Facilitateur
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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep
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Chapter Two: Chandail
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He should have expected it, really. After the unsettling epiphany regarding the jam, Sherlock should have been more cautious, more guarded against the unwanted obsessions to which he was so prone. He could only put it down to underestimating the power of the pedestrian comforts of average human beings. Certainly, he could understand how such boring things could hold sway over boring people, but over Sherlock Holmes? He had scoffed at the idea, catalogued the jam as an anomoly, and moved on.
Damn his unconscious habit of disregarding the mundane.
It shouldn't have come as such a surprise to him when he uncovered his newest addiction. He knew himself, knew how easily the constant presence of something only increased his fixation on said something. He shouldn't have been shocked and dismayed at his obsession with jumpers.
He shouldn't have, but oh, he was.
He wasn't certain when that one started, or how, but he knew he was in deep when he found himself stealing a moment to brush his fingers against the soft, warm material of John's jumper as the man was crouched over a mutilated corpse. The kitten-fur texture made his mouth go dry and his heart thump oddly in his chest, and he was suddenly aware of John glancing up at him questioningly.
Of course, he'd have to have been unconscious not to notice Sherlock's hand running across his shoulderblades.
"Er, there was a beetle," he said, slightly breathless due to his heart continuing its arrythmia. That was surely unhealthy.
After that embarrassing moment (and Lestrade, who had watched the whole incident, kept looking amused, and why was he amused? He hated Sherlock's addictive personality, hated the roads it led the detective down. Surely this would bother him, worry him, anger him even...) Sherlock was much more attentive.
It was not pleasant to discover the depths to which he could sink to soothe his desires.
Somewhere along the way, the tug of a sleeve to get John running after him and the palm pressed to the small of the doctor's back to shove him along had changed. It was no longer simply a casual action designed to assert his control over his assistant. It had mutated into an overwhelming need to touch, stroke, press, caress, feel. He was constantly swamped by his brain's instructions to reach out, just a bit further, grasp the cuff of John's sleeve just a bit too long, guide him with a hand on his shoulder, though he knew it to be unnecessary.
All of which culminated in Sherlock agreeing to do the laundry so that he could spend as long as he liked petting John's favorite jumper. He didn't pay much mind to the odd stares he got in the laundry from mothers and university students, because really, they had their own vices. He could deduce them in moments if he wasn't already occupied trying to memorize the sensation of the jumper.
He had planned on getting his fill, filing the information away so that he could recall it in the future, try to use the memory to negate the need. Unfortunately, the time it took for the laundry to finish was not long enough, so Sherlock devised a plan whereby he would secret away the jumper to use at his discretion.
That is, he was going to steal it and hide it.
So when John began asking after his favorite jumper, the one that was that particular shade of blue (yes, Sherlock knew exactly what color it was, it was the color of John's eyes, matched them perfectly), the detective simply shrugged.
"I have more vital things to concentrate on, John, than your jumpers," he lied.
And when he was done with cases and experiments and could no longer resist the call, he would lock himself in his room and pull out the soft blue jumper. He would rub his cheek against the material, inadvertantly inhaling the scent of John (it wasn't terrible, so he didn't mind). And when that wasn't enough, he would pull off his own shirt and tug the jumper over his head, curling up on the mattress and hugging himself, fingers clutching at the sleeves as though he could press the feel of the knitting into his skin forever. He would be surrounded by the warmth and scent and comfort and would slip into dreams without even noticing.
He didn't mind the increased sleep, because whenever he woke up, he discovered that his unconscious mind had continued to indulge in his addiction, and the need had abated almost entirely.
Almost.
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To Be Continued...
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A/N - Because jumpers are like hugs from God.
OMG, another chapter! It helps that I'm trying to keep them short and not rambling on for more than a page-and-a-half. It doesn't help that I could wax poetic about John's jumpers forever.
Ah, well.
Anyway, there is much more to come. Not all of it is as obvious as jam and jumpers. In fact, most of it is downright odd. It's all Shwatsonlock, though, so rejoice!
Song for this chapter: 'If I Fell' (Evan Rachel Wood - Across The Universe)
Reviews are like hugs from you!
Peace.
Akiko
