A/N And then there was utter crackfluff. ;P (and sorry, Mapleleaf, but only I will ever know if he survived that one ;D)

Thanks to MapleleafCameo, johnsarmylady, and estefani1509

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

XVIII. Rainbow

John's the one to typically wear jumpers, in the first place. He has that rare something about him that makes such a ridiculous manner of dress not just acceptable, but almost… nice-looking. It's never come near crossing Sherlock's mind to say such a thing, of course—after all, his fashion sense, if it could be called that, is the very image of sleek superiority, tight-buttoned shirts and gleaming suits leaving only the question of how they could be afforded on the low budget that the two scrape by on. That's the kind of thing he wears, and chances are that it always will be. Nobody ever questions it.

Except, it would seem, for Harry Watson.

He stares down at the crumpled package in his lap, the thing apparently deemed a 'gift' peeking out from folds of glossy wrapping paper. He never expected any sort of present from John's sister, and was admittedly rather suspicious when initially confronted with it, but this is just absurd.

In fact, what is this?

A jumper, certainly, thick, soft, and cable-knit, like so many of John's. In fact, he would have thought it intended for the doctor if not for the very clearly inked name on the little reindeer-covered tag: Sherlock Holmes, from Harry Watson. In a suspiciously purposeful hand, though one obviously plagued with the shakiness of John's alcoholic sister.

The oddest thing about the garment is, however, its coloring. It's nothing unobtrusive such as dark grey or pale cream. The jumper is eye-singeing, dyed in thick, bold horizontal stripes of red, orange, green, blue, purple… a rainbow, in fact, or at least an overly vivid interpretation of one. Meant to be displayed across his chest, like some sort of… flag…

"Oh, God."

Hearing John's voice, he glances up, still absentmindedly rubbing the soft fabric between his fingers. His flatmate is watching him with an expression caught somewhere between amusement and horror, half-bent over in the process of scooping up some other ripped remnants of wrapping paper scattered across the floor.

"Harry?" he asks, and Sherlock nods once. John proceeds to hastily intervene, tugging away the colorful clothing and swearing under his breath.

"It has some significance, doesn't it?"

"What?"

"The rainbow."

"Oh. Well…" John ducks away, but Sherlock, catching a glimpse of his face before it turns, notices a humiliated flush. "It's… representative of a certain… group of people, yes."

These words cause something buried deep inside his mind, something catalogued as very unlikely to prove useful, to stir. It takes less than a second to bring it up to the front, and once it's present, he realizes just how painfully obvious it is.

"LGBT," he growls delicately. Each syllable of the carefully enunciated acronym slips into the air as smoothly as a razor blade, and when he rotates his head to properly view John again, he finds the doctor to be seemingly paralyzed, the back of his neck flaming to the very roots of his dark blonde hair.

"Well… yeah. Don't take it personally. She's an idiot. Probably still suspicious of—well… of us. Just making ridiculous assumptions. I'll throw this rubbish out and give her a call… she probably thinks that this is funny somehow…"

His voice fades out as he exits the room, leaving Sherlock to stare vaguely into space. The four letters expand and contract in his mind's eye, rearrange themselves obsessively, drape their meanings before him, then whisk them away again.

Lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender.

Gay…

Interesting.