A/N: So um Johnlock is the most perfect pairing in the world. Yeah. So I've been writing a great deal for it and I'm uploading stuff here. It's already on my tumblr, but hey, who cares?

I privately think of this first story as "The Crappy Jumper of Love/Rejection", but I somehow feel that's not quite professional enough for The New FF dot Net. So instead...have a stupid title.

I don't own Sherlock, from Sir ACD's canon onwards. None of it. My stuff is based on the BBC adaptation, but I will probably be chucking in canon references if possible...ehehehe.

EDIT: This is actually going to be a series of Johnlock oneshots and drabbles!

Sherlock was bored.

This wasn't exactly an unusual state of affairs-in fact, the day the consulting detective wasn't bored would probably be the day England would fall.

No cases demanded his immediate attention, and he supposed it must simply be a peaceful week; surely the idiots at Scotland Yard hadn't suddenly become competent. Things like that didn't just happen. Intelligence didn't grow on trees, after all. Nevertheless, what would make most people sleep safer in their beds was nearly enough to make Sherlock weep from boredom.

None of his experiments needed tinkering with-or rather, could stand tinkering with at their stage- and he wasn't about to get up and fetch supplies for a new project. That would entail getting up, and in this fit of boredom-which, most emphatically, was not sulking, thank you very much-he was simply too lethargic to get up and go out. Even if he decided to forgo dressing and simply walk the streets in his bedsheet (he'd kill to see Mycroft's reaction when he saw that on his precious, omnipresent CCTV, but the prospect wasn't quite entertaining enough to make it worthwhile). And John-for whatever silly reason-absolutely refused to pop around to the morgue and snatch some body parts.

"You can't expect me to go down to St Bart's like it's Tescos and steal you bits of corpses, Sherlock," he'd said most emphatically.

Probably asking John to steal him any supplies from his surgery wouldn't go over any better.

(This understanding of, respect for, normal social conventions is so very dull, and yet John firmly believes he can do better and so he will, because he is Sherlock Holmes and he does not fail)

So experiments were out of the question. The gun was hidden-by John, of course. No doubt he could deduce its location quickly enough, but that was far too much effort for the scant amusement of putting a few more holes in the wall and receiving another tongue-lashing from Mrs Hudson or his irksome, mundane, pedestrian flatmate.

Nicotine patches. He was trying to quit again, on John's urging, of course. The need wasn't yet so bad that he had to flail about the room searching for them, but he could feel the desire coursing through his blood. No. Transport, nothing more. His mind was superior to his body. He could do this.

(He doesn't believe this but John thinks he can, the man has an astonishing amount of faith in him)

And John, the utter imbecile, wasn't even around to make up for his blocking Sherlock's entertainment by at least trying to ease the boredom. The sheer insolence was staggering. How could anyone think that treating idiots for the same illnesses day after day was a valuable way to spend time?

Bored. Bored.

Sherlock's eyes roved around the room, alighting on objects and flickering away as soon as he'd processed what it was and what possible entertainment value it might have.

Telly. Dull.

Radio. Tedious.

(John's) laptop. John hadn't had a new girlfriend in weeks (Sherlock privately suspected that his reputation preceded him among the eligible women in his social circle) so there would be no new atrocious attempts at poetry to shake his head and chuckle over.

BORED.

A completely random object: his eyes settled on one of John's jumpers, flung to the floor after he'd mopped up a particularly…volatile reaction with it. He should probably consider tossing that before John came back from the surgery. The last row they'd had had been over a similarly-destroyed jumper.

(Sentiment? Over a piece of clothing? A gift from family, obviously, probably not the sister he's estranged from. A parent, then, given how well it fits his current measurements-not close to any extended family, or doesn't have any. Still a silly thing to argue over)

John hadn't spoken to him for days.

(Peculiar: he minds, is upset, even, when John gives him the silent treatment, yet would welcome it from anyone else. Should investigate this further. With caution, however: sentiment is a defect found on the losing side)

And then an idea strikes him. A glorious idea that is at once simplicity itself and yet absolute genius too-naturally, all his ideas are perfect.

