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“I reckon you’ll think it’s silly,” said John.
“What?” Sherlock hesitated on the last button: small, pearl, white as the Italian cotton of the shirt. “That we’re –” he circled one hand in a flummoxed gesture that took in the disastrous mess of a bedroom, his own disheveled hair, John already half-undressed (and chilly from the look of it).
“No, you berk. I meant – that shirt. That’s the one Janine had on when Mycroft met us here, after –” (Well. Don’t go too far into that.) “Only white one I think you own.” He lifted the edge of the placket with one finger.
Sherlock’s brows drew together in genuine perplexity. “And the silly thing about that would be?”
John’s chuckle was a little sheepish. “Seeing her swanning about in it – there I was, pregnant wife back at our flat, you were still high, you’d just given bloody Mycroft the right about against the kitchen door – and all I could think was how much I wished I were the one popping out into the hallway with that shirt on.”
“John, in these circumstances, if you were to suddenly require… coverage, your own shirt is. Um.”
“Over the wardrobe door, I think.”
“Hm. No. Oh, there. On the carpet.”
“Not the point. It’s that it was your shirt. And she was wearing it as if – I pictured you putting it on her, taking it off her, doing – what I assumed you were doing while she wore it, and all I wanted was to be the one who got to – ” He smiled wryly. “Daft, I know.”
“John. It was for the case. You know I – we. Nothing happened. No matter what she said to the Mail reporters. I told her we had to… take things slow.”
“I didn’t know that then.”
“I am aware,” said Sherlock, “that I have been unkind.”
It was a long, slow kiss, both an apology and a promise. John’s flanks were warm under his hands, John’s trousers and pants slid to the floor with a minimum of awkward indignity. “This is where I begin to make it up to you.”
“Mmf. Bit too dressed still, aren’t you?”
“Keenly observed.” Forehead to forehead, a hum of deliberation. “We ought to check the fit.”
“Of what?” John’s smile again, playful this time.
“Take this off me, John.”
The sleeves whispered over long, wiry arms, John’s fingers tracing the curves of muscle, the tender skin at elbow-crook and wrist. Sherlock caught the shirt before it could fall, and held it out. “Let’s see how it suits you. – Hmmm. A bit long. Very snug.”
“Ta very much. Haven’t even started.”
“And… it seems to have, er, quite an effect.”
“I hope you’re not going to take things slow.”
“Only enough for, ah, savour – oh.”
“Yes?”
“Come over here, Captain Watson. No, leave that on. Let’s see what else fits.”