“Damn it, Sherlock. Why did you have to leave the flat in my jumper? Did we really need to give them another reason to speculate?” John scowls at Sherlock’s wool-clad torso.
“It’s comfortable, John. And warm.” Something about Sherlock’s smug grin makes John laugh.
“Why don’t you have your bloody coat, anyway? It’s freezing out here.”
“Mm, yes, speaking of coats, why did you keep that abomination of a parka? I hope it wasn’t for the memories.” John grumbles, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Sherlock’s hit too close to home. The parka doesn’t remind him of the vest that was hidden underneath it - it reminds him of the look on Sherlock’s face, the look when he realised Sherlock actually cared about him, about his safety, about their lives together.
“Shut up, Sherlock. And you still haven’t answered my question. Where the hell is your coat?”
Sherlock mumbles, indistinct.
“Back at the flat. It doesn’t smell like you.” He stares off into the distance, avoiding eye contact, but John can see the flustered embarrassment on Sherlock’s face.
“Oh come here, you ridiculous git.” Grinning, John grabs Sherlock, feeling the alien warmth of his own jumper under his fingers, and uncaring of the watching policemen and roaming reporters, presses his lips firmly to Sherlock’s.
Now people will definitely talk.