Title: It's Not What It Looks Like
Author: DataAngel (TheNinth) (previously mickeylover303)
Pairing: gen
Fandoms: Sherlock
Rating: G
Summary: Two times someone gets the wrong impression and one time someone gets it right.

***


"John, I'm cold. Give me your jumper."

"Sherlock, I don't know how you of all people have failed to notice this, but I'm actually wearing my jumper". John was also wearing his coat, gloves, scarf, and a hat.

"The heating's off." Sherlock said.

"Yes. I'd noticed."

"So give me your jumper."

John looked over at Sherlock and gave him a suggestion that (he assumed, but knowing Sherlock, he'd find a way to do it) was physically impossible. Then John said. "Do you want me to get you a jumper?"

"No," Sherlock said and John sighed at the petulant tone. "A jumper from my room -- which is cold -- will be cold when I put it on. I will feel colder. That's the exact opposite of what I would like to be right now. You've been wearing your jumper, which means it's warmed up because of your body temperature, meaning it will be warmer to me. Anyhow, I've got less mass than you, so I need the extra layers more than you."

"Hang on. Did you just call me fat?"

"Don't be stupid. I merely pointed out that you're smaller and heavier than I am and should require less swaddling to stay warm. Now give me your jumper."

Frustrated and insulted, John stood up and peeled off his hat and coat. He threw them on the floor. "Fine, Sherlock. Fine. Take the bloody jumper and shut up." He pulled it over his head and flung it at Sherlock.

Mrs Hudson opened the door at the exact moment that Sherlock was pulling the jumper on and John had his fly open to tuck his shirt back in. She giggled and then backed up, leaving the door open just a crack.

"I was coming to tell you that a man will be by tomorrow morning to fix the heating and to let you know I've got a space heater if you need it, but you two seem to be finding your own way to keep warm. I'll just leave you alone."

"Wait, Mrs Hudson!" John cried. "It's not what it looks like!"

"There's something odd about these footprints," Sherlock muttered. They were in the garden and Sherlock was on hands and knees, examining the tracks in the mud outside a woman's bedroom window.

"It's almost..." he tipped his head to one side and then to the other. "They were either made by a heavy woman or by a man wearing shoes that were too small in an effort to throw suspicion off him. John! Give me your shoes!"

John sighed.

"Your shoes, John. I need them. I need to see what sort of prints I leave if I'm wearing shoes that are too small."

"I'm not standing in the mud in my stocking feet. Get Lestrade to help you."

"His feet are larger than yours."

"Donovan, then."

"She hates me."

"Can't imagine why," John muttered.

"Please, John. Just give me your shoes." Sherlock held out one muddy hand imploringly.

"Look, Sherlock, I've put up with a lot over the past few weeks but I am not going to give you my shoes just so you can test a theory. We can go buy another pair of shoes. If they absolutely have to be my shoes, I can go back to the flat and get you a pair. But I am not taking off my shoes and standing in the mud just so you can stomp around the garden in them!"

Sherlock, still crouched on the ground, lunged at John. John, not expecting an assault, toppled easily, landing with a splat. He had just enough time to process the thoughts "fuck, that hurt," and "there's mud in my hair" when he realised Sherlock's feet were over his shoulders and his knees were clamped against John's ribs, and this had him pretty effectively pinned to the ground while Sherlock struggled to untie the wet and muddy laces of John's left shoe.

John flailed helplessly trying to disengage himself. He grabbed hold of Sherlock's calves and tried to shove the other man off.

"Will you stop struggling, John? It'll only take a moment." Sherlock dodged as John made an effort to kick him.

"Get off, get off, you complete lunatic!" John bellowed.

And of course that was the moment Lestrade poked his head out of a window. "Oh, God. At a crime scene? Really?" He called over his shoulder. "Anderson! Find someone to hose these two off before you let them back in the house."

"It's not what it looks like," John said weakly as Sherlock made off with his shoe.

John was pulling off his clothes while they ran up the stairs to their flat. Sherlock frantically unlocked the door and ducked inside, slamming the door behind him. Seconds later, it opened and Sherlock pulled John through.

"Geddidoffme!" John gasped. He was wild-eyed and red-faced. Sherlock's lips were pressed into a tight line, as if he were making every effort to hold his breath. He was also doing his best to help John get out of his clothes, although he seemed reluctant to get too close to him.

When John was stripped down to just his pants and socks, Sherlock gathered up all of John's shed clothing and chucked them out into the hallway. "Shower! Now! For the love of God, get in the shower right now!"

Both men froze when a dry chuckle rose from the armchair. It was only then that they noticed Mycroft Holmes sitting there, placidly watching them.

"It's not what it looks like," John said. He straightened to his full height and squared his shoulders, not willing to be intimidated.

"It isn't?" Mycroft said.

John faltered. "Well. Maybe? What does it look like?"

Mycroft shrugged. "It looks to me like Mr Whitehall's gardener was murdered by Whitehall's highly illegal pet tiger, and he attempted to cover it up because he knows the tiger will be taken away. You and Sherlock found the hidden tiger. The tiger, an unaltered male, sprayed you." He paused and sniffed. It reminded John of a hound catching a scent. "And then you slipped in it."

"Oh. Well, then. It is exactly what it looks like. And if you don't mind, I'm off to have a shower."

***