Unfortunately for me, though perhaps fortunate for the rest of the world, John is holding my overcoat hostage until I provide another entry for that ridiculous badwidth receptacle of verbal vomit known as his "blog." He says it's only fair since he's done the washing up every day for the past month. I say he might as well have waited. Mrs. Hudson would have done it in the end.
At any rate, if I've learned one thing about John Watson, it's that is that he's stubborn. No amount of dessicated human remains in jars left around the flat will sway him from his nefarious purposes. I say nefarious, but if that word in any way conveys a sense of mystery or subterfuge, then it is misunderstood. John Watson is not mysterious in the least.
You see, if I purposed to steal my own overcoat, or, better yet, Mycroft's overcoat, I would concoct an airtight plan involving noxious chemicals, forged post, a violent diversion, or, perhaps, all three if I was feeling particularly buoyant. Not so my flatmate. Instead, a mere two hours ago, John marched into my room, grabbed my Belstaff coat, and took it hostage into his bedroom, after which act of perfidy, he sat down coolly in the living room to read Modern Doctor and try to look as if he's not amused.
Such is the pitfall of living with someone like John Watson. Totally shameless.
I find that I've now outwitted John by writing over 200 words of nothing, which he may take or leave as he wishes as soon as my coat reappears in my closet.