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John Watson was getting an unusual early night. Running through London at all hours had become almost customary recently, so to find himself in bed before midnight was a novelty he was very much enjoying. That is, until he was rudely interrupted.
Just as the slow slide of unconsciousness was beginning to descend around him, John felt it. That tiny twitch at his collarbone. The soft, silky snuffle that indicated Sherlock had pressed his nose against him. It was cold. The temperatures outside had dropped with the first snowfall of winter and Sherlock, as ever, was too stubborn to wrap up warm of his own accord.
“S’lock?” John tried to articulate, still clinging to that last vestiges of sleep.
There was a rustle of sheet and John felt the weighted flop of Sherlock’s ears against his throat. That twitching nose snuffling all the time at his bed-warmed skin, seeking out the heat.
“You’re frozen.” John said.
“Yes.” Sherlock said, “Which is why I need your jumper.”
Cold hands made their way beneath the woollen jumper John had worn to bed to fend off the cold.
“You know, you can’t keep doing this.” John advised, stretching to sit up against the headboard anyway and dislodging Sherlock from his furtive search for warmth.
The bunny-eared detective had not climbed into the bed , merely stood hunched over it. His nose twitched again now, wrinkling in both indignance and rebellion.
“You could buy your own jumper.” John advised, “and socks.”
He glanced down at the detective’s legs. In nothing but a long t-shirt John recognised as at least one item of clothing Sherlock owned, the great git had appropriated John’s rugby socks and was wearing them pulled up as far as they would go.
“Pyjamas Sherlock. That would help.”
“I spilled acid on them.” Sherlock shrugged, as if this was an everyday occurrence - which it almost was - and that the careless taking of John’s possessions was the only logical solution.
Sherlock’s long dark ears had drooped however, flopping over so the tips were buried in amongst his inky curls. A telltale sign, however much he tried to deny it, that Sherlock was feeling apprehensive. This wasn’t the first time he’d come to John’s room to steal body heat, and it probably wouldn’t be the last, still, he seemed nervous about it as John argued.
Stretching and rearranging himself into a kneel on the bed, facing Sherlock, John stripped the warm garment from his body and manhandled Sherlock into the jumper. Sherlock dropped his head obediently and John pulled at the collar, widening the gap to skim over Sherlock’s ears without pulling on the silky hair. John sat back and Sherlock twisted into the arm holes. John watched as the large bundle of cloth, finally seated correctly on his shoulders, but much too big for Sherlock’s slender frame, slid down to mid-thigh. The jumper was big on John too which was why the cuffs dropped down below Sherlock’s wrists and almost covered his hands.
Truth be told, John had bought the item of clothing with this scenario in mind. The oversized jumper made it possible that the sleeves and torso would be long enough to cover Sherlock, who was much taller than John but insisted on wearing his clothes anyway. It also made it much more comfortable on the nights when John did not wake up at the first press of a soft bud of a nose against his skin, only find himself sharing his clothing while still wearing it, Sherlock wriggling and burrowing under the soft wool, heavy ears laying flat against John’s belly.
“Better?” John asked, rearranging the duvet to cover himself against the bite of cold his lack of jumper left him exposed to.
“Much.” Sherlock nodded. He pulled the neckline of the jumper up over his nose and John could see the fabric shift as his nose snuffled and wriggled against the scent. “Smells like you.”
“Er.. Thanks?”
“It’s a good thing.”
“Right.”
There was a beat of silence and Sherlock hopped from foot to foot.
“Suits you.” John said unexpectedly. “I mean… you look, cute, good... yeah.”
“Thank you, John.” Sherlock said, the hop in his gait a little more pronounced as it was when John praised him. He probably hadn’t meant to do it, so John didn’t bring it up. “So you don’t mind?”
“You stealing my jumper?” John asked, smiling fondly. “No, not really.”
“Good.” Sherlock paused for another moment before turning and leaving John’s room. John watched him go with a soft smile.
A tiny gasp of humour caught in his throat as he watched Sherlock leave. The jumper, long enough to drop down over Sherlock’s legs at the front and cover him decently, had hitched up at the back leaving his swaying bum exposed to the cold air. The jumper, thick wool, oatmeal coloured and worn, was curved in a soft wave over the furry mound of Sherlock’s fluffy tail.