Two days later.
John entered the flat and blinked. Twice.
Sherlock was thinking (nothing unusual there), sprawled on the sofa with his eyes closed and his hands joined (nothing unusual there either), wearing a thick woollen jumper that looked like one of John's and a pair of really wide jeans ?
/
John, before noticing the trousers (those definitely weren't his — speaking more about the style than about the length, even though indeed they were obviously too long to be his), had first thought that Sherlock might have unintentionally (or not: he wouldn't put it past that man to decide on a boring day that he HAD to test RIGHT NOW every possible way to destroy every possible kind of fabrics) burned — either with acids or actual flames; or both — or/and torn apart his whole wardrobe and damaged too on the process whatever he had been wearing to the point that it couldn't be worn anymore either, and had borrowed one of his jumpers until the priority delivery from his usual tailor would arrive.
(Of course Sherlock had a regular tailor, from whom he ordered, thanks to a simple phone call, shirts and suits and everything, whenever he needed anything. It wasn't vanity at all – he didn't even choose his own clothes but just asked for example for three shirts and trusted the man's decisions over colours, patterns or textures. It was just how he had been raised, probably. And it was efficient, which was certainly the only thing that mattered to Sherlock in the end: he only had to go once a year for measurements, which was far less time-consuming than shopping, indeed. And it was all SO naturally Sherlock that John hadn't actually been surprised when he had found this out just a few weeks after moving into 221B; he had even kind of felt for a second like he was the unusual (and senseless) one in the flat.)
But 1) the flat wasn't a mess; and 2) the sleeves were the right length, and therefore too long for the jumper to be John's.
/
John though didn't want to disturb Sherlock — the only logical explanation John could think of was that he must be on a case, to be 1) lost in thoughts enough as to not notice that he had come in, and 2) in such a disguise, right? — so John went directly to the kitchen in order to unpack the groceries.
Nevertheless, his eyes couldn't help but get back to the surreal vision on the couch, and progressively stayed gazing longer and longer. It started as puzzling over the kind of case which would explain Sherlock's actual attires, but progressively turned into puzzling over the fact that Sherlock looked different. Those clothes made him look somehow younger — not meaning strictly younger though, because John had already seen Sherlock's demanding four-year old inner child, multiple times, and this was clearly something else…
John struggled to find the right word. Sherlock appeared… less in control? kind of fragile, due to the unusually loose, oversized fitting on his lean form? John's hand tingled from a sudden, novel desire to ruffle the normally awe-inspiring curls (John knew the insides of the bathroom cupboards enough to know that Sherlock did nothing at all with his hair, except thoroughly but quickly hair-dry it in order not to catch a cold), and John finally found the utterly shocking yet undeniably right adjective he had been looking for: attainable !?
To John, Sherlock (no matter how childish he could behave or how often he could look upon him as a sort of guide on some few subjects) always felt above. Not superior, mind you; simply above, literally: deity-like, somehow alien, unequivocally unique (and he was taller, too, all right…); even his tantrums were self-defining, and his numerous flaws felt worship-worthy. Sherlock called only for the most superlative combinations: he was spectacularly ignorant, splendidly annoying, exceptionally and mind-blowingly clever, superbly arrogant, gloriously regalian (even in ruffled PJ's), and always, always magnificent, on both extremes of any spectrum you'd try to place him into. Sherlock was too much, or not enough; he was never average — and even less 'attainable'.
So. This felt more than a bit not good, you bet, because John realised with embarrassment that he was, in fact, 'enjoying the view'…
John had acknowledged right away that Sherlock was beautiful: not in an obvious, poster-in-a-trendy-magazine way; but in an ethereal, eternal way which held you captivated once you had noticed it — and John was straight, but he had eyes.
He had never been physically affected by that fact before that instant though; it had been nothing more than that, a fact, which wouldn't have been out of place in a list such as 'the sun is blinding, the sky is blue, the grass is green, and Sherlock is beautiful' — simple truths that only a blind would fail to see.
The (temporary!) attraction that had developed lately hadn't changed that fact much either: John reacted to Sherlock being Sherlock — deducting, scrutinizing, and such: more brainy and sentimental causes than actual physical pull. At least John had thought, until now... But, with Sherlock lying there looking like a man instead of the habitually untouchable (in a sacred sense) statue, John couldn't not notice how truly magnificent Sherlock was, physically speaking too! Hell. Who would have ever thought that one fluffy jumper and some baggy jeans would make such a difference ? And, more important, how could John successfully erase that vision from his brain…
John remembered himself to refocus on emptying the last bag.
