'Have a nice time?' John's voice dripped with sarcasm.
'Of course.' Sherlock replied with great dignity - or with as much dignity that the high-heeled boots, painful-looking skinny jeans and tight, pastel pink t-shirt he was wearing would allow.
'Why are you dressed like...that?' he had to ask. He wasn't sure that he wanted the answer, but he had to ask.
'I had a case.'
'You had a case.'
'Yes, John, do try to keep up.' Sherlock rolled his eyes, running a hand through his carefully gelled hair - it wasn't a good look.
From the blank look on his flatmate's face, he was going to have to elaborate. 'Lestrade needed help. Again. Scotland Yard had been on the trail of a notorious drug lord for several months and all they'd come up with was one witness statement and several dead ends, so naturally, they asked me to help. It took me a considerably shorter length of time to find him and solve the case.'
'Of course it did.' John had gone back to his newspaper.
'Like I said, the only evidence they had was a 'witness' to one of his drug deals named Sam Docket - a thirty-two-year-old who has been scrounging money off his brother for ten years. He wasn't as innocent as he claimed to be, being an addict and an alcoholic himself and Thomas Adder's - the drug lord - lover - or one of a string of lovers, as I discovered.'
The dark-haired man had turned to face the window and was making expansive hand gestures to an unseen force outside. The unseen force may have been impressed, but the pigeons on the window ledge were not.
'Your point?' John had learnt by now that short, well placed comments were often the best way to shut Sherlock up quickly.
'Yes. I soon found out that Thomas frequents clubs and bars, one bar in particular to be exact. I-'
John buried his face in his hands. 'You went to a gay bar. You dressed up like that, and you went to a gay bar. You see? It's stuff like this that makes people think that we're together.' Sherlock ignored his last comment.
'It's good to see that my deductions are finally making an impression on you, John. Yes, I did. I chatted him up-' the shorter man made an inarticulate sound of despair into his hands. 'Got him talking, case closed. Lestrade turned up to arrest him.' He grinned manically.
'Why the hell did you feel the need to wear that god-awful pink shirt? Couldn't you just wear your usual clothes?' As always with Sherlock, it was necessary to find some logic behind his madness.
'I was undercover.' Sherlock frowned, 'And I was told that Thomas preferred men who dress a certain way. He likes pink. The press followed the officers to the bar.' This last statement was said in an offhand manner as he wandered into the kitchen to tinker with one of his many experiments.
'For god sake!' John shot to his feet. 'There's pictures?'
'That's what the press do.' Sherlock called, the 'duh' clear in his voice.
'Lestrade's never going to let us live this down, you idiot.'
'Why should I care?' Was the bored reply from the next room.
Not for the first time that week, John considered jumping out of the window. It would be considerably less painful than having to endure the torment from the officers at Scotland Yard.
He finally settled for a glass of wine - despite the fact that it was only two in the afternoon. Maybe he could bribe Lestrade into destroying the copies of the pictures he undoubtedly had. Probably not. With a sigh, John Watson resigned himself to the verbal bashing he was going to get.
Why did he put up with Sherlock Holmes?