Sherlock fandom
It is in the Details
He had always been meticulous, even as a child. It was his brother who taught him to observe and to keep an eye out for tiny details.
“The more subtle, the more elegant people will find you. Whether it is your attire or your movements. That way, they will not question your ulterior motives,” Mycroft told him.
Sherlock considered this, and when Mycroft bought him the Belstaff and had added the red buttonhole, he understood. It added an eye-catching sophistication to the garment. The fact that it was one of a kind, made it even more special.
Before he attended his first official crime scene, Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, used a fair amount of his inheritance on expensive hair products, had a bespoke cologne made, purchased Italian leather shoes, and spent an agonising hour at one of Savile Row’s tailors to have his measurements taken.
“Only blue and black suits. A dozen white shirts. Two of the aubergine ones over there. Two of that shade of blue. No ties.”
The tailor didn’t even bat an eyelid when Sherlock made his order and insisted that everything should be tightly fitted.
“I need to breathe, but that’s about it.”
“Of course,” the tailor replied.
***
“Who are you, and what have you done with that high as a kite kid who turned up and solved a crime for me last year?” Greg Lestrade asked when Sherlock strode towards him.
“Gone. I’m clean as of last month. Just what you commanded, detective inspector,” Sherlock drawled. “Now, where are the bodies?”
Sally Donovan and Philip Anderson weren’t as easily dazzled by his newly invented persona, but Sherlock saw them as irrelevant, so he didn't care about being offended by their snarky comments.
***
“Just look at you,” Mrs Hudson cooed when Sherlock knocked on her door.
Her favourite colour is still purple. Recently been to the hairdresser. Didn’t get that cat after all.
“Hello, Mrs Hudson. Lovely to see you again. Are you still renting out the upstairs flat?”
“I take it you are interested,” the elderly woman said and winked. “Don’t you think it’s a bit big for just you. A flatmate would be nice. What do you say?”
“Who would tolerate living with me?” Sherlock answered with a grimace.
“Oh, come now, Sherlock. Deep down you’re as fluffy as a plushie,” she stated.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and went upstairs to take a proper look at 221B.
It was cluttered, but the atmosphere was cosy, even though it hadn’t been inhabited for several months.
It feels like a proper home, but do I want to share it with another man? I’ve never lived with other people than my family before. None of my peers tolerated me for more than a few minutes at a time. I find it hard to believe that somewhere out in the London streets, a man walks around willing to share this flat with a pompous and infuriating git as myself. It would be nothing short of a miracle if that was the case.
***
“Sherlock, meet an old friend of mine, John Watson,” Mike called out when he walked into the lab.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the fair-haired man. To Sherlock’s astonishment this John Watson offered to let him borrow his phone when Sherlock asked Mike for his, even though he knew it was safely tucked into his coat pocket.
“Afghanistan or Iraq?”
The awe in the man’s eyes, made Sherlock look away quickly to hide his own confusion. No one had ever gazed at him like that.
“Who said anything about a flatmate?” John asked when he’d gathered himself after Sherlock’s rapid deductions about his career, family, and wound.
“Mike did,” Sherlock explained and put on his coat and scarf with deliberate movements.
Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you look at my hands and neck, John Watson.
***
“Will you be needing the upstairs bedroom?” Mrs Hudson asked when she followed him and John into 221B the next day.
John blushed but didn’t answer, which was quite promising.
“We’ll let you know,” Sherlock mumbled.
“We have all sort around here,” she assured them before she went down to her own flat.
John placed his cane by the red chair and wandered around to look at all the eccentricities the flat had to offer. The more he walked around, the less he limped, much to Sherlock’s satisfaction.
“Yes, I think this will do just fine,” John said and made himself comfortable in the upholstery chair.
***
“How did you get glitter in your hair?” John asked two days before Christmas later that year.
“I went to Liberty’s to buy some decorations for our tree,” Sherlock said.
“What happened to the Grinch I moved in with in February?”
“He fell in love with an ex-army doctor with a psychosomatic limp,” Sherlock quipped.
“Did he, now,” John murmured and circled his arms around Sherlock’s waist.
Sherlock hummed and bent down to kiss John softly.
“Noticed anything else?” he asked innocently and a bit breathless when they parted.
“I did actually. You’ve been to your tailor,” John said with a broad smile.
“Tell me,” Sherlock purred and sucked John’s bottom lip into his mouth.
“Just spotted some small things. Your shirt isn’t tucked into your trousers in its usually way, one button is only half buttoned, and your left trouser leg has a – “
Sherlock interrupted John’s deductions with a passionate kiss. He looked down into the blue eyes and it felt like he was drowning in a sea of adoration.
“You are a marvel, John Watson,” he whispered.
“Just paying attention to the details that are out of order,” John shrugged, a bit embarrassed by such praise.
“A shame you only catch such details when it comes to me and not at crime scenes.”
John slapped Sherlock’s arse, called him a brat, and went to make tea, while Sherlock decorated the tree.
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