He will knit John a new jumper. Not only will it prevent another dose of John ignoring him, but John will be so overwhelmed he will have to give Sherlock his gun and his patches back out of sheer gratitude. Surely John's face as he receives such a gift-something that Sherlock deigned to make for him-will be endlessly intriguing in and of itself.

(John makes the most interesting faces when he's surprised or startled)

Obstacle: Sherlock doesn't know the first thing about knitting. Useless information; waste of hard drive space. This is easily conquered; Sherlock has resources. With a goal in mind, he summons up the energy to spring from the couch and go about finding clothing more respectable than the blue dressing gown he's currently wearing: shirt, purple, jeans, black. He debates the coat and scarf: he's just going downstairs. But then he often wears them around the flat. He's not trying to look cool, he's just cold, no matter what John thinks.

The building was, for once, warm enough he didn't need the extra layers. He bounded downstairs-really, he was quite exuberant once he's taken a thought into his head and decided not to dismiss it-and peeked into the café for Mrs Hudson. She was there, naturally: always was, at that time of morning.

(Table close to the window, but facing inwards rather than enjoying the view, nice dress-too dressy for a simple breakfast- some of her older, higher-class jewelry on, constant glancing at the proprietor who's currently fixing her usual breakfast and then back down to an unstarted crossword: she's still got a bit of a crush on him then)

Unimportant. He crossed to her table and sat down without an invitation.

"Good morning, Sherlock," she said, looking once more at the man making her food before meeting Sherlock's eyes. Her kindly expression seemed a favorable omen for what he was about to ask. "Did you need something? Is the hot water off?"

"Mrs Hudson, I need to know how to knit."

This was probably the last thing she expected to hear from him, especially with as much intensity as his voice contained. She stared at him for a moment with a startled expression.

(Note: modulate enthusiasm when speaking to Mrs Hudson)

The housekeeper, however, was quick at recovering, as she had to be to rent a flat to the likes of Sherlock Holmes, and the shock soon became a knowing expression. "Is John's and your anniversary coming up, dearie?"

(She, like the rest of London, still believes in the notion that John and I are romantically engaged, then. Ridiculous and untrue, but unimportant at the moment)

"That is sweet, that you want to hand make something," she continued, smiling at him. "I never would have guessed it of you, Sherlock, but I suppose everyone's at least a bit romantic at heart. What is it you want to knit him, dear?"

Unlike John, Sherlock never bothered to correct anyone's assumptions about the two of them. It was none of their business, and anyway, he didn't care what others thought-it didn't affect the work, it didn't matter.

"I want to make a jumper," he stated. "One that's not hideously coloured."

Doubt flashed in her eyes. "Are you sure, dearie? That's an awfully big project for a beginner."

Sherlock huffed. "I think I can manage."

"All right then, dear, I'll teach you. I'll come by after breakfast with what we'll need."

"Thanks, Mrs Hudson," he said, and, standing up, straightened his jacket. There was a spate of tittering behind him. As he turned to go back outside, he examined the source-not out of interest, but habit.

(Teenage girls on the far side, clearly cutting school given their bags and tense shoulders-not accustomed to rulebreaking then, they're afraid they'll get caught. They're looking at me, pupil dilation evident-they find me attractive. Oh, that one's snapping a picture-iPhone, latest model: wealthy family or recent birthday. Uniforms, well-made, and designer bags. In that case, a private school, that means wealthy family. Probably a friend then, one who's less willing to defy the rules, but she's fine with receiving illicit picture texts while in class-)

"Are you sending it to Jeremy?" one of them whispered-unintentionally loudly- to the girl with the phone.

(Jeremy. A male)

There was always something.

He went back out and returned to the flat. By the time Mrs Hudson came up with a large bag of the esoterica of knitting, he'd hidden the discolored and partially-melted jumper and thrown a blanket (his, not John's: if he was going to try and make up for the other jumper he wasn't going to do it halfway) over the experiments on the kitchen table.

