Bandage


John hated this cardigan. No, he really did. It was slightly too small and pinched his shirt under his arms, was a terrible shade of maroon and ever since Sherlock's great "pond-scum titration", he's never been able to shift the smell of mud. Not exactly a bad smell of mud. But mud none the less. He huffed petulantly to the front-door as he withdrew his keys. One more thing to add to the list; it was bloody cold out and this cardigan just didn't do as a good a job as his favourite jumper. Which had been lost in the great "flame-test incident".

When he made it upstairs, Sherlock was lying across the sofa, eyes closed and looking thoughtful. John spotted the blood immediately, caught just between Sherlock's pointer-fingers where they met below his chin. He went to move over, before stopping. The favourite jumper, (perfect, hole-free and washed), was folded on the coffee table. Next to it was Mrs. Hudson's sewing kit.

John almost said it, before deciding against it. There'd be plenty of time for that later.

Instead, he went over to the kitchen. He caught Sherlock smiling smugly from the couch. John chuckled as he retrieved a bandage.


Because... well, because.