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"John, no, absolutely not." Not-quite-blue eyes glare at John as he emerges from the dressing room of Second Time 'Round, a local thrift shop. "When I agreed to assist you in procuring a new wardrobe, I was very specific about what was permissible."
"Oh, come off it Sherlock. What's wrong with this?" John diplomatically declines to mention that this whole undertaking had been Sherlock's idea, that he had bullied John with increasingly scathing deductions (emphasizing the link between John’s attire and his failings at maintaining girlfriends, no less) into agreeing, and that, once faced with John's budget and stubborn refusal to move the decimal point a few spaces over, this shop had been the detective's pick.
Said detective currently appears to be re-evaluating his decision to bring John to said shop: despite the posh and prim shop front, Second Time ‘Round contains what all used clothes stores do: used clothes. Even without the look of distilled distaste colouring his every feature, Sherlock’s dark wool trousers, Egyptian cotton shirt in plum, bespoke coat and finishing scarf make it unmistakable that these are not his chosen hunting grounds. Kid leather gloves guard his hands.
"Oh, where do I begin?" A deep, breath, more a reverse sigh, longsuffering through clenched teeth. "The previous owner of that plaid shirt wore it to cover the sweat stains on his vests. That coat is two sizes too big, at least, and I really don't see the appeal of the rhinestone trim, especially since some of it seems to have gone missing. Overall, the ensemble looks geriatric, although I can assure you it's not something the elder males of my family would ever have elected to wear. Oh, and by the way, you'll probably require medical screening after we quarantine and burn those trousers – honestly John, don't come any closer – because quite frankly they reek of urine. Does this shop not sanitize its street findings – and why are you making that stupid face?"
"It's called a grin, Sherlock," said John, grinning.
Those mercurial eyes narrow. "Ah. Yes. Humour. How titillating that one of such comedic prowess should favour us with a demonstration."
"Sherlock," John laughs, shrugging out of the furry monstrosity of a coat, "it's just a bit of a lark. You were taking this whole new wardrobe thing way too seriously. They're just clothes!" He wads up the coat and chucks it at Sherlock, who seems paralyzed, caught between the indignity of ducking out of the way and the horror of allowing his finely-gloved hands to make contact to bat it away. The result is a face full of coat for one spluttering detective. John speaks up over the sounds of smothered fury, "And 'us'? Really Sherlock? Using the royal pronoun, now, are we?" The grin is a permanent fixture by now. "I thought we reserved that for making fun of Mycroft?"
The effect of the icy glare John receives is somewhat lessened by the pile of horrendous coat in Sherlock's arms, which has bestowed upon Sherlock the blessings of static electricity. A fine halo of hairs has escaped their normal curl-bound stations.
The grin cracks around the edges, then collapses into laughter, much the same as John collapses against the wall of the dressing room, holding his sides, a caricature of helpless mirth.
The glare lasts a moment longer, and then Sherlock's cheeks flush the faintest of pinks as he drapes the coat over a nearby rack. After fussing with the lie of it for a moment, his fingers fiddling with a sleeve, the flush fades, but there's a quirk to his lips that speaks of contained laughter. Even the raised eyebrow and snort he sends John's way lack any real sting.
"Anytime now," he says, coming to stand by John, who's settled to the filthy ground and is relearning basic breathing.
John accepts the gloved hand, and Sherlock pulls him to his feet. "Alright, alright. I've got it out of my system - we can go back to being serious." He almost manages a serious face as he says this. Almost.
Sherlock smirks. "Actually, I think it'd be best if you changed back into your things. We're done here."
"What?" John feels the lingering high spirits yanked out from under him. "Sherlock, I didn't mean - "
"And neither do I. We will be outfitting you properly - but that can wait." He lifts the coat from where he'd draped it. "We have a purchase to make and a case to solve." John's eyes widen as Sherlock displays the cuff of one sleeve for John's perusal: a mark, left behind by a careless splash of bleach, next to a threadbare patch. "Come along, John."
John gapes after Sherlock, who strides to the shop counter, actually bloody haggles the price of a piece of thrift shop bloody evidence and then stalks out. John hurries after, catching him up outside. "You know, you are unbelievable?"
Sherlock seems surprised. "That's not what you normally say."
John huffs out a laugh, feels the threat of the Return of the Grin. "Alright then, bloody amazing, bloody brilliant, bloody genius. Walk me through it."
Sherlock smiles, and begins, "Funny choice of words, 'bloody'...."