Written as a fill for the prompt from LJ sherlockbbc_fic:
On one particularly bad day when John's dressed in an incredibly cuddly-looking jumper, one of the stressed Yarders grabs him in a big hug and just clings for a moment. He stands there patting their back awkwardly.
It starts a trend, and gradually it becomes the habit of those he knows to hug him when they're facing a bad day.
It all started on a strangely cold, summer day.
It was a particulary bad day for Lestrade and his team. Seven three years old kids, kidnapped form kindergarden were a bad thing. The fact that three hours later one was find, beaten, its limbs chopped off and arranged in a letter V and intestines spread all over the place was even worse. Little, round and cute face of the girl was the only uharmed part of her fragile body... If the expression of agony wasn't some kind of hurt, of course.
Sally coudn't tear her eyes from the dark, curly hair of the victim (victim, victim, victim, not the girl, not a child, keep it together, Sally!)... It reminded her of Jill, her niece, sweet little thing who always had a picture drawn for Auntie Sally.
'Nasty thing' said warm, friendly and tired voice to her left,. Doctor John Bloody Watson, Freak's friend, lost puppy who just walked behind Sherlock, the last thing she needed now. She turned to face him, wanting nothing more than just say something 'nasty', so that he'd leave her alone... Instead, she just lunged and clinged to him, hugging him close, her face burried in one of his funny, cuddly jumpers that she and Anderson always mocked. Now this sweater was the only thing that could keep her mind and nerves in check, reminding her of all the nice, quiet evenings she had in her life, cofee in front of fireplace... She felt doctors pat her back, keepeng her close and together, somehow.
She pulled off the embrace two minutes later, trying to think of some stupid remark that will spare her embarasment... But after one glance at his serious, open face, the confusion evident, those words just couldn't leave her throat.
'I think I know. It's the jumper' said after a while John. 'It has a calming and soothing properties, special edition, you know.'
'Really?'
'Yeah. Trust me, I'm a doctor, after all'
Anderson had enough. Enough of intestines, enough of blood on the walls, enough of his wife's histerical outbursts, her stupid accusations that he tries to kill her, poison her tea, enough of her psychiatrists and enough of Sherlock fuckin' Holmes, waltzing on ANDERSON'S crime scene, contaminating the evidence. He usually could ignore (and sometimes even throw a good comeback or two) this crazy psycho, his unhuman comments, his insults... but not today, not when his wife had been crying entire night.
He threw first thing that came in his hand, some artistic vase, in detective's smirking face (oh, another 'You are so stupid Anderson' comment just left his lips minute ago, was this really that much fun?)and left, not even bothering to look what the muffled cry of pain on Sherlock's part meant, not caring abot DI's shout.
Outside, he leaned on the wall, trying to take several calming breaths and failing miserably.
'Hey' said doctor Watson, emeging from the house, his jumper bearing some blood stains. Result of messing with the evidence, probably. 'You alright?'
Anderson wanted to shout, scream and pound Watson to the ground just for asking this stupid question. He took step forward, but stopped himself in time. He looked down, not in the doctor's face (he couldn't, why? ha, he just didn't know).
'Yeah, just your master and commander is goddamned freak' he managed at last. Oh God, he wanted a hug, he felt pathetic, wanted to scream all those thoughts that were swarming in his head... He just wanted...
'I tell him that several times a day myself...' started bloody John Watson, but Anderson interrupted, by just... hugging him. The sweater, this bloody (ha, really bloody) sweater was exacly the same that Anderson's father wore, the same smell even.
Now, in warm, firm embrace of the cuddly jumper, he reminded himself of the time several weeks earlier, when it was Sally who was clinging to this perfect jumper... And how he personally mocked her afterwards.
'Aw, hell' said awkwardly Anderson, pulling away. John shrugged.
'Now I know it's the jumper. Shit, and there I had been going on dates in a suit all the time!' said John. Anderson smirked, his wories forgotten for the time being. And he ignored his collegues, who looked at the two of them as if they just grew another head. Their bad.
"John..." said Lestrade tentativly, massaging his aching wrists that were tightly tied for the last several hours. The good doctor, a man of reason, was lecturing him for last ten minutes about the complete stupidity of the plan that involved being a hostage himself. John was right, of course, and this rant saved him from a lecture from Sherlock... But after spending almost a day in madman's hands the last thing he wanted to do was hearing how much of and idiot he was. That could come later, besides he knew that himself. He carved... calmness. Silence. Peace.
'Yeah?' John stopped talking and looked intently at DI. Lestrade just shook his head, not knowing how to express the thoughts in this thick skull of his. John sighed. 'Just come here, Inspector.'
Cuddly jumper smelled of tea, fireplace and cozy evening (was this even a smell?), and muffled the entire reality that was around Lestrade. The hug wasn't strong, but firm... And Lestrade felt better, ha,he couldn't remember when he felt this good before.
'John. This is the twenty fourth person that hugs you this month... And fifth from the police force' said Sherlock, baffled, somewhere miles, miles away. 'Not counting, of course, the repetitons. Sally Donovan, for example...'
'Shut it, Sherlock' muttered John, and Lestrade unknowingly snuggled closer in this woollen heaven. 'It's just the jumper, as I told you before'
Just, thought Lestrade, was the worst word to use here.
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