It was rough going at first, the counterintuitive movements and the yarn conspiring to tangle and make him drop stitches, but soon-with Mrs Hudson's guiding hands helping him -Sherlock was proceeding smoothly within half an hour.

The jumper consumed his time for days, spooling into weeks. Every morning after John departed for the clinic, Sherlock would retrieve the project from where he'd stashed it (his room, in the drawer of the bedside table, and then in the closet after it got too big for the little drawer) and start working furiously.

Finally, the day came when it was finished. Sherlock held it up, ignoring a chime from his phone-a case, probably a dull case, he'd look later- and examined it with a critical eye-and frowned. Yes, he'd worked hard…but it was an atrocious piece of knitting.

(Dropped stitches, places where he'd knit through the yarn-how had he not caught that?-there were holes where he'd wrapped the yarn around the needle accidentally and broke the pattern, and there were several odd patches where the tension was off and the yarn was stretched too loose)

This simply was not acceptable. There was no way he was going to let John see this. It was mistake-riddled and awful and absolutely not going to see the light of daylight ever again.

Creak. Sherlock's eyes widened: that was the stairs. He shoved the jumper (more appropriate word: rag) under the blanket, but it was too late. The door had already opened.

(No knock means John)

The instant, force-of-habit deduction was unnecessary. John had already stepped inside, a sour expression on his face and clutching his shoulder.

"Some strung-out kid took a swing at me," he informed Sherlock. "He dislocated my shoulder. It's all right now, but they sent me home for the rest of the day." He glanced at the lump where the detective had concealed his work. "What was that?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said snappishly, and lay down, rolling so that he faced the back of the couch. He'd really meant to do something nice, and it'd come out horribly. This 'caring' lark really wasn't all that great.

Something in his tone must have alerted the other man, though, because John walked over and stuck his hand under Sherlock's long legs and into the blanket. Sherlock rolled over as he retrieved the jumper and glared at him as he answered the unspoken question on John's face.

"I ruined another of your sweaters, so I decided to replace it," he said. "I was bored anyway, so I decided to experiment with knitting." He indicated the awful consequence of that decision with a wave. "The results were disappointing. I'm still bored. You may bin it if you like."

"I don't think I will."

Sherlock sat up and staredat him. "Why on earth not? It's awful."

(He's grinning; probably about to make a joke at my expense. No. That's a different smile; this is the one that touches his eyes and makes his whole face light up, the same smile he gets when he's calling my deductions 'brilliant' or 'fantastic', or when he's talking to the latest face in his string of women. What on earth is he so happy about?)

"Because," John started pulling his beige jumper off over his head-the shirt underneath rode up with it, exposing some of the doctor's belly- "I'm not in the habit of binning things that other people make specifically for me. It's a bit not good to do things like that." Gingerly, as if he were actually concerned about tugging the yarn apart, he replaced the beige with Sherlock's poor product.

"I never said it was for you," Sherlock said, but at the wryly doubtful look John directed at him, he conceded. "Nevertheless, your deduction was correct. You may be less of an idiot than I thought."

"Thanks. I think." John examined a patch of loose loops in the sleeve. "I like it," he said. "It's…different."

"It's awful," Sherlock reiterated. "Look at all the dropped stitches."

"Fine, it's awful. I still appreciate it."

He was about to ask, do you really? Why? when his phone chimed again. Without even being asked, John picked it up off the table and handed it to him before flopping into his customary armchair and looking at him expectantly.

"It's Lestrade," Sherlock said. "Body in a room locked from the inside, no windows. Dull."

"Sherlock, you haven't had a case in days," John said, slightly exasperated. "By now even a dull little case like this should be acceptable."

"I rank it a four at the highest, John. That's not worth leaving the flat for."

"Maybe not now, but what if there is something interesting and you miss it because you thought the case was too boring to take?"

