John absolutely loves when Sherlock wears jeans. Like, a lot. Like, when Sherlock wears jeans he wants to bend him over the kitchen table or any table, really, even the desk in Lestrade's office.
Sherlock thought he looked like a bum when he wore jeans. He didn't like to dress up but he thought jeans was a bit too dressed down. Especially to go on a case.
Sherlock had a particular pair of jeans that John loved. They were dark blue, faded, stretched to perfection, and never, ever, ever washed. If Sherlock could help it he never washed any of his jeans, he hated when they were stiff from laundry detergent and heat. These jeans fit his slight curves perfectly, were just the right length, and they were just extremely tight and hot.
John stared. The entire time Sherlock paced the crime scene, he stared. Then, Sherlock would squat next to the body, and he'd pull his jeans up as high as they'd go and inch them up his thigh so they didn't fall when he squatted. Plus, Sherlock always rolled the edge of his jeans up once. The texture on that part of the fabric annoyed him. So, John could see his ankles.
And his ankles that were connected to his worn, black Converse All-Stars that John bought him and he claimed he'd never wear -but he did, once they were perfectly worn out, which means he had Lestrade run them over a few times.
And under those worn, black Converse All-Stars, there were no socks. Sherlock didn't wear socks with his Converse, and maybe that's what made his feet smell so funky all the time, but right now John liked it. He really had no idea why.
And above the hips that were holding up those perfectly snug jeans was a t-shirt. And Sherlock never wore t-shirts, if he could help it. He liked buttons, and to this day John didn't know why. But this was the softest t-shirt he owned. He would wear it and John would rub him all over -in a nonsexual way, of course. And the shirt made John laugh. It was Tardis blue, and had a picture of a Dalek printed on it.
Watching Sherlock and seeing how he was dressed, picking out every piece of boyish charm that was on him right now, John realized he was sexually attracted to a 35-year-old man dressed as a 15-year-old boy. And part of him really didn't think that was normal, so he looked away. But then, Sherlock stood and adjusted his jeans, adjusted everything inside those jeans, and John couldn't help but stare. They were just so tight.
John could swear he could see everything. But maybe he was imagining everything, because he hoped nobody else could see everything. John looked around the group, one of the new intern girls was staring. Oh, John could have punched her, then he remembered that she was probably 22-years-old, female, a lot smaller than John, and really no threat. Not only was she too young for Sherlock, but she was also female.
They got a cab home, and once in the door John wasted zero time. He bent those pretty little jeans over the kitchen table and just touched. He touched every inch of Sherlock's jeans, soft shirt, curly mop of dirty hair, and what little skin was showing. With Sherlock's shirt still on, John inched it up his back and traced his finger trails with his tongue. He just wanted all of Sherlock's un-bathed skin.
"John." Sherlock's voice was soft and very sexy.
"Don't talk, baby, oh don't talk."
"I just thought I'd tell you before you claw away at my skin that I'm not wearing any underwear."
And those pretty little jeans were on the floor in seconds.