Silly short oneshot. Poor Watson just can't win, can he?

Disclaimer: Arthur Conan Doyle wrote it, and the copyrights belong to greater people than I.

"Really, Watson. Can we not trust you to do your own shopping?"

"Don't fret, John. It's not… that bad."

"She lies, Doctor. I can hear your poor buttons squealing in agony. Really, however did you get your own measurements so convoluted?"

John Watson was a tried man, indeed. He had so far forfeited what amounted to almost his entire wardrobe on the orders of his wife and best friend, both of whom were thoroughly enjoying themselves despite his discomfort. He imagined Holmes was only in so buoyant a mood because whatever he and Mary deemed unsuitable for Watson's closet would undoubtedly relocate to his own in the near future. Mary, on the other hand, seemed more pleased to be on friendly speaking terms with the detective. "Holmes, this jacket fits me perfectly fine."

"Well, take a deep breath then. Goodness knows I've always been curious about the damage capacity of a high speed button." Holmes said slyly, waving his hands nonchalantly.

Watson glared at him for several moments, and then gave in with a growl. So maybe it was a bit tight. It fit when he bought it! He pulled off the jacket and tossed it at Holmes, feeling a spark of savage pleasure when the detective yelped as it struck his face solidly. "Fine. But I still think you're both being outrageously picky."

Mary smiled peacefully and handed him the next item. The frock coat was one of his older ones, and it fought to even fit around his shoulders. "We aren't being picky, John. We just hate to see you wearing such ill-fitted clothes." She had to step forward and help him haul the coat off, biting down on her lip to keep from giggling.

"Watson, can I have—"

"Yes, Holmes. Why not? You've only been stealing my clothes for years! You practically own them already!" Watson bellowed.

"Barter system, Watson, barter system; and I was going to ask if I could have a cup of tea." Holmes retorted happily. "But if you insist, I shall be more than happy to alleviate the stress of finding a suitable new home for all your poorly-worn clothing." He pulled on the discarded frock coat with evident happiness, comparing its color with a discarded waistcoat. "Anything to help a friend in need."

Watson sighed. "Don't you have a case?" He prompted rudely. Let Holmes go annoy Lestrade for the afternoon. Maybe then he might get through this and be left with something resembling a wardrobe.

"Regrettably no, I'm afraid." Holmes said easily, tossing aside the frock coat for a dinner jacket that Watson was quite convinced still fit him. "It's unsightly on you, Watson." The detective announced, reading his expression and holding up the guilty article for examination. "Am I correct, Mrs. Watson?"

Mary flushed pink and chewed on her index finger as she was wont to when faced with a difficult question. "Well, it is rather tight around the chest, John." She said at last. "I must agree with Mr. Holmes; you should get it replaced."

Watson felt his face fall. "Is there anything I've been wearing in the past year that actually fits?" He gasped out in horror. Why, he wondered, had the two people he trusted most in the world not told him that he was walking around looking like an utter fool? "Anything at all?"

"Well, your shoes fit." Holmes pointed out brightly. "And your pajamas!"

"You have some very well-fitting pants, dear." Mary chirped.

"Except the pinstriped ones. What were you thinking when you bought those?"

"Oh, your hats are all quite lovely!"

"Surely you jest Mrs. Watson. I need only say 'brown bowler'."

Mary flushed again and looked away from her husband's frantically searching gaze. "Well, perhaps the brown bowler sat a tad snug on your head, John."

"I lost that bowler!" Watson exclaimed. "I haven't been able to find it in—Oh Mary, you didn't." Holmes's smug grin spoke volumes. The blackguard! It wasn't enough that he raided his closet every time he visited! He had to get his own wife to conspire against him and his headwear! "Holmes, give me back my hat."

"Now, Watson. It simply does not fit."

"That's not the point, Holmes. It's mine."

"The lady gave it to me!"

Watson made a distressed noise in the back of his throat and flexed his fingers towards Holmes's throat, rousing the detective to hasten backwards. "Holmes, I want it back."He snarled darkly. "Please."

"But, John," Mary piped up, and her honey-brown eyes narrowed in the way common to spurned wives across the globe. "You have a perfectly darling black bowler that fits you wonderfully!" She looked at him curiously. "Why on Earth do you even want your other one? Poor Mr. Holmes—"

"Poor Mr. Holmes indeed!" Watson growled.

"Yes, poor Mr. Holmes," Mary stamped out his male ego with naught but a chilly glare. "Has no bowler hat to speak of, and I thought it was only right for us to volunteer your old one. He promised to treat it with as much care as if he were to return it tomorrow."

Though her irritation had a mollifying effect on his own aggravation, Watson scoffed nonetheless. "So it's most likely in several pieces. Right, Holmes?"

The man in question looked up from his teacup which he had been nursing quite devotedly, and smiled slightly. "Watson, you appall me with these accusations. To think I, your most trusted associate would treat your property so crudely is—"

"Need I remind you of your crude, or should I say cruel treatment of my dog?"

"Our dog, Watson. We've been over this."

"The dog, Holmes. You know you've traumatized him? He's petrified of ham!"

"I am horrified, Watson! Are you suggesting I gave Gladstone mental trauma by conducting unethical experiments with ham?" Holmes's lips began to tremble upward, and Mary hid behind her hands with her shoulders shivering from mirth.

Watson breathed in, praying for strength. "If you haven't given Gladstone mental trauma, you've certainly given it to me. Sometimes I wonder if I might honestly be a masochist!" He took a step across the sitting room they had been occupying for the last few hours, and Holmes inched away. "Give me my hat, Holmes."

"I regret to say that's quite impossible, Watson." The doctor looked at Mary triumphantly, certain he was about to hear of his poor hat's demise. "For it simply does not fit your head, and I cannot in good conscience allow you to continue wearing it." In an instant the detective had gathered up whatever clothes he could carry, grabbed Mary's hand for a departing kiss, and fled out the door like the Devil was at his heels.

Watson watched him go with fire licking at his eyes. "Mary, darling, I will be right back." He said in such a pseudo-cheery voice that she grimaced, kissing him squarely on the cheek. "Please don't throw away the rest of my clothes."

Without a backward glance Watson then took to the trail of his friend, leaping down the stairs five at a time and bursting out of Cavendish Place with a look of murder in time to see the retreating back of the detective.

"Holmes!"