Title: It's not because I'm cold
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Slash, Fluff.
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Mentions of Missus Hudson.
Pairings: John/Sherlock
Notes: I wrote this as a piece of fluff, and then my mind was all 'Hmm. This is too fluffy. Put some Angst on the end!' So I'll be posting a tiny add-on to this afterwards. If you feel like angst, read it! Betaed by the lovely Liz. Also, the title is terrible, but it's better then what the original one was. Which was 'Socks'. If you've got a suggestion for it…Please tell me? PLEASE.
Disclaimer: Sherlock, John, all of their friends and the many places the visit do not belong to me. If they did, I wouldn't have to write fanfiction, now would I?Summary: John wears socks to bed, but not for the reasons one would think.


John wears socks to bed.

It's not that the flat is cold—It isn't. In fact, sometimes he has to strip a sheet or two off the bed just to keep himself a comfortable temperature, because the heat from the lower levels of his new apartment seeps into his room on cold nights and keeps the room pleasantly warm.

It also has nothing to do with laziness, because John hates passing out on his bed fully clothed. He wakes up the next morning feeling tight and uncomfortable and it takes an extra ten minutes in a scalding shower for his muscles to loosen enough for him to feel human again. Then he has to listen to Sherlock complain about how he has no hot water, and it makes the rest of the day nearly unbearable with his alien of a flat-mate. Like the lack of hot water is a reflection on how little John appreciates him, or something absurd like that.

No, John wears socks to bed because of Sherlock.

He finds out within the first week of living with Sherlock that the man has no concept of personal space or privacy ("I share the flat with you, I see no reason to waste time by waiting until you're out of the shower to brush my teeth. Dental health is important."). He finds out the second week that any time John has to himself is subject to Sherlock's whims ("John, can you stand in front of the fireplace? I need to test the accuracy of this crossbow."). Especially when sleeping.

He'd woken one night with a start to a thin hand gripping him by the shoulder, shaking him earnestly.

"John. John. Don't be slow; wake up. We've got to go!" Sherlock sounds urgent, but with him it could be anything from the microwave catching fire to a particularly interesting bug crossing the flat. John cracks an eye open and tries to take in the confusing amount of information his senses are sending to his half-awake brain.

"Wha'?"

"Wake up John. Lestrade has a case for it and it's most important that we leave now." The hand vanishes from his shoulder, and he feels a soft object impact against his face. Jeans. "Get dressed, John. We must depart. I'll be waiting in a cab outside." And with that he's gone, his rapid steps echoing down the stairs.

John takes a second to collect his thoughts, which are mostly curses, and then manages to haul himself out of bed and pull on the clothes Sherlock's thrown him. He doesn't care that his hair is unbrushed and the inside of his mouth feels like it's stuffed with cotton, Sherlock seems to have claimed him as…something, so he gets up.

When he's dressed he goes down the stairs, careful to be quiet to avoid waking Missus Hudson, and slips on his shoes. He climbs into the cab with a shiver.

Sherlock glances at him, a frown on his face. "Your jumper's on backwards. And you've forgotten your socks."

It takes a second for John to figure out he's right; he's barefoot under his shoes and can feel the uncomfortable stickiness of his foam instep. The cab has already pulled away from the curb, however, so he just sighs and sheds his coat to turn his jumper the right way around.

This happens more than once. Every time Sherlock wakes him up at ungodly hours ("John, please. It's not that early, you'd be awake in six hours anyway."), he gets dressed in whatever Sherlock has tossed his way and he forgets his damn socks. Without fail.

So he starts wearing socks to bed. It's an easy solution. If he already has them on, then his barely-functioning brain doesn't have to waste time remembering to put them on, and he can just go. Following after the maniac that he has grown to adore, despite himself.

Sherlock comments on it the first night they spend together, once they've settled into a new but comfortable position. John's surprised that Sherlock enjoys resting his head on John's chest but doesn't comment.

John is about to fall asleep when Sherlock's rumbling voice reaches his ears. "You're wearing socks."

"Huh?"

"Don't say 'Huh', John. It's not a word and it doesn't become you," Sherlock mutters, and John rolls his eyes. "I said you're wearing socks."

John laughs. And no matter how much Sherlock pries and pesters about why it's so funny, John refuses to tell him. He wouldn't understand anyway.