John Watson liked his jumpers. They were simple, comfortable, reliable, and not particularly exciting or dangerous. Not that there was anything wrong with a little excitement or danger, if John had thought there was then he wouldn't have joined the army, and he certainly wouldn't spend all his time charging around London with Sherlock Holmes. Still, John liked the fact that his jumpers provided a sense of security in his otherwise crazy life. They didn't leave him at crime scenes with no way to get home, and they didn't disappear for days without letting him know they were all right. And they didn't shoot holes in the walls when they were bored. But that's because they were jumpers, and didn't get bored, and even if they did, they wouldn't be able to hold a gun, let alone shoot it.
It was the reliability that John liked most about his jumpers. No matter how bad the situation got, the jumpers were there. So it came as a bit of a shock to John when, one morning, he woke to find his jumpers gone. Every single one.
There was no answer. John stormed down the stairs and into the living room, and Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, innocently sipping a cup of tea and skimming through a newspaper.
"Good morning, John," said Sherlock, not taking his eyes off the paper.
"Sherlock, what have you done with my jumpers?" said John, fuming as he saw the faint hints of a smirk playing around Sherlock's lips.
John glared at the detective. "Well, can I have them back?"
"No." said Sherlock, not looking up from the paper.
"I'm sorry, what? I can't have them back? What, did you blow them up or something?"
Sherlock smiled smugly. "You can't have them back."
John rolled his eyes. "That's great, Sherlock. Just great." John sighed and went into the kitchen to look for breakfast. He could see there was no point in arguing with Sherlock, his jumpers had probably all been reduced to a pile of ash. Oh well, thought John. It was a warm day anyway.
By that evening, John had forgotten all about the jumpers. Sherlock hadn't. As soon as he was sure John was asleep, Sherlock went into his own bedroom, and curled up on his bed. Or rather, he curled up in the pile of jumpers on his bed. Sherlock breathed in deeply- they still smelt like John. It's probably a good thing that John doesn't know where his jumpers are, mused Sherlock as he drifted off to sleep.