May Your Heart Purr Like A Bumblebee [BBC Sherlock - Johnlock]

Chapter 5

John feels exposed. He is, in fact, exposed -- or at least his pants are. They are poking cheekily up above his jeans, right where pants should not be. Good grief. John is glad he's (mostly) not gay; it seems far too embarrassing to look for a date, if this is the kind of thing involved. For the fifth time, John pushes the red waistband down to a more appropriate position. For the fifth time, he pulls it back up.

He can’t believe he let Harry talk him into this. He suspects that after yesterday’s movies and a good night’s sleep she’s feeling better, and that she is just milking the Clara angle for all it's worth. But she pleaded and made puppy dog eyes until he agreed to at least try them on.

What jumper goes with red pants? He doesn't have anything suitable, except maybe his Christmas jumper, which is not happening. Really, though, he needs something on the short side if the pants are to be at all visible.

“This is demented,” he mutters to the mirror. “I’m not going to match my outfit with my pants.” He pulls on a pale jumper which has shrunk slightly in the wash, then heads downstairs to the sitting room. Maybe he's being overly self-conscious, and nobody will notice. Except Sherlock.

Harry looks up and grins. “Oh, those do stand out!”

“Right, I’m changing,” John turns around.

The front door slams. “John, come at once!” Sherlock calls from the stairs. Everything else forgotten, John grabs his jacket and runs.

* * *

Several hours later, after examining two drowned bodies in a school bus, Sherlock leaves John standing outside with the instructions, “Wait. If you see anything unusual, shoot.” With that, he disappears. John stands there trying to figure out what kind of thing constitutes something unusual, and whether he is supposed to shoot that thing, or just shoot in the air to summon Sherlock. (He can rule out shooting to summon the police; they’re already on their way.) He suspects the latter, but wishes Sherlock’s communication were a bit more clear.

A black car with tinted windows rolls up. The back door opens. “Get in,” says Anthea, texting (not really Anthea, but it's the only name he has for her).

John, irritated, debates whether this is something unusual. It's unfortunately not. "I'm on a case right now, actually."

"Don't worry -- someone will be keeping an eye out." She tilts her head toward the CCTV camera peering at them from a nearby building. John surrenders, gets in the car.

He sits with a rigid back, tapping his fingers against his knees impatiently as they drive. Sherlock told him to wait. He should have waited.

“Should I give you my card? Make sure Mycroft hasn't forgotten my number?” he grouses. “That really would be the easiest way to get in touch.”

Anthea smiles and doesn't look up from her phone.

Eventually, they pull up outside an empty warehouse. John walks inside to find Mycroft leaning on his umbrella, looking pensively off into the distance. John clears his throat.

“Hello, John.”

“Mycroft.”

“I did try calling, you know.”

“Oh?”

“You didn’t answer.”

John remembers turning off his phone yesterday with talking to Harry. “Ah. Right.”

Sherlock's brother turns to face him and raises an eyebrow. “That's new.”

“What?”

“You have got a bad case of it, haven’t you?” Mycroft smiles, and instead of looking sinister, actually manages to look vaguely sympathetic.