John kicks a pile of red silk out of the way, grumbling to himself. Despite his better judgement, he bends down and picks it up, carrying it across the flat.
He gets to the sitting room, where Sherlock is lounging in his big square armchair, draped in more silk - soft grey this time, with a contrasting black collar and belt.
"Christ almighty, Sherlock. How many sodding bathrobes do you own?"
"None." The underlying 'Obvious' is clear in his disdainful tone of voice.
Scowling, John dumps the red one into his lap. "What do you call this then? And the one you're wearing? And the one hanging off the loo door? And the one in the bloody stairwell?"
"Dressing gowns, clearly."
"Oh, my mistake." John rolls his eyes, but he's smiling.
"They're quite different, John. Bathrobes imply post-bath use. They're tatty, unstylish terrycloth things. Wouldn't be caught dead greeting clients in one of those. Dressing gowns are elegant and refined." He scrunches his nose up irritably and dusts the lapels of his gown off with his hands, as if proving a point.
"Fine, fine, whatever. I'm sorry if I offended your sartorial sensibilities." John smirks indulgently.
"Honestly, John." Sherlock snorts, getting out of his chair and swanning into his bedroom, and John can hear him muttering the entire way. "Hmph. Bathrobe!"