In my head (and probably for my own sinister purposes), the tailor in this chapter looks more than a bit like Tom Hardy. Thanks as always surprisingly from behind to my beta and enabler Lyrium Flower without whom I may have been more normal (or at the very least more sane) as well as to all of you - special mentions to Mirith Griffin and braxy29 here - who have reviewed, favourited and followed. Slash.

Five Times Sherlock Came In His Pants…And The One Time He Didn't

Three

He'd grown again, his slender frame bordering on skinny, and, after a relatively slow start, making definitive forays into gangly. His bony ankles now stuck out of the bottom of his school trousers, overlarge feet completing the image of some funereal clown. At seventeen his mother unexpectedly announced that it was past time he got measured for his first suit although she airily dismissed his school uniform as 'good for another year at least', much to his dismay. They were to go together to Savile Row and then afterwards for afternoon tea in yet another transparent attempt at a mother-son bonding session, more than likely at Mycroft's instigation. Sherlock viewed the whole approaching exercise with a mixture of hope, trepidation and resignation, predicting a long, awkward afternoon in a crowded tearoom with him making peremptory observations about the people around them and watching her out of the corner of his eye for a reaction. As usual her gaze would be flitting around the room and resting on everyone but him whilst she made distant enquiries about his schoolwork.

Suits were pointless, he thought. He'd grow out of this one before he ever had to attend a wedding (no one in his family was likely to get hitched any time soon – his thoughts went briefly to Mycroft but the patently ridiculous idea was swiftly dismissed with a snort), attend an interview (universities would accept him or not, clothes were no substitute for intellect) or a funeral, although sudden deaths were obviously tricky to predict. Suits were for the unimaginative, for those who wanted to fade into the background, to become one of the chattering, ordinary, brain-dead commuter crowd. Suits were boring.

Still, Mumm- Mother- was set on the idea and one chilly spring morning they boarded a train for London, Sherlock sitting hunched and sulky, forehead resting on the window, watching the ordinary, uncomplicated lives fly by and wondering how people withstood the banality of their mundane existence. One claustrophobic, olfactory assault of a taxi ride later they entered a small, brightly lit shop which appeared to be empty of everything apart from three suits on hangers spaced equidistantly around the room, a counter, a pair of ornate chairs and a recessed changing room with heavy velvet curtains. Sherlock's mother clicked her way across to the counter and rang the bell briskly. A young man in his shirtsleeves promptly appeared still chewing what was obviously the remnants of his lunch, a tape measure hanging around his neck and the first two buttons of his exquisitely fitted shirt undone. He smiled pleasantly and then cast a quick up and down glance at Sherlock who pursed his lips and eyed him back imperiously. The quick up and down turned into a slower appraisal whilst the tailor sucked his thumb and smirked at him, obviously amused.

"And how may I help Sir and Madam today?"

"A suit, please, for my son."

"Any particular occasion? What are you looking for?"

Sherlock tuned out their conversation about cloth, cut and colour and turned his head to look out of the window, keeping the tailor in his peripheral vision without being too obvious. His hair was an unremarkable sand colour but thick and soft looking, his eyes a startling blue. Middle class, Estuary accent almost completely overcome – elocution lessons or intense practice, mid-20s, clothes provided by shop but well fitted and cared for. He watched him flash a bright smile at his mother who involuntarily touched her hair in response. Good looking, uses it to his advantage when selling to women. He blinked and looked away quickly as the tailor caught his eye and winked. Men too, where...appropriate. Flushing, he stuck his hands in his pockets and turned towards the suit hanging beside him.

He jumped as the tailor brushed past in a puff of warm air and dragged a low step out from against the wall. "Shall we get measuring then?"

"I'll leave you to it, darling," said his mother absently. "Back soon."

"Take your time," replied the tailor, gesturing to Sherlock to step up onto the block. The bell on the door chimed gently as he stared after his mother in mild consternation before slamming his foot down harder onto the stool than was strictly necessary. "Name's Vic, by the way," the man added, smiling up at him. "This won't take long, slip your coat off please."

Feeling oddly naked in a lightweight jumper Sherlock settled for resting his gaze in the middle distance but couldn't help flinching slightly at the first soft touch of the tape on his shoulder.

"Arms first," said Vic, running his thumb down to Sherlock's wrist, warmth laying gently on his pulse point for a brief second before he picked a pencil from behind his ear and scribbled onto a small notepad. "All right, now shoulders." Again the touch of tape, fingers running gently across his back. He squirmed slightly. "Ticklish, are you?" Sherlock grunted noncommittally and heard a soft chuckle from behind him. "Nice and broad for someone your age. What are you, sixteen? Seventeen?"

