OMG it's chapter 10 already - and we're still not done.
Thank you for your support so far and your nice comments which always help me through my little writing problems ;A;

Anyway, this is a little interlude, one could say. It's not really important for the story, but I just needed to write this scene.
It was stuck in my head. (I really don't want to be John in this chapter ... although ... Well, you'll see ;3)
Don't worry, the case will be back soon - but right now Sherlock has to deal with a more serious problem (his mother) X'D

Hope you'll like it :3

PS: "petit ami" = "little friend" or "boyfriend" ;D

Sherlock entered his usual tailor shop with John right behind him.
He didn't go shopping that often, but when he did, he cared for exclusivity and this certain tailor covered all his needs. He didn't fuss much, he worked quickly and efficiently and he had a good taste.

"Ah, Monsieur Holmes, what a pleasure to see you again. How can I help you today?"

"Bonjour Monsieur Henry. " Sherlock smiled in his usual manner. "Nothing for me today, but my friend here needs some new clothes."
And he pulled John to his side, keeping his hand at the small of John's back to keep him from slipping away.

"Oui, I see what you mean. Suits? Shirts? For a certain occasion?"

"Everything. It's for a high society event."

"Ah c'est ça. I'll begin right away."

"Good, we don't have much time."

"Pas de problème. You're one of my best costumers, after all. Your petit ami will be the best-dressed gentleman in no time."

He pulled out a measuring tape and started taking John's measurements.
Sherlock sat down in one of the comfy chairs and watched the proceedings.
John looked really uncomfortable.

"Relax, John."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I don't buy and wear custom-tailored suits all the time." John answered sarcastically.

"You won't do that today, either. We hardly have the time. You'll have to bear with having one fitted to you."

John snorted. "So not the point, Sherlock."
He sighed. "Still, this really isn't my area."

"Relax, it'll be fine. I'm here with you, remember?" Sherlock looked up into John's eyes.
John looked at him quizzically, but seemed to calm down a bit.

Soon they were surrounded by dozens of different suits, shirts, waistcoats, ties, bow-ties, shoes, socks and even underwear.
Sherlock took some time to look around and then pieced together three outfits for John to try:
A black suit with green waistcoat, a dark grey suit with dark blue waistcoat, a grey suit with red waistcoat and a white shirt to wear with suit and waistcoat.
He left the rest to contemplate when John was actually wearing the outfits, but added a navy blue shirt for more casual occasions, when John wouldn't need a waistcoat, and a pearl white suit with fitting waistcoat.

Sherlock wasn't really sure why he wanted to John to try this particular suit, but it was a sudden wish deep inside of him since the moment he saw it.
And he wouldn't be Sherlock Holmes if he didn't go after his wishes.

Monsieur Henry took the outfits to the fitting room and Sherlock pushed John after him, not listening to his protests.
Sherlock used the time he was waiting to deduce for what kind of people the clothes around were made, but got bored rather quickly.
When John finally emerged from the cabin, Sherlock's breath stopped for a second.

John looked so different.
Sherlock took a step towards him and scrutinized the outfit from all angles.

The black suit and shirt fitted John perfectly and accentuated his muscular chest (still from Afghanistan, obviously), hugged him just right around the middle and stressed his well-toned legs (from chasing criminals through London evidently).

"Try the other colours, John." Sherlock said without looking into John's eyes.
He knew that John was nervous and that he wanted to see some kind of reaction from Sherlock, but he deliberately didn't show anything.
He didn't want John to know how much Sherlock liked what he saw.

This procedure went on until John saw the last suit.
"A white suit? Sherlock, why the hell would I need a white suit?!" John asked, his temper changing from nervousness and confusion to anger.

"First of all, John, it isn't just white, it's pearl white and while we're waiting for Monsieur Henry, you can just as well try it on. I'm sure it'll look good on you."

"You haven't answered my question, Sherlock. Why should I try it on? We're looking for something to wear to your mother's birthday party, not some high society wedding."

"Might as well be."

"What?!"

"John, my mother wants to meet you, which means, in case we'll keep being friends, which I assume, she will invite you to all kinds of events relating family and duty. We might as well look for something appropriate for all kinds of occasions."
Of course Sherlock didn't intend to go to these events, but it was a good argument why John should try on the suit.

"Oh, alright." John sighed, obviously not wanting to have a row in the middle of an expensive tailor shop, and Sherlock couldn't hide the little smile on his face.
A short time later, John stood in front of Sherlock, wearing the pearl white suit.

Sherlock had to admit that this was his favourite one.
It made John's suntan glow and his eyes shine.
If Sherlock had been a romantic man, he would have thought John looked like an angel. He shook his head at his own silly thoughts.
John Watson was a good man, but he wasn't an angel. He had killed people – one of them to save Sherlock's life. Maybe he was Sherlock's guardian angel?
Sherlock, listen to yourself. So sentimental.
He gave himself a mental kick.

"Are you satisfied now?" John asked, still irritated.

