Possibly out of some heretofore unrevealed sense of delicacy, Mycroft left the room, taking the government stooge with him, apparently to give Sherlock some privacy as he dressed.
John, however, stayed exactly where he was on the settee. “So,” he drawled, “is wearing a sheet going to be your new look?”
“Still considering it.” Sherlock struck a vaguely Romanesque pose. “What do you think?”
“Very fetching. A bit drafty, perhaps. Especially with no pants.” John tilted his head slightly, considering. “I would miss the purple shirt, I think.” He pinked up just a bit. “Sorry. That was probably inappropriate.” Probably definitely out of line for a flatmate. Colleague. Friend. Whatever.
But Sherlock only snorted. “Oh, I think we’re beyond worrying about that sort of thing, aren’t we?”
“Possibly.” John considered the implications of the statement. “Although I’m not quite sure what that says about us.”
“Undoubtedly less than you might imagine.” Sherlock seemed to think that over. “Or more. One or the other.” Apparently bored all of a sudden, he dropped the sheet, which puddled artistically at his feet. It was an image that really should have been preserved on canvas.
“Ahh,” John said, resisting the urge to at least preserve the sight on his phone. Again, inappropriate. “We’ve moved on to the full monty, have we?”
Sherlock looked blank at the reference.
“Never mind. Put your pants on, Sherlock. The Queen might wander by.” John decided that briskness //was// appropriate.
“Would the old girl be shocked, do you think?”
“More likely to be titillated, I would say,” John replied honestly.
Sherlock might have been said to preen just a little, before he finally started to dress. Pants, socks, trousers. As he was buttoning his shirt, he smirked.
“What?” John asked.
“People will talk.”
“To quote a wise man, or at least a smart arse of my close acquaintance, they do little else.”
“True.” Finally Sherlock pulled on his jacket. He must have decided that he liked posing, because he did it again. “Am I respectable now?”
“You? Respectable? Hah. You’re vaguely appropriate, I suppose.”
“Oh, Sherlock, you are never going to be more than that.” Not even John was absolutely sure what he meant by his words.
Sherlock didn’t seem to care, as he joined him on the settee again. Then he gave John a careful look. “Does it bother you? The way I am?” Surprisingly, it seemed to be a serious question.
Before anything else could be said by either of them, however, Mycroft, the official flunky, and a servant carrying a tea tray came into the room.