My birthday fic from the boy :-)
The Case of the Swedish Turtlenecks.
Sherlock glared out of his bedroom window at a dreary London morning. It was a Tuesday morning. In Sherlock's opinion this was the worst kind of morning. The dull blend of drizzle, clouds and casual unpleasantness that seamed to reside at the very core of all Tuesdays was really grating on him. It would be Wednesday tomorrow, Sherlock scowled.
Glaring out of the window had become immensely boring, so Sherlock glared at his shoes instead. They were also boring. He let out a small groan and banged his head a few times against the bed-frame.
“Stop that Sherlock you know it's bad for you.” John called from the lounge.
Sherlock banged his head a few more times just to show John he could. The victory was petty and hurt a little, but it put John in his place so it was worth it.
“Yes very good Sherlock.” said John, the rustling sound was the newspaper he'd brought with him. “You certainly did show me.” There was a sipping sound, tea, and then more rustling. “So are you done sulking yet?”
Sherlock folded his arms petulantly.
“Only you are the one who aggressively texted me into coming over so I'd imagined you might have some reason for me to be here.”
Sherlock did have a reason for John to be here. He'd been going over some data that had a connection to the Swedish Bank-robber case they'd been working and he needed someone to hold up the various pages for him. Mrs Hudson had proved useless so he'd ordered John over to take her place.
“There's some tea out here for you Sherlock.” There was the sound of spoon clinking against china. “It's still nice and hot but it'll go cold soon.” John called again louder. “Especially if you stay locked in your room like a brooding teenager.”
Sherlock kept his arms folded. “I am not brooding.”
John made an unspecific condescending sound. “I'm going to eat all your nice biscuits if you don't come out soon Sherlock. I've finished my paper and the walk here's made me a bit peckish.”
Sherlock made a disgusted noise and threw himself out of bed. The door buffeted aside a small stack of papers as it flew open and Sherlock marched into the kitchen.
“Well look who's awake.” John folded his paper and placed it neatly on the coffee table. “Tell me are we still grumpy or are we ready to work.”
Sherlock pulled a huge blue A2 sheet out from a stack of printouts, causing another mess he didn't register and spread it over the kitchen table. He thumped his finger on the page. “Recently I was going over the case files and I think I've found something important. There's a pattern with the three men who appear four hours before every heist.”
“The turtleneck men, yes.” John said from his seat.
Sherlock shooed John's comment away with a dismissive flick of his fingers.
“Each man will arrive in the same fashion, each holding a briefcase which they all pass to each other and then walk off with.”
“And whatever's in the briefcase has to be the device they used to break in?”
“No that's far too obvious.”
John raised his eyebrows and waited for Sherlock to explain.
Sherlock ran his hands over the page before him, calculating with his hands whilst he dictated his theory. “Why would any group smart enough to rob a trio of Swedish banks in a single week stand around outside them, practically in uniform, exactly four hours before every heist? Think John, don't be stupid.”
John took the verbal jab with learned grace and started thinking. “They're a ploy, you mean?”
Sherlock thumped his finger on the table again. “Exactly.” He threw the sheet onto the floor and grabbed another blue page, striding over to where John sat. “A ploy, a misdirection, while the real thieves were already in the banks. The owners are using the turtleneck men as a pretense to steal money from accounts held safely inside their own banks. When the three men in uniform show up it's a signal for the banks owners to begin the...” Sherlock's mouth opened and closed a few times. “What the hell are you wearing?”
John was suddenly far more surprised than he usually was during this kind of conversation. Confused, he looked down at his thick woolen jumper, reached down tentatively, and held it questioningly between thumb and forefinger.
“Not the jumper.” Spat Sherlock.
John looked down and slowly put a cautious finger on his skintight black biker shorts.
Sherlock threw up his hands. “What.” He spat again, some spittle splattering onto John's shoes. “Are those?”
John looked a little defensive. “A pair of shorts.” He fiddled with the rim of them. “A pair of black biker's shorts.”
“I can see that John.” said Sherlock. “What I want to know is why you are wearing them.”
John shuffled uncomfortably. “Well my wife likes them, and Mrs Hudson said they looked good on me.”
Sherlock grimaced. “Then Mrs Hudson has gone quite suddenly blind and your wife's playing an especially cruel practical joke on you.”
John bristled. “Well Mr High-and-Mighty, I don't think that you're exactly in the best position to be throwing stones.”
Sherlock let out a derisive snort and firmly stomped his five-inch heel Jackboot on the coffee table, displaying his fishnet stockinged leg. “It's called fashion John.” Sherlock flicked the half-meter brim of his purple velvet Juan Vidal with a black painted fingernail. “Something I'm sure you wouldn't understand.”