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Gloves

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“Bit long for you, mate,” said Greg from the other side of the display.

“Not for me,” said John, frowning at his fingers, which were encased in soft black leather. He wiggled them, then reached for another pair.

“He probably owns half a dozen pairs already,” continued Greg. “If you want originality—“

“Overrated,” said John, and with the new gloves on, clapped his hands together experimentally. “Yes, these will do.”

“I’m just saying, this is Sherlock. You have to put some thought into it.”

John handed the gloves to a sales clerk. “These, please. And a box.” He turned to Greg. “I don’t think he’ll be disappointed.”

“It’s just a very generic sort of present, gloves,” said Greg as the clerk hurried off.

“And you’ve got something better in mind?”

“I do.”

“Let’s hear it, then.”

Greg leaned in closer. “Massage oil. Scented.”

John rolled his eyes as he handed his card to the clerk. “And you think gloves are unoriginal.”

“Not when you’ve got plans for the oils,” said Greg smugly.

“Well,” said John. “I have plans for the gloves.”

Greg frowned. “Plans?”

“And plans, I mean kinks.”

Greg swallowed.

“Don’t worry,” said John cheerfully as the clerk returned. “I can get you a pair of gloves too.” To the clerk: “Don’t suppose I could get a second box?”