Tales From a Bland Jumper
TitleTales from a Bland Jumper
RatingG
Pairing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Word Count ~500
Summary Originally written for the Sherlock challenge fest, a tale from the viewpoint of John's jumper.
Notes These characters do not belong to me.
I was bought for function. That's what I overheard as I was handled and bagged. The woman distinctly said to the cashier, "I don't care what colour this is, it's functional, and warm, and my brother will probably throw it in a drawer and forget about it."
Apparently I had become any piece of clothing's worst nightmare: a meaningless gift to be opened, admired with just the right amount of false sincerity, and then passed around from person to person until falling apart, unworn.
Except, one day, he wore me. I was the last clean shirt in the closet, and it was extra cold out. Looking at the other clothes in his closet, I realized that this man, this John, did not care about clothes. Perhaps I had hope yet.
He wore me again. And again, until I actually began to know him. His name was John, he was a doctor, and he lived alone.
When we moved, I noticed three things: there was a lot of dust, the other one (Sherlock) wore dressy clothes, and neither of those things seemed to matter to my John. He simply sat in a chair and read the newspaper, as if he had lived here for years.
But then the other one, Sherlock, convinced him to run around to a crime scene in the middle of the night. And then we met a mysterious man in an abandoned warehouse. I had never seen this much of the world, before. John seemed both excited and exasperated.
Me? I was worn. That's all that mattered to me.
*
I did not like the girl at first sight. She smelled too different. She got this look in her eye, a look I remembered from when I sat in the shop. I was not colourful enough. I was too bland.
John, however, ignored her. He never hid who he was. Function first: just like me.
*
Sherlock touched me today.
John had been waiting for so long for him. I do not know exactly what happened. Except John came home after a long absence injured, and Sherlock was not with him. John spent many days wandering the apartment, looking lost.
But today Sherlock walked through the door, and smiled at John, and said
"Just how I thought, beige sweater and all."
Then Sherlock put his hand on me, on John's shoulder. It stayed there for a long time.
I like how it felt.
I did not like the wall, rough, probably causing the back of me to look bad. But I liked the way Sherlock had me in his hand, bunched up tightly, pushing me into John, trying to gain purchase.
John seemed to like it too.
*
I am in the corner of the room, bunched up carelessly, and lying across one of Sherlock's shirts. I seem to be here a lot lately.
Every time John puts me on, Sherlock has the urge to take me off and throw me in the nearest corner. Amongst other things.
They really need a new hobby.
RatingG
Pairing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Word Count ~500
Summary Originally written for the Sherlock challenge fest, a tale from the viewpoint of John's jumper.
Notes These characters do not belong to me.
I was bought for function. That's what I overheard as I was handled and bagged. The woman distinctly said to the cashier, "I don't care what colour this is, it's functional, and warm, and my brother will probably throw it in a drawer and forget about it."
Apparently I had become any piece of clothing's worst nightmare: a meaningless gift to be opened, admired with just the right amount of false sincerity, and then passed around from person to person until falling apart, unworn.
Except, one day, he wore me. I was the last clean shirt in the closet, and it was extra cold out. Looking at the other clothes in his closet, I realized that this man, this John, did not care about clothes. Perhaps I had hope yet.
He wore me again. And again, until I actually began to know him. His name was John, he was a doctor, and he lived alone.
When we moved, I noticed three things: there was a lot of dust, the other one (Sherlock) wore dressy clothes, and neither of those things seemed to matter to my John. He simply sat in a chair and read the newspaper, as if he had lived here for years.
But then the other one, Sherlock, convinced him to run around to a crime scene in the middle of the night. And then we met a mysterious man in an abandoned warehouse. I had never seen this much of the world, before. John seemed both excited and exasperated.
Me? I was worn. That's all that mattered to me.
*
I did not like the girl at first sight. She smelled too different. She got this look in her eye, a look I remembered from when I sat in the shop. I was not colourful enough. I was too bland.
John, however, ignored her. He never hid who he was. Function first: just like me.
*
Sherlock touched me today.
John had been waiting for so long for him. I do not know exactly what happened. Except John came home after a long absence injured, and Sherlock was not with him. John spent many days wandering the apartment, looking lost.
But today Sherlock walked through the door, and smiled at John, and said
"Just how I thought, beige sweater and all."
Then Sherlock put his hand on me, on John's shoulder. It stayed there for a long time.
I like how it felt.
I did not like the wall, rough, probably causing the back of me to look bad. But I liked the way Sherlock had me in his hand, bunched up tightly, pushing me into John, trying to gain purchase.
John seemed to like it too.
*
I am in the corner of the room, bunched up carelessly, and lying across one of Sherlock's shirts. I seem to be here a lot lately.
Every time John puts me on, Sherlock has the urge to take me off and throw me in the nearest corner. Amongst other things.
They really need a new hobby.