a characteristic pout. Such a child.

He stayed silent though, not saying another word before waving the doctor off. Sherlock proceeded to pace about the sitting room with his fingers steepled under his chin, like he was oblivious to John's departure. John waited at the bottom of the staircase, listening to the footsteps for a moment, satisfied when they paused and shifted towards the window. A smug smile quirked his lips as he stepped casually out of 221 B Baker Street. John didn't hesitate to flag a cab, hoisting his bag over his shoulder as he waited at the curb. He felt the same satisfaction and the same smile as he glanced up, just once, to see Sherlock peering out the window at him. Bright eyes widened ever-so-slightly, and in the next moment, the figure was gone.

John chuckled and ducked into the cab.

"Sherlock, I'm home!" John called as he made his way upstairs, very much later than he would have liked (damn aeroplanes). He didn't expect to receive any sort of acknowledgement, but nonetheless, he figured he should alert his friend, knowing he should be awake even at four a.m. "So what have you been up to all this time? Did you even know I was- Oh." John stopped in the doorway, head tilted, taken aback slightly.

Everything else was normal, surprisingly - he had expected an absolute shit-storm when he got back, or at least some scorch marks, or a few more bullet holes in the wall. It all seemed exactly as he left it.

Except for the consulting detective curled up in his chair. That was a new one, his chair had never been stolen before, save the few occasions Sherlock's own chair was occupied by Mycroft.

Circling around as light-footed as possible, John had to use every bit of self control he had not to laugh at the adorable expression on Sherlock's face. Hm, adorable. Not a word he expected he would ever use to describe Sherlock Holmes.

**Quick Fun Fact**

Most Commonly Used Adjectives Used to Describe Sherlock Holmes

3. Brilliant

2. Infuriating

1. Exasperating

Least Commonly Used Adjectives Used to Describe Sherlock Holmes

2. Helpful

1. Adorable

Hm. It was definitely on the list. But, Jesus-

The man was curled up in an insanely small ball - which was not unusual in the slightest, he was normally contorted into an impossibly compact mass of tangled limbs - clad in thin pyjama bottoms and a shirt John didn't quite recognise at first. His pale skin seemed to glow in the lack of light, and a pulse fluttered in Sherlock's neck insistently, throwing miniscule shadow changes along his throat while nearly rocking his whole body. His breathing was slow, and there wasn't a line to be found on his face.

The normally expressionate Sherlock Holmes, with his assortment of scornful looks, reproachful sneers, and sarcastic smiles, looked completely calm, and maybe even sweet with his lips parted slightly and his fingers twitching randomly.

John paused for a moment while a smile crept across his face, then knelt in front of his friend's sleeping figure.

"Sherlock, I'm back. No need to get up now, but I'm home," he breathed quietly. He reached out a hand to smooth a stray curl in his friend's face, but thought better of it. Instead, he stood to his feet and went to retrieve his bag by the door so he could unpack. He was just bending over to pick it up, when a voice meandered foggily over to him.

"John?" It was sleep-clogged, and deeper than usual. A note of expectancy then mounting disappointment hid in the subtle tones the doctor couldn't quite register, but he picked up on it and moved into the other man's line of sight.

"Hey Sherlock," he replied, voice gentle. A small, genuine smile spread across Sherlock's lips, quirking the corners a bit. Okay, maybe "adorable" was working it's way up the list a bit.

"You're back," he remarked, still a bit hazy.

It was moments like these that made up for all the frustrations that came from living with an emotionally-handicapped high-functioning sociopath.

"Yes, I'm back. Now how about I take my bag upstairs, and you can get in bed nice and proper and go back to sleep?"

"No."

Okay, so the moment was over, and Sherlock was becoming more awake by the minute.

"Well fine then, stay awake, but I'm going upstairs."

There was a pause from Sherlock while John grabbed his bag, slipped off his shoes, and trudged upstairs. He was nearly midway when he heard footsteps behind him.

As was expected, John spent the rest of the night with Sherlock looming over his shoulder, wondering what had made his detective so clingy all of the sudden before "week long holiday" whispered thoughtfully into his ear. Maybe Sherlock actually did miss him when he left. It was a bit odd though; every move he made, eyes followed him.

"I don't know about you Sherlock, but I'm feeling jetlagged, and I'm going to bed," John hinted, picking through his pyjamas and throwing some trousers on his bed. Sherlock didn't seem fazed. "Fine then, just watch me change, doesn't bother me at all, you standing there like that," he murmured, pulling his jumper off over his head. He threw it across the room before unbuttoning his shirt in a hurry.

"John, you're turning red."

"Am I now?"

"Yes, I just told you. Can't you feel it?"

John could in fact very much feel himself turning red. Slipping off his shirt, he stood bare-chested for a moment, fondling the fabric in his hands before it followed his jumper across the room. Sherlock didn't budge, and after a moment, the doctor just gave up, dropping his jeans and slipping on his trousers. Tossing his other shirt aside, he decided it wasn't worth wearing, he climbed into bed, back to his friend.

After a few moments, Sherlock took the hint, paused, and crept from the room.

John sighed in relief, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he had the nerve to hope that maybe Sherlock would come back and insistently climb into bed with him. And then maybe they could both sleep peacefully until Sherlock inevitably woke them up.

It didn't happen.

The next morning, as he could have very easily guessed, Sherlock made sure he was awake at some early-as-hell hour for a case.

"John!" he yelled, "Get up, Jesus, you aren't awake yet? Hurry up, we have a case! Lestrade says we need to get there in the next twenty minutes, or else they're closing the crime scene to us, John we need to leave now! Get dressed! Get up! Find some shoes! John, please! I haven't had a case since before you left and my brain feels rotted through with boredom!"

It wasn't a very pleasant awakening, especially not when his best friend was nose-to-nose with him, hands around his wrists, shaking him insistently. "Sherlock, Jesus, what the hell?"

"Get up!"

"Alright, alright, Crucified Christ, don't get your knickers in a knot and wait downstairs."

Sherlock obliged, running off to pace impatiently downstairs.

It barely took John two minutes to get downstairs, dressed in yesterdays jeans and shirt, yawning long and loud. He had failed to find his jumper.

"John, are you ready yet?"

"Sherlock, can I get my shoes on maybe?" he asked, looking up to make eye contact. He frowned.

"What?" Sherlock asked innocently.

John opened his mouth, closed it, shook his head momentarily in sleep-induced confusion, opened his mouth again. "Is that my jumper?"

Sherlock glanced down, as if he had no idea himself. "I do believe so."

John was tempted to ask a few more questions, but wasn't necessarily willing to get into one of these conversations now. He just laced up his boots and grabbed his jacket. Though, once at the door, he figured he might as well clarify. Sherlock was just pulling on his coat and wrapping his scarf around his throat.

"Are you really gonna go out in my jumper?" he asked, opening the door and heading out onto the street. Sherlock followed close behind.

Sherlock sighed. "I've got it on, haven't I? Too late to change now. Why?"

John simply shook his head. "Nothing, just… people will talk. More than usual."

"People do little else."

There were a few moments of silence between them while Sherlock hailed a cab and they climbed inside. A few more minutes followed in the back seat before something registered in John's clearing mind.

He turned to his friend. "Did you say you didn't have a case since before I left? What was that all about?"

Sherlock didn't answer, just fondled the hem of the jumper and stared pointedly out the window.

John smirked.

Note: For all of my normal FF peeps, I'm working on all of my other fics, don't worry, none are abandoned.