He couldn't argue with that…and he was getting rather tired of 221B's walls. "Fine. I'll have to get dressed."

"Yes, a blue dressing gown strikes me as a bit inappropriate for a crime scene."

Sherlock gave him a quelling look. "No more so than a bedsheet in Buckingham Palace." The memory sent John into a fit of the giggles, and Sherlock couldn't help chuckling a bit-all right, a lot-himself. The laughter went on for a while, as every time they caught each other's eyes, they dissolved into helpless mirth again.

"Text Lestrade that we're on our way," Sherlock gasped out at last, before stepping into his room. When he came out properly attired, John was still punching away at the keys. "I suppose it stands to reason that your typing skills carry over to your texting."

"If you'd sent it yourself, you wouldn't be complaining."

He let that pass, but when John stood up as though ready to dash out…

"Aren't you going to change?"

The doctor looked confused. "Change? Why?" Sherlock gestured to indicate the jumper. "Oh. No, I'm not. I'm going to wear it out."

"Aren't you worried people will talk?"

"As you've said yourself, they do little else. Besides, it's already on, no point in changing now. Most likely they'll just assume it was a gift from a niece or something."

(John doesn't mind wearing it. This realization provokes an interesting reaction: a sensation like a bubble of warmth inside of his chest. Sentiment. A defect of the losing side, yes; however, this is pleasant, and Sherlock thinks maybe it's okay to trust John with his sentiment, because John has proven his loyalty-his own sentiment-time and time again)

The silence in the cab wasn't awkward at all. John wasn't trying to fill the silence, as he usually did; Sherlock wasn't sure whether he really appreciated that or not. For whatever reason, the doctor's chatter and inane questions barely bothered him, even though anyone else's would infuriate him.

The case was simple: lethal neurotoxin dispersed by a clever little sprayer hidden in the victim's pillow. As she'd shifted in her sleep, it'd released the gas, and finally the dosage had become fatal. The police had ignored the sprayer, assuming it was an aromatherapy setup, but Sherlock hadn't.

(Scent of almonds: not almond essence, but bitter almond oil, with high concentrations of cyanide-deadly as hell in any quantity. Who could obtain it? Lover: a chemist who also dabbles in aromatherapy and related subjects. She was about to break it off, he resented the prioritization of her husband, he killed her out of ego. How banal)

"You enjoyed that one, didn't you," John said. It wasn't a question; Sherlock had actually clapped his hands together upon discovering the method of the murder.

"It was certainly creative," Sherlock allowed. "I'll concede that it was worth leaving the flat for."

And then there it was: a mutter, a stage-whisper easily audible from the hall.

"Shouldn't have let him leave, in that thing." He didn't even have to turn around.

"Freak was probably the one who made it, look at those patches of dropped stitches. Horrid."

(Donovan, making an aside to Anderson. Talking about John's jumper/jumper I made for John. Probably spawned by resentment and frustration over missing such an obvious detail. Still. I made that for him. I did. Petty snideness: will this ruin the effect it had on John? No. Must not happen, must not be allowed to happen)

Sherlock stiffened, but John was already whirling. "That's enough," he said quietly to the pair-quietly, yes, but not gently: he was using the no-nonsense tone he used on murderers (when they threaten Sherlock) and when he was trying to explain to Sherlock the necessity of labeling fridge containers or not declaring how much a case was entertaining him in mixed company. "Sherlock was trying to do something nice, and I appreciate it. You two idiots are just looking for anything you can say after he's embarrassed your investigation and it's stupid and petty and I am tired of your lack of gratitude."

(John is defending the jumper-my actions. Another curious feeling: what, exactly, it is I'm not sure, but it is also pleasant)

Neither Yarder answered, and Sherlock, despite the fact that he was still facing the dead woman on the bed, could see the glare the doctor was giving them as vividly as though he were on the receiving end. With a cough, he straightened his jacket.

