A/N: Bit of a quick upload today. Running on 8 hours of sleep over the course of three and a half days right now because Supernatural and also school work. (Admittedly, mostly Supernatural. I'm on season 5 right now and I'm starting to ship Destiel real hard, guys. It's almost frightening.) Anyways, enjoy this chapter, hopefully? All of you kind reviewers keep telling me not to feel so nervous about every chapter so maybe I shouldn't... anyhoo...

Word Count: 770-ish

Pairing(s): Sherlock/John, Sherlock/the scarf

Warning(s): Shameless fluff, unnatural attachment to garments, brief mention of sexting and fantasies including (very mild) exhibitionism, politicians, and John being a cuddly but nagging wife when he's not busy kicking ass and taking names out on the streets of London. You know. Fighting crime.

Looking Spiffy, Among Other Talents

"You aren't actually going to wear that, are you?"

Sherlock arched his eyebrow; he was positioned in front of the mirror looking himself over and, in his focused state, hadn't noticed John coming in the doorway. As much as Sherlock prided himself on his observation skills, John prided himself on an uncanny ability to sneak up on him, taking advantage of his light-footedness adapted from time in Afghanistan.

"Of course I am, John." Sherlock twisted around and craned his neck in an attempt to view his backside in the reflection. "Why would I not?"

John snorted. "You're going to look ridiculous, that's why," he said and rolled his eyes. "Although I guess you might get by on pure force of arrogance. You know you've been ogling yourself in that mirror for almost ten minutes now?"

"I'm checking for clues, John; do you honestly think I'm that vain? Mycroft's associates will be looking for any little smidgen of detail to take advantage of in my appearance and I cannot afford to be the underdog in any of the interactions there. Politicians are tricky men, John."

"Mm-hmm, yes, I'm sure they're all just dying to pick on you, 'Lock."

"You haven't come to one of the dinners before, John. They are Hell on Earth, except that unfortunately politicians exist and Hell does not." Sherlock peeked over his shoulder. "Hand me my scarf?"

"Your scarf? Sherlock—"

"John." Sherlock cut him off, eyebrows arched to implausible heights. "You dress like you hug kittens for a living. I hardly think you're in any position to be handing out fashion advice."

John looked down at himself and clenched his fists, but whatever retort had flown onto his lips quickly died there. He was wearing an orange cardigan, the one that his grandmother had given him for Easter one day and had been worn to the point that, while it fit his body perfectly, it was faded and patched in all sorts of places, over a pale cream jumper that was so ill fitting it was actually adorable. And also the slippers – he just had to have put on the slippers. (It wasn't his fault the flat got cold, okay?)

"Yes, well." John cleared his throat. "This is not fashion advice. It's the middle of summer – you'll be roasting out there in that coat."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous. I always wear this." Sherlock swept past him, scanning the flat in one swoop. "Where is my scarf, John?"

John quirked an eyebrow. "It's in the wash. Someone had to wash it eventually." Sherlock gave him a look that suggested that, no, he would in fact have been perfectly happy wearing that scarf around indefinitely until the end of time, sanitary or not. "Don't be a baby," John said. "Don't you have anything, I don't know. Short sleeved?"

"Of course I do. I don't go naked under the coat, John." Sherlock scowled as he stated the obvious; John went red at the mere suggestion. "Your pupils are dilated. Please do not entertain this fantasy. Mycroft will know, somehow."

"Ah, yes. Right. Sorry." John was not, in fact, sorry, and he fully intended on entertaining that fantasy as soon as possible. But now was (unfortunately) not the time. No. Now was the time for nagging; John put his hands on his hips and sighed. "Sherlock, you cannot wear that coat. I walked outside yesterday and I got hot. Me. I was in Afghanistan, Sherlock – I know what hot weather is, and this is it."

Sherlock set his jaw and peered down at John. Somehow the height difference failed to make John seem overpowered in the slightest, however, and he ended up pouting. "I don't see why it matters what I wear," he mumbled. The corners of John's lips twitched upwards but he fought it back.

"What if you got heat stroke, Sherlock?"

Sherlock paused as if seriously considering, then smirked. "I'd get out of that dreadful dinner."

"You're impossible."

"Possible. Just unlikely." John's irritation melted off his face when Sherlock swooped in to kiss him between the eyes, grinning hard enough for his cheeks to hurt. "I'll be home soon," said Sherlock. "Oh, and don't eat the peanut butter."

John paled a bit, but his grin remained. "Noted."

Sherlock's eyes crinkled for a moment, fighting back an equally broad grin; he couldn't afford to look even a smidgen happy tonight, not in the presence of Mycroft's assortment of powerful old men. John, ever the understanding boyfriend, saw Sherlock off (still in that coat, damn him) and vowed to send him ridiculously romantic (or, if ineffective, erotic) text messages all night.

If only hugging kittens was an actual profession...

Er, I mean. Review?