"Sherlock, do you really think I'm that short?"
Said consulting detective couldn't help the small smirk that curled onto his lips when the ex-army doctor asked, but otherwise didn't shift from his position on the couch, hands together under his chin like always.
It was almost two and a half years since Sherlock's 'fall' off the roof of St Barts, and a bit less than three months since his miraculous return to 221B. There had been a fair share of yelling from John when that had happened, and a prominent bruise left under his right eye for about a week and a half afterwards, but Sherlock was just happy to be back in Baker Street with the ex-army doctor, and John was damned if he wasn't just as ecstatic.
Since then, life had pretty much returned to normal for the two (well, as normal as life got for the world's only consulting detective and his blogger).
And then John had asked this odd question. Well, it would have been odd to anyone else who had heard it, but Sherlock knew what he meant, of course, and decided to play around with it for a bit.
"What are you talking about, John?"
The sandy-haired man sighed in just the slightest exasperation (the fond kind, though), and said,
"You know damned well what I'm talking about."
"Mm, no, I don't seem to. You'll have to elaborate for me, John."
The good detective's flatmate rolled his eyes, but complied anyway.
"When we were at Buckingham Palace, on that Irene Adler case-"
"You mean the one where I was wearing my sheet?"
"Yes, that one-"
"And you asked me if I was wearing any pants?"
"Yes, but-"
"And I told you I wasn't, and we promptly broke into laughter, and then Mycroft walked in and asked if we could behave like grown-ups?"
"Sherlock!"
"Yes, John?"
"Will you let me finish?"
"Whenever you're ready, John."
The good doctor muttered something about 'the world's only consulting 10-year-old', but continued;
"Anyway, and we met with that palace official, who said you looked taller in photographs. And you told him you 'took the precaution of a good coat, and a short friend'. I'm not really, that short, am I?"
Sherlock opened an eye to find his jumper-wearing flatmate standing over him, the tiniest frown set into his brow. Sherlock grinned.
John looked startled for all of three seconds, before his arm was suddenly grabbed, and he was pitched forward, landing safely on top of the sociopath currently holding him captive.
"Wha-! Sherlock, what are you doing? Let me go!" he cried, fighting the flush crawling up his neck and onto his face, and trying to wriggle out of the consulting detective's death-grip.
Sherlock promptly tucked John's head under his chin, and murmured,
"No, John, you're exactly the right size."
A/N: Okay, wow, my first fanfic! This honestly looked a lot fluffier in my head, but I'm hoping it came out okay anyway!
It's meant to be kind of funny, but I'm not sure if it came out that way. ^^;; Anyway. Consider this my offical entrance to the Sherlock fandom, and I hope you guys liked it!