"If that's all, then we're going. Honestly, missing that, it's embarrassing, Lestrade. Good afternoon." He brushed past shell-shocked Donovan and Anderson in the hall.

(Yes, how surprising, milk-mild Doctor Watson blowing up suddenly, and in defense of me, even-the freak, the psychopath, the unlovable human being.)

He smiled.

On the cab ride home, he decided to broach the subject about halfway through: John was looking oddly thoughtful, and the expression of contemplation on his friend's face roused Sherlock's curiosity.

"John. What you said, to Anderson and Donovan. That was, it was very good." He hesitated for a moment. "Thank you."

"I don't like them calling you a freak. You do good work, and they should learn to thank you for it."

"I don't do it for thanks, John."

"Yes, I know, but you deserve them-not insults and names. You're, you're this great genius, and they're just being spiteful because you catch things they overlooked." Sherlock was silent for a moment, caught off guard by the praise-somehow different than what John usually said in that it was delivered as solemnly, as matter-of-factly, as a diagnosis of a patient. John continued, "You did something nice, decent, and no matter how awful this jumper is, it's the thought that counts."

"Sentiment." Sherlock grinned as he said it, though, to let the other man know he was only joking. "It really is horrid, though, look, the sleeve's pulling apart. You caught it on something."

"I think it was the doorknob as we left."

For no particular reason, this struck Sherlock as somehow hilarious, and for the second time that day, he-and after a moment, John-collapsed into helpless laughter, and this time it was over something that really wasn't terribly amusing.

(Nervous tension? What are we nervous over? Am I nervous? Sentiment. Defect. But I already decided that I will allow sentiment for John, who can be trusted. This feeling, beating-wings-in-stomach, is not entirely pleasant. What is this impulse?)

"John," Sherlock said, succeeding in keeping any hint of his mental turmoil out of his voice, "there is an experiment I should like to perform."

"Right, and what would that be?"

In answer, Sherlock leaned over and pressed his lips lightly against John's. The doctor tensed up for a moment-predictable- but then relaxed into it. He could feel John's smile form against his lips, making the swooping feeling in his chest and belly intensify dizzyingly. That hadn't been expected. He pulled back and examined the other man closely.

"What was that about, exactly?" John said, looking slightly discomfited.

"I'm not entirely sure," Sherlock said. "However, it seems that the curious sensations I've been experiencing since you decided to wear the jumper are magnified by your touch. Interesting."

John gave him a look-the 'Sherlock-you-are-being-incredibly-dense' look that usually meant he'd said something 'insensitive'. "Sherlock, if you're trying to say you're in love with me-"

"That's not what I'm saying at all!" Sherlock protested, then stopped to think. "As far as I'm aware."

"Oh, for Chrissakes-here, how about I conduct a little experiment." He pulled the consulting detective back over and kissed him furiously.

After he'd released him, Sherlock leaned back, his lips feeling slightly swollen. "I thought you weren't gay," he said, more out of a need to make conversation-to not have literally been snogged speechless-than any real question. Nevertheless, John chose to answer.

"I'm not," he said. "It's just you, you fantastic, insufferable dick."

(A completely unique sentiment in John, reserved only for me. I am the only one that will ever receive this sort of affection: I am his exception)

There was nothing to describe how lovely that thought was in Sherlock's mind. He immediately archived it for future retrieval, to always be kept safe and fresh and sharp.

(All my sentiment is yours, John. Every last grain of sympathy and affection is entrusted to you, who does not exploit the defect in me. Perhaps there's something to this caring lark after all)

Not that he'd ever say that last-out loud, anyway. It would mean admitting he'd been wrong. However, in his mind, a thousand little ways to show John were already being planned.

He glanced over at John again. Really, though: No more knitting for him.

It was boring.

This fic is dedicated to Gillypad on Tumblr, for letting me bounce ideas off her. Gilly, we really do share a brain. I still want to know how the hell you knew I was wearing the hat. You're in Canada!

Please don't be pulling a Mycroft please don't be pulling a Mycroft...