John Watson was known for many things, but being a complete and utter arse wasn't one of them. He was an exceptionally talented doctor, had a kind personality, and tended to wear the weirdest sweaters Sherlock had ever seen. It was a god awful quirk the doctor had, but in truth Sherlock would never change it for anything. If John could put up with his constant experiments and mood swings, the least he could do was tolerate the abomination's John sometimes wore. Though, as he stood in their flat that morning, a cup of tea in hand, it was hard not to want to scream out loud when John stepped out of his room.

"Hey, you got the tea started?" John asked nonchalantly as he shuffled into the kitchen. He sidestepped the dead body parts scattered on the floor with a rather confused face. "I see you've been experimenting again, Sherlock."

"Your sweater is hideous," Sherlock blurted out as he took a seat in his favorite chair.

Though, for Sherlock's sake, John hadn't heard it above the roar of the garbage truck outside. "Hmm, what did you say?"

"Um, nothing. Good morning."

"Good morning?" a confused John answered back as he took the seat across from Sherlock.

"So, do you have any cases for today? Or was making our kitchen into a morgue all you had planned?"

Sherlock looked up at the blonde man, completely and utterly in deep concentration. "What?" he asked distracted.

"Are you okay, Sherlock? I can get you some-"

"John, I'm sorry but I can't sit here knowing you agreed to wear that sweater! It's an absolute tragedy, and I can't let you out of this flat in it!"

This time, however, there wasn't a miracle to hide Sherlock's mistake. With an exasperated look, John glanced down at his soft grey sweater. It was knitted by his mother, yes, and it had black elegant swirls across the chest area, but in no way was it a tragedy. In fact, most of his friends had complimented him on it and had even asked for one themselves.

"What are you talking about? I quite like this one. And who are you to say what I can and cannot wear?"

"Oh god, that again? It's important to me whether people laugh at you!"

"Laugh at me, what are you talking about? No one does that, Sherlock. It's not primary school; I think they have better stuff to do then laugh at a sweater."

A quiet snort came from the consulting detective as he sipped his tea. "They do little else."

At that, John's face burned bright red with embarrassment. "Who laughs, Sherlock?"

"No one, John. It's not important anymore."

"No, you were so keen to poke fun at me about my sweater. So, why can't you tell me the names?"

Sherlock glanced at John knowing he was going to have to tell the blonde man eventually. But, as Sherlock rose up out of his seat, he would try to prolong it as long as possible.

"Lestrade mentioned the killer from last week. That guy was clever enough to hide the body in the wall as I suspected. Those murderers are brilliant; I love the brilliant ones- they always keep-"

"Sherlock!"

The taller man stopped his pacing and removed his hands from his lips. "You want to know the names, I suppose?"

"Of course I want to know the bloody names!" In his anger, John hadn't even known he'd gotten out of his seat until he was standing inches from Sherlock's face.

"Lestrade and Donavan, and the whole Yard," he whispered.

The alarmingly bright shade of red that had previously been on the doctors face turned to a muddy green in a matter of seconds. "All of them?"

"Yes. Oh, perhaps I should mention that Mycroft and his assistant were laughing too. Though, he laughs at anything in his puny world."

John's eyes began to tear up, something that made Sherlock's heart shatter in the weirdest way. He had never been one for love and found it rather useless in the end. But when John, his John, started to cry, over something he'd said, well it was enough to make him broken.

"John," Sherlock began, but was cut off by a quick kiss.

"Thank you."

"Wait, for what?"

"For finally telling the truth, above all else." John shrugged with a big smile, the ghost of tears being wiped away as he reclaimed his seat on the sofa.

"I'm not following? Why aren't you crying anymore?"

"I was testing you, obviously. It was for my own little experiment. It doesn't matter to me whether they like my sweater or not," John said simply, his little smirk growing bigger.

"Then you- you weren't really sad at what I told you?"

"Not in the slightest."

Sherlock stood in the middle of the flat for a few moments in complete shock before he sat down and wrapped an arm around the doctor.

"Well, were you findings conclusive?" Sherlock whispered, nibbling John's ear.

"Quite right, in fact."