"What about this one?" Sherlock asked and held up the item in question.
John stared at it for a moment, head cocked and face screwed up in concentration, the cogs visibly turning in his head.
They were both kneeling on the bathroom floor, by the open washing machine, a half-empty laundry basket sitting next to them and several heaps of dirty clothing divided by colour and texture laid out in front of them.
"Blacks," John eventually said.
"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked and let the black silk shirt swing to and fro in his hand.
John nodded. "It's black, so, yes. Blacks," he insisted.
Sherlock sighed and let the shirt sink. "You're wrong. Again."
John looked at him incredulously. "But - it's black! It must be blacks!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Not everything's as it seems at first glance." He held up the shirt in exasperation. " It's silk, John, silk!"
John was about to retort when realization hit him. He groaned. "Of course! It's delicates!"
"Obviously." Sherlock sighted and threw the shirt on the appropriate pile.
John ran a hand through his hair and looked at the display before him with mild despair. "I'm sorry, I'm trying, okay? How was I supposed to know that it's silk anyway?"
Sherlock looked at him as if he'd just grown a second head. He grabbed the shirt again and held it up. "You see it." He held the shirt right under John's nose. "You feel it. And if in doubt - ?" Sherlock paused and looked at John with expectantly raised eyebrows.
"...check the label." John intoned dutifully. He'd had to learn that one by heart.
"Good." Sherlock nodded and threw the shirt on its pile again.
John let his eyes wander over the heaps and the contents of the laundry basket, then shook his head. "It's a science unto itself. I mean, how does anyone ever learn it?"
"It's very simple, really." Sherlock retorted and started digging in the basket. "There's a very clear logic concept behind it. You were just spoilt by your mother and the Army or else even you would have learnt this by now."
"Yeah, probably." John muttered absent-mindedly. It was all so confusing.
Then a thought struck him.
"But Sherlock, what do I do if I don't know and there is NO label?"
Sherlock had just extricated a pair of red lace knickers from the basket and stared at them for a moment in confusion before he replied.
"What? Oh, take it to the dry cleaner's or call Mycroft. Are these yours?" he held up the garment.
John did a double take, then snatched the knickers out of Sherlock's hand at lightning speed.
"Y- No! And before you ask: they're delicates!"