Sherlock had ripped his favorite jacket.
It had been during a case, while he was changing the criminal through the rooftops of London, when suddenly they came to a large gap. The gap was not of the widest, and the other rooftop was situated a couple of metres below, but it was still wide enough to ensure a bit of fear in the man jumping it. As he approached the gap, the criminal's step faltered. He looked behind him, and seeing Sherlock's figure slowly gaining, decided to risk it. Seeing he was about to jump, the great detective lunged, grabbing his ankles, resulting to the man tripping backward. He got up, trying to shake free of the detective's grasp, but Sherlock held on firmly. The man, trying to kick free, started to run slowly, dragging Sherlock along like a husky pulling a sled. Across the gravely surface, the detective's coat found a nail, which caught the fabric. The dragging led to the nail cutting through the fabric, forming a long, narrow rip. Distracted, Sherlock momentarily loosened his grip on the criminal's foot, and with a sharp twist of his boots the man kicked free of the grasp, jumped from the roof, and disappeared.
"Damn it!" Sherlock swore, picking himself off the ground. He ran to the edge of the roof, hoping to see the man running below, but it was too late. Realizing there was nothing he could do, his hand twitched towards his phone in the pocket, brushing against the long rip in the coat. He fingered the rip for a bit, then began to inspect the cut. The nail had sliced clean through both layers of the jacket, and was quite long, from the lapel to the bottom of the pockets. As he saw the severity of the cut, Sherlock sighed. Even if it was reparable, the scar would be quite visible, and the innermore pocket was torn as well. He took of the coat and hugged it to his chest. His mother had given it to him as a going away present before he went to uni, claiming that he would be the most dapper boy there. He had flushed in disgust and told his mum to stop talking such nonsense, but as he put it on, he was secretly pleased at how well it fit him. Even though he told himself that it was time anyway, that the musty old coat was due to be replaced, he still couldn't bring himself to drop it off in one of the rubbage bins on the way to the main road.
"So, how'd it go," inquired John as Sherlock walked into their flat. Without a word, Sherlock flung his ripped coat at him before going into his bedroom to retire for the night. John turned the supple fabric around with his fingers, sliding his fingers up and down the cut. He deepened into thought as he played with the coat, forming a plan in his mind before hanging up the jacket and turning out the lights.
Three days later, Sherlock was surprised to see John having his morning cup of tea as he descended into the dining room. An early bird John was not, especially on Saturdays. In fact, Sherlock was often tempted to give the man a sharp poke in the rib to make sure he was still breathing. But lo and behold, there he was, not only awake and alert but also gussied up in his old suit, which was about as surprising as his pront awakening.
But that wasn't the strangest thing that had been happening in the past few days. Sherlock had spotted John making quiet phone calls in the strangest places, the alley behind the building, the empty flat next door. The phone calls usually came to an abrupt stop as Sherlock entered the room, but a couple times he was able to decipher snippets such as "nothing too fancy" and "10 on Saturday." He really didn't know what John was trying to hide with all his secrecy, and was frankly a bit offended that he was trying to piece together the entire scheme behind his back. The man should know by now that nothing, especially such a trivial case as this, gets by the great detective. But just as Sherlock was about to unveil his knowledge, John smiled at him.
"Get dressed, Sherlock! And nicely. I have a surprise for you."
That grin did him in. The man had obviously put such care and planning into this, to keep it a surprise. And although Sherlock might not have been an angel, he wasn't cruel by any means, and he certainly wasn't about to burst John's proud, happy little bubble with his sharp inference.
They got into a cab. Sherlock stared out the window while John smiled to himself and hummed quietly. God, that man was annoying. Every inch of Sherlock's mind yearned to wipe that smug little smirk off his face, to remind him that no one can put one over the world's greatest consulting detective. But just as he was turning towards John to tell him a thing or two, the cab stopped.
"Well, here we are, Sherlock! Hackett's. One of the most high-end men's boutiques in the world. Now listen, Sherlock," John started, his excited squeaking lowering into a murmur. "I don't care if the salesperson has taken an unwarranted break to see his girlfriend, or if he has some strange illness or whatever. What does matter to me is that I will be able to show my face in public after this trip! Do you understand? None of your, you know…"
"My what?"
Sherlock liked this game, his pretending to play clueless, while John tried to find the right words for the detective's brilliance without giving him too much satisfaction. But John was apparently not in the mood for it this time.
"You know what I mean, that thing where you read people. Now come on, I want to get done before lunch."