"Yes," Sherlock smiled and this time looked directly into John's eyes.
John seemed surprised about what he saw there, but Sherlock didn't bother hiding now.
They were alone at the moment and it wouldn't do them any good if John was ill-tempered the whole trip to his mother's.

"Ehm ... I'm just going to ...," John cleared his throat. "... change back."

"Yes, that would be for the best." Sherlock answered and John quickly vanished into the fitting room.

Sherlock was impatiently waiting when he heard John calling, sounding slightly flustered.
"Sherlock? Can you ... can you come in here for a moment?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
"You want me to come into the changing cubicle with you?"

"Yes, I ... I need your help."

Sherlock really didn't know what to think about that, but with a quick look around to make sure they were still alone, he entered the little room.
There was John, in his undershirt and the suit trousers, with an apparent blush on his cheeks.

"What's wrong?"

"I – I ..."

"Stop stuttering, John, and just tell me."

"I can't get the zipper open. It's stuck somehow."

Sherlock's eyebrows lifted again to be quickly replaced with an exasperated look.
"Really, John? You call me for something like that?"

"I just don't want to rip something and I can't see it properly and also you are the one used to wearing suits this expensive. I'm sure I couldn't even afford trying them on." John retorted, his blush burning angrily.

"Yes alright, I'll help you. Just stop fussing."

Sherlock went down on his knees in front of John.
His eyes were level with the zipper now.
He could hear John's uneven breathing above him and he knew if he didn't have as much self-control as he did, his body would be showing similar reactions. But as it was, he seemed perfectly calm – at least on the outside.

He concentrated on John's zipper.
First: analyzing the problem.
Nothing visible from the outside. So the troublemaker was on the inside.
Sherlock groaned internally.
He might be a high-functioning sociopath, but even he knew that it wouldn't do them any good if he looked inside of John's trousers now – especially with John's current condition which was already becoming worse.
Only other option: the violent way.

"John, suck in your stomach."
When John did as he was told, Sherlock grasped the waistband of the trousers (he could hear John sucking in a breath), pulled them up and then brutally pulled the zipper.
Nothing happened. The zipper was still stuck.
He tried again. Still no success.
So the other way.

"John, it seems there's a piece of fabric stuck from the inside. We'll have to find it, grab it and then simultaneously pull the zipper."

"Alright."

John's hand wandered to the hem of his trousers, but Sherlock stopped him.
His curiosity had won over his social manners – and it was John after all. He knew how Sherlock was and Sherlock wanted to know how John would react.

"I'll do it. As you said before, you can't see anything from this angle and you'll just hurt yourself or the cloth."

"Sherlock, I'm not sure that's a good ... " Their eyes met and John's protest died. He nodded.

Slowly, Sherlock's hand wandered to the waistband and, with one confirming look to John, slipped inside.
It was a strange angle to put his hand into somebody else's trousers and Sherlock had to fumble around to find the stuck fabric.
From above him came muffled noises. He glanced up and saw John biting his lips to keep silent.

Hiding a little grin, Sherlock went back to work.
Let's see how long he can keep his voice to himself.
His hand twitched to the side and brushed John. A whimper from above.
Sherlock acted as if he hadn't noticed and continued his path.

"Sherlock, can you please hurry up a bit?"

Sherlock distorted his mouth but focused a bit more on the original task – although with an additional punishing brush against John from time to time, drawing little sounds from him which made Sherlock feel smug. But the detective knew that he couldn't keep this up or his body would win over his discipline soon.
Finally, when he found he couldn't draw it out any longer, he pulled on the stuck cloth and opened the zipper.

"There, all fixed." Sherlock said and got up.

"Thanks, Sherlock." John had his head turned away, apparently trying to hide his blush.

"I'll go and pay." Best to let him have some privacy now.

"Yes, I'll just ... finish."

Sherlock left the fitting room with a barely hidden smile. Well, that had been interesting.
John was definitely not as straight as he always pretended to be.
It was obvious that he (and his body) was interested in more than just kissing Sherlock.
He needed more data.

Back in the main room, Monsieur Henry had returned and Sherlock put on his usual neutral face again.

"Is everything alright, Monsieur?"

"Yes, everything's fine." Sherlock replied, glanced at the door to the next room and then quietly added, "I want to buy the pearl white one, too. But make it separate. Deliver it tomorrow. My landlady will take care of it."

"Of course, Monsieur Holmes." Mr. Henry added with a wink.

Sherlock ignored him and quickly paid the bill without batting an eye. He had enough money.

"Merci, Monsieur Holmes. I will send the delivery right away."

John emerged from the fitting room, looking his usual self again, although a bit rumpled and his blush was still prominent.

"Come on, John, we don't have time to waste." Sherlock went to the door.

"But – the suits?" John asked quizzically, but followed him anyway.

"They'll be delivered in half an hour."

"Of course they are." John sighed as they climbed into a cab. "Where are we going?"

"Back to Baker Street. We still need to pack."