"Seventeen."

"I remember seventeen. Seventeen was crap. Lots of things going on and none of them making sense."

Sherlock risked a sidelong glance to find Vic looking up at him. He gave him a lopsided grin and a one sided shrug, relaxing slightly. "I'm going to university soon. Everything will be better there."

"Good for you. Back now." A warm hand was placed gently at the nape of his neck, drifting down until it found the knobble of his C7, leaving raised hairs in its wake. It rested there whilst the other traced the bumps of his vertebrae slowly to the small of his back.

"You cold?"

"No."

"I can turn the heater up if you like."

"I'm fine. It's...I'm fine."

"Ok, well you let me know. Waist now, jumper up, please."

Sherlock lifted his jumper tentatively and watched as the tailor's arms came around him, the fingers of one pressing lightly against his belly as the other skimmed the tape over pale, twitching skin. "Hips." He breathed in sharply through his nose as the arms disappeared and hands rested on the curve of his buttocks, smoothing the tape down and around, trying not to press himself forward as they travelled lightly over the top of his groin. He suddenly became aware his breathing had sped up and clenched his fists, twisting cashmere between his fingers and concentrating on the wall opposite.

"Coming round the front, Sir. And you can pull your top down now." His voice was low and warm and as Sherlock watched the top of his head and wondered what it would feel like to plunge his hand into that thick hair Vic looked up at him, eyes dancing with amusement and a hint of...something. Flushing, he glanced away quickly, lips thinning. He's laughing at me. A soft touch on his hand drew his gaze back and he saw Vic looking at him with concern shading grey into that brilliant blue.

"Nearly done, Sir, but we can wait 'til your mum gets back if you'd prefer."

"No." It was out before he could stop it and he snapped his mouth shut quickly. "Just finish it please."

Holding his gaze Vic nodded and slowly reached out a hand. Sherlock found himself following the path of those fine fingers towards him as if they were riding an invisible wake only he could see, the air parting smoothly before them until they reached the still raised hem of his jumper and pulled at it gently. The cloth fell out of his nerveless fingers as the warmth of soft skin trailed down his stomach. He made a tiny noise of protest in the back of his throat as the hand was removed and closed his eyes. So desperate, Sherlock sang Mycroft's voice in his head. How humiliating for you.

"Are you all right?" He nodded without opening his eyes.

"Need to take measurements for the trousers, Sir."

His eyes flew open as a hand gripped one hip gently, giving it a small squeeze before running down the outside of his leg to his ankle, encircling it with a brush of thumb against the bony prominence. Lateral malleolus Sherlock thought feverishly, biting the inside of his lip.

"Inside leg now," said Vic softly and Sherlock almost groaned aloud at the purr in his voice. Fingers trailed agonisingly slowly up his calf to his inner thigh then on to the crease of his groin, the faintest brush of knuckles causing an involuntary hiss to escape.

"Long legs," Vic muttered. "I've a nice fit for that." He stood up slowly and raised his chin. "All done," he murmured, moving closer until his face was inches away, looping the tape measure carefully back around his neck. Sherlock picked up the end, feeling the warmth of the metal tip and then dropped it again, thumb rubbing against fingers nervously, watching the other man inch forwards as if approaching a skittish animal.

"It's all right, Sir. Everything's fine." Vic grinned suddenly, wide and brilliant, unbearably handsome, a joyous sparkle in his eyes.

"Yes," whispered Sherlock, his mind in free fall for the first time ever, the gravity of that blue, blue gaze drawing him in. He started as the bell chimed suddenly and jerked backwards, unaware he had been tilting towards those soft, smiling lips, stepping away quickly and almost falling headlong off the step.

"All done," said Vic easily, clearing his throat. "Come back in a few hours, I've something in that will be perfect, just needs adjusting. Careful off that step now, Sir," he added as Sherlock tottered down on wobbly legs

Sherlock's mother nodded, eyes on her watch, and beckoned him out. He scooped his coat up awkwardly and hurried after her, steeling himself not to look round, feeling Vic's gaze on the back of his neck as the ghost of a large, warm hand.

Afternoon tea was as he predicted although not quite as awkward as he'd envisioned; his thoughts frequently wandered towards gentle hands on his body, his imagination sending them further and with increasing boldness each time he revisited the sense memories. He shifted in his chair and tried to concentrate on the surrounding patrons.

"You're awfully quiet, Sherlock." His mother's gaze was sharp on him and he looked up, startled.

"Headache," he managed, trying not to flush, but to his relief her eyes were already elsewhere.

