Sherlock refused to look.
One lesson learned from his years in the field had been that one should not allow the opposition to strike first.
But he'd be dammed if he said that he wasn't burning to see what the former doctor had managed to dig up.
As far as he knew, John owned only two suits and his military dress clothes.
Instinct told him that his information was outdated.
Indeed when he heard his bloggers sharp intake of breath, and allowed himself to glance over, he felt the air flee his lungs, leaving him light headed and winded.
John looked fantastic The image of a thin and sickly former army doctor was erased, and replaced with the visage of this suave, seductively attractive man, with a trim figure and almost regal posture.
Had not been for those deep blue/brown eyes grazing over him with barely concealed hunger, he had scarcely recognized him.
"Well, it looks like your brother managed to get a hold of your old tailor."
Sherlock shook himself, his mind trying to reboot after such a shock to the harddrive.
"Ahh, yes. Yes. He did, apparently for you as well."
John smirked, stepping forward to peak into a box, only to slam the lid down and grimace.
"Your brother is very generous when he feels guilty."
The detective snorted.
"Naturally it would be Mycroft to by you something like that."
The former doctor glanced down, as if inspecting his clothing.
"What's wrong with this outfit?"
Sherlock swung his legs off of the couch, sitting up.
"Well the color, it washes you out, makes you look paler."
John crossed his arms.
"Sherlock, I am pale. I live in London, for one thing, and i'm indoors most of the time."
The detective stood, gesturing at John.
"And the cut, it makes you look too thin."
The former Doctor sighed, and shook his head.
"You really have nothing bad to say about this outfit, do you Sherlock. Just admit that I'm incredibly attractive, get out of your clothes and tame me to bed."
Such a blunt move was unexpected, and once again caught the detective off guard.
"Your pillow talk leaves something to be desired."
John shrugged, maneuvering himself to lean against the back of a chair.
"I've not had cause to use it in three years, sorry if it's a touch blunt."
At the mention of the three years that had pulled him away from his blogger, Sherlock felt himself compelled forward, a hand nearly reaching out to him.
To touch.
To reassure.
He stopped himself short, his mind bringing back around the knowledge of his current objective.
Seduce John Watson.
The aforementioned Watson watched as the emotions running through his genius' eyes, his own features calmly controlled in the mask that he had perfeced over the years.
Well.
Almost perfected.
"You know John, it's going to take more than rough words and nice clothes to win this."
The smirk returned to the former doctor's face.
"So you admit that you think that this suit is nice."
The detective balked, before scowling at the doctor.
"you little-"
"Yoo-hoo, boys!"
The tottering foot steps once again made there way up the stairs.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade was just-"
She stopped in the doorway, the motion so eerily reminiscent of the night before that Sherlock's heart quickened slightly, his breath catching in his throat.
Her and flew to her chest, a wide smile splitting her features.
"You too look so dapper! Oh, I could hire you out as models, I could."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, while John blushed.
"Thank you Mrs. Hudson, for the, ahh, the compliment. I don't quite know about a forty year old man being a model but-"
"Thirty eight."
John turned to Sherlock, who was still standing statue still, his eyes unfocused.
Glazed.
"Pardon?"
"You're thirty eight."
The former doctor shifted his weight to his other leg, arms still crossed and face set sternly.
"Yea, so?"
Sherlock seemed to come into himself, if ever so slightly.
"So-though I do loathe repetition-you said that you were forty. That is depriving yourself of two more years than necessary."
John's brow furrowed further, once more in confusion.
"Why does that bother you?"
The detective's face fell, the same lost look that had filled his features nearly five years ago- when he had asked what his blogger would say when face with death- had returned.
It was so mournful that John immediately regretted asking.
"Sherlock-"
His features returned to normal, hard edges and firm expressions intact as he turned to the landlady.
"You said that Lestrade was here?"
All business.
Oh boy.
"Err, yes. He said something about wanting to see you about a case. I-"
Sherlock rushed past the landlady and down the steps.
"Blood hell."
John followed suit, sprinting to catch up with his long-legged detective.
Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway, her hand's clasped to her chest.
"Oh I do hope that they're back in time for dinner. I'd hate to get another reservation."