The detective's features remained stoic as he leaned against the counter.
"Seriously. I know that you spend much more time than is decent without pants at all. What's the point in wearing them now?"
"Is this some sort of experiment or something to test me?"
Nothing, just a tilt of the head.
John paced in front of him, his mind racing.
What was he getting at.
Sherlock used to play him like this.
Always to get what he wanted.
The pen.
The milk.
So what does he want now?
Sherlock shrugged again, his too-tight shirt rolling up over his middle.
He made no move to correct the issue, instead letting the skin show.
John glanced up, then at the detective, pursing his lips and shaking his head.
That was it then.
This was a game.
"No. Sherlock. I know what you're trying to do. It won't work."
He crossed his arms, feet planted firmly beneath him.
"I won't give in."
Sherlock placed his mug onto the counter behind him with a sigh, before turning to look at his blogger.
"John, I know that this may come as a shock to you, but I actually do not have any ulterior motives to wearing clothing. I just wanted to cover myself."
The former doctor gestured to the expanse of stomach on display.
"Well you're doing a piss poor job at it."
Sherlock smirked.
The smallest of smiles at his friend.
John would have missed it had he not been so focused in on him.
Damn him and that mouth of his.
It was all that the former doctor could do not to give in, and pull the detective to him.
Sherlock noticed the tension in his blogger.
He watched him clench and unclench his jaw.
Saw how his lips pursed and thinned as he tried to work through his thoughts.
Observed how he shifted from one foot to another, his right leg stiffer than it aught to be.
Finally John's posture relaxed, and the detective was treated with his signature-if rare- mischeivous grin.
Never before had such a look been more welcome, than that smile after three years of absence.
"You want to play games Sherlock? Fine. We can play."
He set his mug onto the the table, moving himself flush with the detective, his fingers a whisper away from the skin if the detective's stomach.
"If your intent on this, and I know you are. Then I'm in. Winner gets to decide what happens next."
With that John strode from the room, leaving a confused, frightened, and undeniably aroused Detective in his wake.
John marched resolutely to his room, a plan for exactly how he was going to seduce Sherlock already forming in his head.
This was a game he knew well.
And test of wills.
Which person would give in first.
John shook his head when he saw the state of his dresser, how bis clothes had been tossed about in Sherlock's no doubt meticulous search of his belongings.
There were very few items if clothing that John owned that Sherlock had yet to see.
He hadn't purchased anything truly new since The Fall, opting instead to care for what he had.
In retrospect -If one could say that about a life plan that had only changed 24 hours ago- It was the stratagem of a man ready for death.
And man simply biding his time until his inevitable end.
With that in mind, there were still the gifts he had received in apology from various persons, no doubt in an attempt to cheer him up.
Help him move on.
John laughed quietly to himself as he removed the case from the back of his closet.
Move on from a lie.
Sherlock was alive, and Mycroft knew.
He tossed the case onto his bed and pulling out of the garment bags within.
He checked each one for the date pinned to it.
After the fifth knew he came across the one he was searching for, with the most recent date price ted on the paper tag.
This one was accompanied by a note.
Doctor Watson,
We new suit for your interview Tuesday at The Imperial College School of Medicine.
8:45. With Professor Andrew Denton.
And car will be waiting.
-Mycroft
He had resolutely ignored the interview, opting instead to sneak out in the early morning and look after the homeless network for the day.
The suit, however, was the only item of clothing he owned that would be tailored to his drastically thinned physic.
He unzipped the black bag and pulled out the dark blue suit, complete with matching tie and cream shirt.
With a smirk, he re-bagged the suit, before hiding the rest of them and dashing down the stairs.
He was met with an empty room, the silence alleviated by the sound of voices floated up from the stairwell, followed by the unmistakable thumping of boots on the stairs.
John made his way to the bathroom, his mind set on victory.