Prompt: Sherlock's growing belly is making it harder and harder for him to get his shoes done up.
"A case, John!" Sherlock bellowed, crossing the living room in just three long strides. He was practically bouncing with glee. He heard John scrambling to get ready. Good! The game was on! He threw on his suit jacket, not bothering with the buttons that had been growing progressively more and more annoyingly snug with each use. Really, he ought to have a word with John about how fine clothing was to be cleaned. But later, now there was a case!
The detective hopped into his shoes, then bent to do up the laces. He huffed, finding the waistband of his trousers biting his sides as he bent. His stomach pressed against his thigh, causing him to have to huff and suck in his breath to reach. He did them up quickly, then surged to his feet, his hips just a bit sorer for the trouble.
"Come on, John!" he called, and dashed out.
Two Weeks Later
Sherlock grunted as he bent down, frowning as his belly pooled against his thigh and created even more of a distance between his hands and the laces to his shoes. This was getting ridiculous. He huffed and shifted, doing them up at an angle that made his shoulders smart. Still that was nothing compared to how tight his trousers were. They were really very constricting. The tailor must have gotten the numbers wrong. Sherlock grunted again and wobbled, nearly overbalancing and falling on his arse. He caught himself on the wall however and used it to pull himself to his feet. Well, off to Bart's then.
Another Two Weeks
Sherlock paused mid squat, wincing as his waistband sank into his sides again, the sensitive skin beneath his navel. He thought better of it and straightened up again. Then he shuffled to the sofa and sat down, inching to the edge and bending over to tie his shoelaces.
"Ready?" asked John, emerging from the hall.
"Yes," Sherlock replied, perhaps a bit grumpily. He couldn't help but feel he had been compromised.
One Week Later
Sherlock knelt, determined to break himself of his ridiculous doing-up-his-shoelaces-on-the-sofa habit. He grunted and huffed, shifted himself. He sucked in his breath and lunged. There was a soft and odd sort of 'pop'. Still, Sherlock smirked in triumph and did up his shoes. His trousers were feeling loser already. The diet must be working. Then he straightened and noticed an odd breeze near his hindquarters.
"Oh for God's sake..."
"Sherlock, have you seen-oh er," John asked, stopping and clearly trying to keep from laughing.
"No," Sherlock huffed, resisting the urge to cover his bum with both hands. He stalked off to his bedroom to change with as much dignity as a man with a split trouser seam can manage.
Three Days Later
"Sherlock, your laces are undone," John said, in what the man clearly thought was a helpful tone.
Sherlock just grunted moodily, "About time you observed something about the world around you."
They were at a crime scene and Sherlock was much more sour in mood than usual in such a setting. Mostly he was dreading having to kneel beside a corpse. He hadn't had the chance to find new trousers yet. It was quite uncomfortable.
"Aren't you going to do anything about them?" John asked. Sherlock ignored him.
"You could trip."
"Please, John. There are more important things here than my shoelaces."
"Oh stop being such a prat. Here."
Sherlock jumped as he felt something tug at his feet. He looked down, having to lean forward a bit more than usual to see over his middle. There was John on his knees, tying up Sherlock's shoes with efficiency. For some reason it seemed to be an idea the detective's brain had trouble processing.
"There all set," said John, looking up, but not standing yet, "It's alright, you know. Needing new trousers."
Sherlock felt his cheeks flush.
"Yes, alright," he said, almost haughtily and taking a step back, "Thank you."
"You're welcome, Podgy."
Sherlock flushed even darker and glared over at John. The doctor was smirking. Then he winked. Suddenly the crime scene was a lot less interesting.