Sherlock let out a sigh. "This isn't working."
John was shaken out of his contemplations and the meaning of Sherlock's words hit him as he met Sherlock's concerned gaze: the clothes weren't related to a case; they were related to his idiotic current situation.
John went through three different emotions in a matter of seconds. First, he was stunned. Then, he felt guilty. And then he realised that Sherlock had gone shopping, and it broke through his self-conscious mood: the idea alone of Sherlock in front of a stack of clothes was laugh-inducing; so, reality? added to the terrible irony of the result being so contrary to the wished outcome? John chuckled, even though agreeing with honesty. "Not really. No."
Sherlock made the usual irritated helpless little noise he made whenever something displeased him because it wasn't how things should work and started pacing back and forth: "I bought the most shapeless, colour-neutral clothes I could find. Why isn't it working? It doesn't make any sense!"
The contrast though between the robotic moves and the wide-fit clothes wasn't exactly improving John's state of mind: it only made Sherlock look cute, for God's sake! So John worked on sobering up enough to help Sherlock sort things out, and asked with a genuine interest (as always): "How did such a massive brain as yours come up with such a silly idea anyway?"
Sherlock looked offended, yet puzzled; and the need to know, of course, won over. "Well, from past observations it should have been effective."
"Observations?"
Sherlock eyed him with his customary 'do I really have to explain the obvious?' expression. "Well, you! Your preference goes to clothes in which you feel comfortable, and they are generally wide and cover up your musculature." John must have done a funny face then because Sherlock, after a 'Come on!' trademark sigh, quickly added "You were in the Army, and I've heard you doing push-ups and such regularly enough over the years to know that you stayed fit" before coming back on tracks. "But when you went out for dates you dressed up, and the lines of your body were more visible. Conclusion: when one wants to be inconspicuous, one should put on wide clothes."
John fought the urge to giggle: in what universe would Sherlock ever be inconspicuous anyway? "I guess you never heard about the long skirt versus short skirt thing, huh." The sceptical look Sherlock gave him was the only answer he needed, so John explained. "Sometimes, the less you see, the more you want to see. Fascination for the unknown and such…"
Sherlock seemed to process this, and then nodded. And then he nearly gave John a heart-attack: "Should you see me naked then?" he asked seriously, hands on the down edge of the jumper, ready to pull it off.
John's heart missed a beat and John was ready to bet that he was blushing.
In anybody else's voice, those words would have been laced with innuendo, and John's body felt like reacting accordingly to that knowledge, especially as it had already been titillated just moments before. But this was Sherlock's voice, and it was to the point and practical, and there was only method and pure logic in it; and it was just so innocent and so quintessentially Sherlock that it was positively endearing — which only made John's heart and brain yearn even more for that gorgeous man. Vicious circle, once more. He was doomed, maybe, wasn't he?
So John helplessly shrieked: "No !", waving of his hands included. Sherlock's hands left the jumper and John calmed down enough to stutter an answer to Sherlock's ever inquisitive eyes. "No. I… I was just explaining to you that you actually did not take everything into account when you theorized (pointing at the clothes) this… I was speaking… generalities, and generalities rarely apply when you're concerned anyway... In that particular case, I… I think it gets my attention because you look different than normal, I mean, than your usual... So. I appreciate the gesture; but if you're trying to, huh, help, well... Suits, gown, PJ's; any combination thereof is fine. But now isn't the best time to reconsider your clothing style."
There was a beat of silence. And then Sherlock made a tactical retreat to his bedroom to change: "I'll be right back."
John suddenly wondered about the terrible fate that most probably awaited the now redundant clothes and couldn't help but shout at Sherlock's back. "Do whatever you want with the pants, but do keep the jumper: it might turn out handy next time you accidentally damage the heating system in the heart of winter…"
John shook his head, smiling to the ceiling. All those things Sherlock did, for him, for them, lately… After all John had been through, it was nice, definitely: the whole situation was problematic, but at least John would never be able to doubt again about Sherlock's attachment to him. So, all in all, this was a very good thing…
AN: Confession time. The 'with a minor adaptation' arc in my verse is actually based upon a silly thought I had a few months ago of Sherlock in baggy jeans and woollen jumper asking John if he should see him naked. It was such a funny thing (and hum, a nice vision), I just HAD to write it down So I hope you enjoyed this particular bit as much as I do, because it is what started this whole bit of silly fluffiness