A/N: I've not forgotten prompt eight, but it's been a hectic few days and this prompt was written quicker, so I thought I'd best post it. :-) When I received this, my mind instantly thought of the quote below … however that is not to say our Paget counterparts wouldn't participate in such antics. :-p

Prompt 09: From trustingHim17 – Watson needs a little revenge on Holmes. What does he do?

"I never complain! How am I complaining? When do I ever complain about you practicing the violin at three in the morning, or your mess, your general lack of hygiene, or the fact that you steal my clothes?"

- Doctor John Watson (Sherlock Holmes, 2009).

Revenge, With Warm Regards

It started off small.

Watson came downstairs looking for matches, the ones he usually kept in his coat pocket gone. He found the empty box on Holmes's chemistry table, spent matches dotted across the surface like fallen soldiers. Something was smoking in one of the beakers and Holmes was nowhere to be seen. Watson edged closer to the table and was only mildly surprised when the substance in the beaker came alight.

"Holmes," he called, presuming the detective to be in close proximity. "Your experiment is on fire."

Holmes emerged as if by magic, disgruntled, and Watson left him to his vices, set out to purchase more matches and hide his share.

/-/-/

Three days later, Watson was walking down Piccadilly, heading to the last patient on his rounds. The day had begun mild, yet as the sun started to descend beyond the city the temperature dropped and he sought out his gloves.

They were gone, and a quick perusal of his bag confirmed they were nowhere to be found.

When he arrived back at Baker Street, he put the question to the only person he thought to be responsible.

"Holmes, have you seen my gloves?"

Holmes was wading knee-deep in newspapers that covered the living room floor like a crisp, printed sea. He paused, gave Watson a pointed look. "How often have I stressed that the details are of utmost importance? You must be more specific, my dear fellow. Have I seen your gloves? Numerous times, yes. Does this answer your question?"

Watson sighed. "Did you take my gloves? It is late and I am tired, Holmes, so a yes or no will suffice."

Holmes's mouth twitched in a knowing smile. "My, you have had a trying day. Apologies, my friend, I did not realise it would make you quite so irritable. I intended to return them in due course, but events occurred beyond my control that means I shall have to replace them instead."

"I am not irritable," said Watson defensively, sounding just that. Then he realised what Holmes had said, asked, "What do you mean, replace? Where are they?"

"One is here." Holmes reached beneath the layers of papers and plucked out the garment, waving it triumphantly.

"And the other?"

"Embarked for pastures unknown, on the surface of the Thames. I suspect you shall want a new pair, unless you can endure this bitter London climate with one hand permanently in your pocket."

/-/-/

Gloves, belts and matches were one thing, but in the weeks that followed Watson noticed a decline in his shirts and waistcoats, even a pair of trousers. He asked Mrs. Hudson if anything in particular had been taken to be cleaned, but she was adamant nothing more than their usual clothing had gone.

"Are you missing something, Doctor?" she asked, her face pinched with worry.

Knowing how conscientious their landlady was in her routine and the pride she took in her duties, Watson was quick to reassure her.

"Nothing of import, Mrs. Hudson."

She nodded, then gave him a thoughtful look. "Now that you mention it, Doctor, this weekend last I noticed one of my shawls and dresses gone. I did wonder if I had left it at my sister's when I visited for her birthday, but perhaps I should have a word with young Annie? She has only been in employ for a month, but if there are items going amiss …"

"Oh no, that won't be necessary," Watson assured. "I will resolve the matter. Please do not worry so."

Later that evening, Watson was sat in his armchair when Holmes charged into the room in a flurry of skirts and silk, his movements animated as he paced excitedly.

Watson said nothing of his attire, but his heart went out to Mrs. Hudson.

/-/-/

Two days later, Watson came downstairs early morning in his shirtsleeves.

The fire had not yet been lit and the air was cold. Frost spiralled across the windows, delicate as lace. Holmes's bedroom door was open, the man himself absent. Watson spied several of his missing waistcoats scattered about Holmes's room.

He stepped over the threshold and snatched the first one within reach, quickly putting it on. As he did so, several buttons dropped to the floor like marbles, escaping in different directions.

He tried another, a dark grey one this time. The pockets were ripped and it smelt worryingly like one of Holmes's experiments gone awry. The third one he picked up was pockmarked with bullet holes.

Enough is enough, Watson decided.

/-/-/

He started off small.

A newspaper left in a different place than usual, his own room mostly so Holmes would have to go upstairs if he needed it. Small pebbles placed inside the detective's shoes and the hiding of his umbrella. He took to lighting his cigarettes by the fire embers so that Holmes would have to buy his own matches; sometimes he smoked Holmes's cigarettes when the detective left his case lying around. He moved Holmes's dressing gown to different locations about their home. He added pinches of salt to Holmes's tea when various items of his clothing vanished and turned up irreparable.

After a meagre seventy-two hours of this, Holmes shot him a sidelong glance over breakfast and said, "I know what you are doing, Watson, and I must say it is in poor taste."

Watson paused in reaching for the milk. He blinked at Holmes, giving nothing away. "I'm procuring milk for my tea. Would you like some?"

"With salt?"

"Why on earth would you want salt?"

Holmes scowled. "I do not want salt, but there is a certain mischievous doctor I am currently residing with who seems to think that it is a condiment I enjoy having in my beverages. Given your actions over the past few days, I can only assume that this so-called, vengeful streak of yours is due to the loans I take of your garments."

Watson rolled his eyes. "I would not say loan is an accurate term, Holmes, seeing as I rarely receive them back. Besides, it is not just the clothes."

"Ah! The culprit confesses, and herein we reach the heart of the matter." Holmes's eyes softened as he regarded Watson. "Are you terribly put out, my dear fellow?"

Watson gave this some thought and shook his head, a smile already playing on his lips. "I suppose not. But really, Holmes, Mrs. Hudson's dress?"

"Needs must, Watson. It played a vital part in the Grimshaw case, and he would still be blackmailing his own daughter if not for the dramatic interference of disguise."

"I do not discourage your methods, nor would I wish to interfere in your success by begrudging the loss of the occasional clothing piece from time to time." Watson met his gaze steadily. "But some warning, perhaps?"

"I suppose it is only fair," Holmes acknowledged. "My sincerest apologies for the inconvenience, Watson. I shall endeavour to keep you informed."

Satisfied with this, Watson returned to his breakfast.

The teacup was halfway to his lips when Holmes leaned across the table and rested his palm on top of it.

"In the interest of fairness," said Holmes, "I would advise strongly in pouring yourself a fresh cup."

End

A/N II: Do you smell that? ... could it be? ... why yes, I do believe that is some fluff in my teapot. Yay!