A/N: Ugh so I've been having writers block all day today and even though I have a bunch of ideas dancing around in my head none of them want to go on paper. But I wanted to post another update today because I probably won't be posting much at all this week after Monday, so I dug this up from my old files and edited it a bit, but I'm still not happy. Well, ignore my whining and.. enjoy?

Word Count: 395-ish

Pairing(s): John/Sherlock

Warning(s): discrimination against deerstalkers, Sherlock's... fashion sense? Also fluff.

Hat

Sherlock hated that hat.

A deerstalker. It was the dumbest thing Sherlock had ever seen. There were ear flaps on the God forsaken thing, and it clashed with almost everything Sherlock ever wore. Sherlock would have never even approached the thing if it hadn't been an attempt to block his face from the press. And what a grave mistake that had been – the public ate it up and it quickly became something that people identified him with. It became not a deerstalker but a Sherlock Holmes Hat within the bounds of his apparent "fans" on John's blog and it bugged Sherlock to no end. He didn't even own the hat; Sherlock had even attempted to return it in a last-stitch effort to prove that it wasn't his, but the original owner had been an avid fan and insisted that he keep it.

Simply put, the deerstalker was the bane of his existence.

One night, in fact, Sherlock had been brewing an especially good acid in the kitchen and the idea to simply off the thing occurred to him. It would be simple enough – just pour acid all over it. It would be an interesting thing to watch and, anyway, the acidic experiment wasn't working the way he'd initially wanted it to. Getting the hat out of the way would be a major improvement to just pouring the stuff down the drain, especially because the last time he'd done that Mrs. Hudson had yelled at him.

Sherlock only got as far as holding the concoction above the deerstalker before John wandered in, eyebrows arched. "What are you doing?"

"I'm killing the hat," Sherlock informed him, waving the beaker demonstratively. John's expression fell.

"Oh," he said. "Really?"

Sherlock's eyebrows arched. Despite John's effort at a poker face it was obvious he wasn't pleased by the idea. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Oh, I don't know. I always thought it was kind of cute." John shrugged and, giving the hat an almost wistful glance, wandered out of the room again. Sherlock straightened up, holding the beaker loosely at his side and watching John leave. Only after he was absolutely certain that John wasn't coming back did Sherlock allow himself to blush, rubbing the back of his neck.

Cute?

Sherlock swore the deerstalker smirked at him from then on, but he never did get rid of it.

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