It was very hard to look dignified when out of three people in a room, two were wearing exquisitely tailored suits and you were the one wearing a West Ham towel.
"Good Afternoon Dr. Watson." Mycroft raised an eyebrow.
"Mycroft. Hello." He had the distinct impression the elder Holmes brother was taking more than a professional interest in his nipples. "Sherlock, there's...stuff in the bath."
"Stuff? That six years at Medical School was time well spent wasn't it John?"
"Stuff. Or to be more precise the digestive tract of a male aged approximately 45 years. In the bath!" John knew in spite of his best efforts he was turning pink under Mycroft's continued scrutiny.
"A digestive tract? Really Sherlock."
"Is that not good then?"
"No that's very much not good!"
"That's very bad English Dr Watson." Mycroft had moved from the dining table to the sofa. John really hoped it wasn't for a better view of his legs.
"So I am speaking English then? You do understand? There are body parts in the bath."
"And what conclusion do you draw from that John?" Sherlock asked, obviously glad of a break from arguing with Mycroft.
"That you are an Inconsiderate Bastard. And I'm using the en-suite shower in your room." John's furious exit was ruined slightly by his towel nearly falling off. He turned a rather fetching shade of crimson and stomped out of the living room.
"Rather has a temper doesn't he? Does he still have that gun?" Mycroft licked his lips.
"Yes Mycroft. He does."
"Doctor, Bodyguard, Tea-boy, armed and dangerous. All in one conveniently sized package."
"I saw him first."
"You just keep telling yourself that Sherlock."
"I hate you."
"I know. Goodbye."
He glowered at the door for a good ten minutes after Mycroft had made his exit. Then with a sigh he reluctantly set about removing the digestive tract from the bath.