A/N Established relationship alert!
Thanks to DuShuZi, DandyLeonine, Hummingbird1759, MapleleafCameo, bazingaitsshamy, CakeBook, johnsarmylady
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
XLIX. Stripes
Sherlock seems inexplicably fond of John's jumper sometimes. Not the thickly cable-knit, cream-shaded one, but rather one of the thinner variety—specifically, the garment shaded in wide, solid stripes of black and white, the one that he's had for years. Harry used to tease him, claim that it made him look like a convict zebra, but he himself has always rather liked it. It's comfortable, the cloth soft and nowhere near scratchy, and fits him perfectly even after all this time.
And one of its greatest advantages is that Sherlock doesn't seem to mind it at all. He'll occasionally scoff at some of John's apparently lesser outfit choices, rolling his eyes and adjusting the always-pristine collar of his own flawlessly ironed shirt (sometimes a pale off-white, otherwise deep grey or vivid purple) and averting his eyes purposefully. But when John's wearing the black-and-white jumper, well, Sherlock almost seems to watch him more, green-grey eyes focused on the garment from across the room, flicking quickly away when John's own gaze met his.
"What is it that you like so much about the stupid shirt, anyways?" he asks one day over breakfast. He's wearing the jumper, of course, the ends of the sleeves pushed back to avoid any potential stains from the strawberry jam that he's spreading over half of a toasted bagel.
The detective grumbles something, running his fingers over the newspaper unfolded in front of him. "Like? Who says I like it?"
"I say you like it," John half-teases. "Come on, I've seen the way you look at it. I'm not all stupid, you know," he adds cuttingly, taking a small bite of his breakfast and sitting back to watch Sherlock struggle. "So, go ahead. Is it the pattern? Colors?"
"Lack of colors," Sherlock corrects under his breath, then shrugs. "It… I suppose it suits you."
"Suits me," John repeats, his eyebrows raised incredulously. "Well. Thanks, I suppose? That isn't really… the kind of thing you care about, I thought."
"Not on normal people…" The detective is looking more and more uncomfortable by the second, and he stares at the table, now drumming his fingers on the edge. "It's just—I suppose it could be considered… attractive, alright?" Now there's a flush creeping up his neck, the color of watermelon juice, and John's lips are curving into a grin at his partner's obvious humiliation.
"You think I'm attractive in it, huh?" he chuckles, bracing his elbows on the table and reaching out to hold his fingers over Sherlock's. "Nothing wrong with that. You aren't too bad in those insanely tight suits, you know."
Sherlock raises one hand to his own violet shirt, looking wary, as though there's a possibility that John's lying. "…I'm not?"
"No, you're not, you idiot. They're attractive, as well, though I can't possibly imagine how this old thing is." He rolls the edge of the jumper's sleeve between his fingertips, then shrugs. "Oh, well, if you like it, all the better for me, right?"
