The jumper was a gift from Mrs. Hudson, hand knitted Merino wool in his favourite colours, when he finally confessed what they were. Sherlock, of course, had known all along. Just as he'd known that saying "not gay" was very much indeed NOT the same thing as "100% straight, heterosexual only, thank you very much". There's a reason it's called a spectrum. Many shades of the rainbow, all of them valid, all of them beautiful. All of them deserving of acceptance. None -- NOT. ONE. -- deserving of hate. The bigger kids in class who'd teased his six-year-old self for liking "girly" colours when he wore his favourite pink and purple shirt (dyed in a washing accident with no money to replace it, over the years there were many such "mishaps") on picture taking day were wrong. The bullies in Year Five who'd picked on him and his sister, calling them all sorts of nasty names and starting fights because she liked girls instead of boys and he liked both -- or rather, anyone who liked him back, he didn't care, it was all good -- were wrong. The parents, one of them more concerned with what the neighbours might say if they ever found out than the welfare of her own flesh and blood, and the other a raging, alcohol fuelled, quasi-religious bigot all too fond of abusing that same flesh and blood with words and other weapons whenever he took the notion, were wrong. Dead wrong. Somehow (and if asked he still couldn't tell you exactly how, that's all one big, dark blur he's thankful for not remembering) he managed to get himself and Harry out of there. Away from such tender, loving care before their young lives were completely destroyed. It didn't leave them unscarred, they both had issues and probably always would, but they survived. And with the help of truly caring adult mentors and newly found friends their own age when they moved to a safe and welcoming school, one practically on the front doorstep of the queer community, they thrived. After all, the best revenge is living well. These days John Watson, correction, John Watson-Holmes, lives very well indeed. Giving the lie, not to mention the proverbial two-fingered salute, to bullies, bigots and homophobes the world over with every breath he takes. Once upon a time in Afghanistan he fought to protect innocents under the banner of the red, white, and blue. Those colours served him well and his record shows that he served them equally well, with bravery, honour and pride. Right to the bitter end of a nearly fatal wound, a not always obvious disability and a medical discharge that came with a handful of medals, a barely sufficient pension and the ever-depressing situation of not knowing what to do with himself upon his forced return to civilian life. Nowadays it's a different war. The battlefield isn't some three thousand plus miles away, it's everywhere. Even right here, in the heart of the homeland. This enemy might not call itself the Taliban, might try to pass itself off as being reasonable, acceptable, trustworthy even, but make no mistake: it is the same rabid beast. Its name is Intolerance, breeder of death, destruction and untold misery. It feeds upon anger, superstition, ignorance and fear. He cannot, he WILL not, permit it to gain ground. Or worse, to win. Not now. Not ever. Today it is sunny and hot. 28 degrees Celsius, completely unsuited to the wearing of a wooly jumper. Even if it is the most comfortable and comforting garment he's ever owned, made just for him, with all the love of every motherly figure he's ever met rolled up into one truly amazing woman. He sighs, brushes a maybe-imaginary bit of lint off the sleeve, then back into the closet it goes. Mrs. Hudson won't mind. And of course she'll be there, ("Hip or no hip, I'll just take an extra herbal soother.") wouldn't miss it for the world. Along with her sometimes-beau, Mr. Chatterjee, her sister Mrs. Turner and the married ones next door, Angelo and his whole clan, most of the Homeless Network, all their friends and neighbours. Co-workers, clients and colleagues too ("Yes, luv, even Anderson.") joining them at various points along the way. He will march openly, unashamedly hand in hand, through the streets of London with his sweet Honey Bumble. Rank and file with Harry, her wife, Clara and their daughter, (He has a niece. His "disgraceful lesbian" sister had a baby, how awesome is that?) Rosemarie. Greg Lestrade, and will wonders never cease! Greg's fiancé, the British Government, along with their Mistress. Otherwise known as Mycroft Holmes and today-her-name-is-Anthea. Instead of a gun he will carry a flag and the battledress he dons will not be desert camo gear but a simple pair of shorts. Ranger panties, just like the ones he was wearing that fateful day in Regent's Park when by chance he met and saved the great love of his life. Who in turn saved him. His colours will be purple and pink. And proud. ***** DISCLAIMER: No actual persons depicted. This work is intended solely as a portrait of a fictional character and not the actor by whom he is played. The BBC and/or Other Powerful Entities own all rights to the TV series "Sherlock", making my poor efforts into naught but fan art. Which is and always ought to be an act of love, not profit. CREDITS: Ron's Bokeh brushes (available @ Daz3D) AdamWright's Postwork Actions Megapack (older discontinued Rendo product) Pride PNGs (rainbow heart) by Vecteezy (https://www.vecteezy.com/free-png/pride) Lgbt Png vectors (Bee Proud) by Lovepik.com (https://lovepik.com/images/png-lgbt.html) PRODUCTION NOTES: Mixed media created with several programs. This one took nearly forever and drove me absolutely spare in the process. Probably also drove my forum friends equally crazy from having to put up with my tales of woe and being pestered for advice on how to fix things like the chair and the pose so that they worked well together and when that was (finally!) accomplished, sort out a room that did not (a) clash with the chair or his outfit, (b) require renovations to get rid of the ugly décor or (c) tempt me into imitating Sherlock's habit of indoor target practice. Because that other wall, the one I didn't pick? Really did have it coming. So here's a great big "Thank You!" bouquet to everyone who helped. Virtual hugs & kisses to Darkglass and Company, because without all of them I'd most likely have no hair left from pulling it out in fits of frustration and nothing to post from having thrown it in the bin as a bad job and a waste of time. Any remaining mistakes are all mine. Here it is, make of it what you will. :-)