The first thing that Sherlock took in as he walked into the store was the feeling that someone had replaced the oxygen in the air with perfume. He tried holding his breath, but finally succumbed to breathing. The heavily perfumated air filled his lungs, and Sherlock started to cough, ignoring John's glares. They stood still, taking in the immaculate racks of coats, the cases filled with silk ties, the plush rugs and stiff mannequins, up until the moment when a young sales clerk approached them.
"Hullo, welcome to Hackett's. Is there anything I can help you find."
"A gas mask would be nice," Sherlock murmured under his breath, resulting in a sharp kick from John.
"Actually, my colleague here was looking for a nice black jacket. Would you be able to find us one with the right fit?" inquired John.
"Certainly, sir. Right this way, we'll take your measurements…"
"Excuse me."
He was cut off by a short, impatient looking women with a stack of jackets hanging from one arm. Over her shoulder, Sherlock spied a pile of five hundred pound jackets thrown carelessly onto one of the plush cousions.
"Would you be able to help me really quickly?" continued the lady.
"Um, let me just quickly assist these two gentlemen over here and I will be able to…"
"I'm sure these two men wouldn't mind if I borrowed your expertise for a couple of minutes," she interrupted, flashing John a quick fake smile. "After all, I was here first."
The clerk gave the two men a quick, apologetic glance as he went over to the mess of jackets in the corner. Sherlock was quick to follow. But John knew where this was going, and quickly grabbed Sherlock's sleeve.
"Now, Sherlock, I know that woman is an ass, but for once in your life, just let it go, okay? I would like to be able to show my face in public after this again. Understood?"
The detective just smiled. "Nonsense, John. I just want to see if I can...help a little." Before John could put in another word, Sherlock strode towards the corner, where the woman was red in the face and yelling at the uncomfortable-looking clerk.
"What do you mean, you need to have the measurements? All I want to do is buy my husband a gift! His other jacket is a medium, isn't that enough to go off?!"
The clerk tried to explain, to no avail, that certain types of jackets may come in different sizes, so precision was key. Still, the woman refused to see logic.
"You call yourself a clerk! You can't even find me a simple jacket! I won't stand to be mistreated like this! And for these prices! 400 pounds for a coat! After what I have had to go through with you, I should at least get a discount! I never would have thought that I would have to go through all this rubbish to gety my husband a present!"
"You probably shouldn't bother."
"Excuse me?" yelled the lady.
"I said," repeated Sherlock, "You probably shouldn't bother with the present. Your husband's cheating on you anyway."
"What are you talking about? Who are you? How would you know that?!"
"It's quite simple, actually," started the detective, ignoring John's glares and kicks, "You're not rich, madam, since you're wearing quite normal clothes, and frankly, judging by the state of this corner right now, have no idea how to behave in an upstate store like this. However, you want to buy your husband a really nice present to show how much you love him. Your clothes are dirty and rumpled, your hair messy. You're not keeping up your appearance for anyone, so your husband is away at this moment. He told you he was away for business, did he not?" Sherlock looked up at the red-faced woman, who gave him a small nod. John had given up trying to stop the detective, and was sitting down with his face in his hands. "He's been gone a lot on business, hasn't he?" Again, a nod. "If he needed to do as much business as he says he has, he would already have a nice coat. But he doesn't, doesn't he? That's why you're here, to buy him one. You haven't been getting along with your husband lately, either. You have absolutely no idea what he likes, judging by the amount of jackets you're trying to decide between. So, a husband you don't get along with who has a lot of business to do, but who doesn't even have a nice jacket? Elementary. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a coat to buy."
"No you don't, Sherlock." John stood up, his jaw rigid. "We have to go now. We'll get your jacket later."
The detective opened his mouth to protest, but something in John's eyes let him know he had crossed the line. He quietly followed his partner out of the store.
They got into the cab. Sherlock could tell John was trying to tell him something, and it came pretty soon.
"Sherlock, I have absolutely nothing to say to you. I tried, I really did, to do something nice. But you ruined it. You always ruin everything. You better hope Mycroft will go with you to buy a jacket because I am done with having to babysit you all the time."
Sherlock said nothing. He felt bad now. John was his best friend, and he had let him down. They rode the rest of the way in silence.
A couple weeks later, Sherlock barged into the flat.
"John! John!"
"What is it?" yelled the man, rushing down the stairs.
"Do you like my new coat?" said Sherlock, showing him his new crisp black jacket.
"Yes…" replied John. But he didn't even finish the word before Sherlock shed his coat on the floor and rushed upstairs.
John sighed. It was like living with a toddler. A toddler that just happened to get its kicks from solving murders and insulting people. He smiled at the ceiling. Every day was different when you were living with Sherlock Holmes. And that was just the way John liked it.