It had started to drizzle as they re-entered the shop hours later, Sherlock shivering for reasons entirely unrelated to the chill of the rain. Vic appeared at the jingle of the bell, gesturing his mother to one of the ornate chairs. He smiled at him directly, a slow, warm curl of the lips that made Sherlock's stomach drop, and inclined his head at the changing room.

"I've hung the suit in there with a shirt so you can get an idea of how the whole ensemble will look." Sherlock nodded mutely and set off towards the curtained cubicle. "Give me a shout if you need anything," Vic called after him.

Buttoning the jacket he hardly recognised himself in the mirror. The suit was a rich black wool, well cut, classic and perfectly fitted. The shirt was a muted...green? Blue? He couldn't decide but it felt smooth and cool against his skin. There was a rustle of cloth and Vic appeared beside him.

"Nice," he said slowly. "Very nice. Had this suit earmarked for myself but it looks a lot better on you. Fit ok?" He brushed a hand over Sherlock's shoulder, stepping closer and tilting his head in appreciation.

"I think so."

"Would you like me to check?"

Sherlock hesitated, catching the other man's gaze in the mirror. "Yes. Please."

Vic huffed a warm breath onto the back of his neck, arms coming around him to pull at the hem of the jacket, smoothing up his chest to straighten the lapels, holding his gaze, almost daring him to blink.

"Collar emphasises that lovely long neck. Maybe a brighter colour in the shirt for you next time, contrast that pale skin of yours." Hands moved downwards and Sherlock gasped as they settled on his hips, feeling the older man's chest against his back. "Good. Not too tight, skims you in all the right places." His hands came around, palms flattening against his groin and Sherlock bucked into them, throwing his head back against a shoulder, his eyes falling shut. "Good thing we worked in some pleats here, eh?" Vic breathed into his ear as he began to move his hands slowly, tracing his length, gently stroking and squeezing until Sherlock was biting on his own hand, desperate to keep from whimpering aloud. He writhed gently, supported by Vic's chest, dizzy with sensation, feeling his release rushing towards him in great white wave.

"One last thing, I think." A sudden absence of warmth as Vic pulled away and Sherlock keened softly at the loss of friction as he felt himself turned, strong arms coming around to reach behind his head. A whisper of touch as soft cashmere was looped around his neck then a hand at the small of his back as he pressed himself helplessly into the other man, insensible of everything, the hum of the lights, the sounds of traffic outside, the creak of the chair as his mother shifted impatiently. He heard Vic make a low, pleased noise, lips against his neck, the scarf was tightened constricting his throat and all of a sudden he was coming with hot, shuddering breaths, his face buried in the tailor's shoulder, only half aware of hands coming up to rub soothing circles into his back.

When he was once again capable of coherent thought he found himself alone. He took off the suit, hanging it carefully before throwing his clothes on as fast as humanly possible and wincing at the state of his underwear. Nothing to be done about that, unfortunately. He stepped out of the cubicle and stopped short, pinned like an ant under a magnifying glass by his mother's accusatory gaze. Vic was back behind the counter, chatting amiably about the weather but for once her focus was sharply, intensely on Sherlock and he found himself quailing inwardly at her frozen expression.

"We need to go," she snapped after a few excruciating seconds had passed, turning her icy stare onto the tailor who blinked a couple of times in quick succession. "I'd like to pay."

"Of course." Vic nodded. "We'll have the suit delivered in a few days. Shop policy is to dry clean before releasing it, free of charge of course." Out of the corner of his eye Sherlock saw a faint grimace pass over his mother's face before she nodded abruptly and unsnapped her handbag.

"I'd like the scarf as well." He ventured, clutching it in both hands and staring at his shoes.

"We didn't come here for accessories, Sherlock," said his mother crushingly. "I think you've had quite enough today, thank you."

"Keep it," said Vic from behind the counter. He flashed a quick smile as they both darted a look at him. "I'll throw it in for free. Suits you, Sir," he added, his grin fading into a softer, warmer expression, directing a slight nod at Sherlock.

They left hurriedly, Sherlock not daring to look back. Afterwards he found, to feelings of mixed relief and intense guilt that he was never called upon for another excruciating attempt at a bonding session. In fact Mother seemed to ignore him even more, much to Mycroft's consternation and mild puzzlement, but that, he decided, was perfectly fine with him.

He also found that slipping on a well cut suit gave him a strange, sly thrill that never really faded over the years and the less said about scarves, the better. For one of the few times in his life he acknowledged that he had been gravely mistaken in his beliefs.

Suits were not boring at all.