John threw up his hands, exasperated beyond belief, which made him even more frustrated, with himself, with Sherlock, with the entire situation. He always tried so hard to hold onto some semblance of control in situations like this, refusing to let Sherlock get a rise out of him, but oh, sometimes it was difficult to remember why he couldn't just stomp around the flat all day.
"It's a matter of principle, of-- of privacy! Of asking before taking, of bloody assumption from your side-- what the hell are you grinning for." Seriously, it was a little unsettling, and seemed completely out of place - were they even having the same conversation? John could never be entirely sure, Sherlock always seemed to be a few paces ahead, or not listening to John, sometimes not even realising he was actually there. Crossing his arms over his chest, he frowned deeply at his friend and flatmate, trying (and failing) to come across as even remotely authoritative in this situation. "Take it off. And put. It. Back. Right now. I don't want you walking around the flat wearing my robe, it's... weird." Christ, what if Lestrade walked in, right now? The office would have a laugh for weeks.
Oh, Sherlock couldn't get enough of John like this, always enjoying watching how flustered he'd get over the simplest things. Sometimes, like today when there was nothing on, he liked pushing John like this, his reactions always making him feel lighter and less prone to bouts of sulking on the couch. Boredom was always a lurking danger, but when he could wind John up, he could often find entertainment for hours, which he was certainly holding out hope for.
He watched John as he tried desperately to make a point that would somehow convince Sherlock out of his robe (which he hadn't, and it wouldn't), his grin getting all the more enigmatic when John addressed it. Oh, and now he was being authoritative, and Sherlock felt like he could burst any moment from utter elation at his luck in getting to John this much. Beyond amusement, there was another strange warmth flickering in his stomach that he couldn't quite place when John looked at him like that. He finally made like he was going to comply, standing to face John and putting his hands on his hips as he lifted his chin smugly.
"Is that an order, Captain?" he challenged, having far too much fun with this to just give in.
From the way John was looking at Sherlock, one would not say he was the shorter of the two men. He was simply refusing being intimidated by something as ridiculous as height; he'd had to deal with that all his life, always being the shortest in class, with a small build on top of that. It always left people surprised to see that much punch (often literally) come out of such a small package. Until he joined the Army as a doctor and went through the basics of training and actually got a taste for the more disciplined, physical aspect of the job. There wasn't much about an army doctor's job, really; very little occurred out in the field, and most of it was contained on base in the medical post buildings. But John would get up very early, each morning, and do his exercise, just in case. Mostly, just because he enjoyed doing it.
Keeping his arms crossed, he quirked an eyebrow up at Sherlock, not moving an inch. If anything, his feet seemed even more firmly planted on the ground. "You're bloody right it is," he said, voice low and quiet, but with a definite note of watch it, choose wisely in it. "Take it off. Or I'll give you a hand. And it won't be pleasant, I can promise you that."
Oh, Sherlock was absolutely loving this. He'd made winding John up into a game, wanting to keep pushing him and see where his limits were, and if he'd back down or fight him harder when he got there. He felt a strange tingle of sensation up his spine when John spoke, the low timbre of his voice making him very glad he'd stolen his dressing gown indeed. He was a danger addict just like John was, and taunting a very capable army doctor was just the rush he needed when casework was an impossibility.
He crossed his arms to mirror John, showing no signs of relenting. "Oh, I don't doubt that. Though, that would be if you were actually going to intervene physically, which I highly doubt." he continued to goad, still having such fun pushing John relentlessly. He just wanted to see if John would actually do it, or if he'd let it go. It was such a fuss over one little dressing gown, really, he just wanted to see how long John would let it go on.
"It's a matter of principle, of-- of privacy! Of asking before taking, of bloody assumption from your side-- what the hell are you grinning for." Seriously, it was a little unsettling, and seemed completely out of place - were they even having the same conversation? John could never be entirely sure, Sherlock always seemed to be a few paces ahead, or not listening to John, sometimes not even realising he was actually there. Crossing his arms over his chest, he frowned deeply at his friend and flatmate, trying (and failing) to come across as even remotely authoritative in this situation. "Take it off. And put. It. Back. Right now. I don't want you walking around the flat wearing my robe, it's... weird." Christ, what if Lestrade walked in, right now? The office would have a laugh for weeks.
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He watched John as he tried desperately to make a point that would somehow convince Sherlock out of his robe (which he hadn't, and it wouldn't), his grin getting all the more enigmatic when John addressed it. Oh, and now he was being authoritative, and Sherlock felt like he could burst any moment from utter elation at his luck in getting to John this much. Beyond amusement, there was another strange warmth flickering in his stomach that he couldn't quite place when John looked at him like that. He finally made like he was going to comply, standing to face John and putting his hands on his hips as he lifted his chin smugly.
"Is that an order, Captain?" he challenged, having far too much fun with this to just give in.
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Keeping his arms crossed, he quirked an eyebrow up at Sherlock, not moving an inch. If anything, his feet seemed even more firmly planted on the ground. "You're bloody right it is," he said, voice low and quiet, but with a definite note of watch it, choose wisely in it. "Take it off. Or I'll give you a hand. And it won't be pleasant, I can promise you that."
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He crossed his arms to mirror John, showing no signs of relenting. "Oh, I don't doubt that. Though, that would be if you were actually going to intervene physically, which I highly doubt." he continued to goad, still having such fun pushing John relentlessly. He just wanted to see if John would actually do it, or if he'd let it go. It was such a fuss over one little dressing gown, really, he just wanted to see how long John would let it go on.
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