The coat

Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made.

No, I haven't given up my other story, worked on it all night in fact, will post the new chapter soon. And this dialogue didn't fit in, so here it is as a one shot.

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They entered a cab, heading to Scotland Yard.

It was warm and Sherlock had his coat over his arm.

The lower part came to rest on John's thigh accidentally while Sherlock leaned forward to tell the cabbie their destination.

The doctor reached for the exposed lining, it was damaged, several small wholes and dark smudges could be seen at the point where the lining was sewed to the trimming of the front.

Sherlock saw John inspecting the material closely and lowered his gaze.

John frowned.

"When did this happen?"

Sherlock ignored the question until John poked further.

"Hang on, that's blood, isn't it?"

"Yes, obviously."

"Is it yours? When were you hurt?"

"It is mine. It was long ago. No need to worry."

"Fine. When did it happen?"

"The Fall."

"Oh," John lowered the broad hem, "So this is actually the same coat you wore when you jumped?"

"Yes of course, why?"

"I thought it was… a new one, it is so… clean… I mean the back must have been a mess, covered in mud and… blood," John's voice faltered with the memories.

"Apparently, it was thoroughly cleaned."

"Not there."

John pointed towards the smudges.

"Well, dry cleaning isn't what it used to be."

"Why didn't you… I don't know… slip it off it before… I mean, you planned to survive, you knew you'd want to wear it again later."

"I certainly hoped I would, but I couldn't be sure and I thought it was appropriate clothing for dying - in case it came to that."

John pressed his lips into a tight line and Sherlock realised this was still a delicate topic.

They drove in silence for what felt like a very long time, when it turned awkward John finally found the courage to ask about Sherlock's time away, a topic the detective evaded most of the times John asked, probably because the doctor had made it clear he didn't want to hear about it in the beginning.

Nowadays John regretted that Sherlock was so tight-lipped about his time away, but he understood he deserved it, at least partially.

"Took it with you on your 'hunt', then?" the former soldier asked in his best neutral tone.

"Couldn't. In disguise, remember."

John gulped.

And Sherlock noted he should change topics.

"I missed it, though, but not as much as… other things," he added.

"What?"

John had obviously not understood and Sherlock felt this was absolutely not a conversation he wanted to have, regretting he had said it already.

Sherlock realised they were probably really talking about other things than his choice of clothing, weren't they? He was just not getting it?

"Do you happen to know where my scarf is?" the detective asked.

"Er… Mycroft brought it to the flat with the rest of your clothing… before the funeral," Sherlock heard the pain that still dwelled in his friend's voice and decided to end this conversation as soon as possible, the change of topic had not had the desired effect.

"That does not answer the question."

"No, I suppose it doesn't," John agreed.

"Then, do you know where it is?"

"Yes."

Sherlock waited for the information, but it didn't come.

"Mind telling me?" Sherlock started to become impatient.

Anthea had bought a new scarf, after the old one undiscoverable, but it was a different, slightly brighter shade of blue and not as soft and smooth as the old one.

He preferred the old one and wanted it back.

"I took it," John finally admitted.

"What? Where?"

"I took it with me."

"Can I have it back, then?"

"No."

"Sorry?"

"You heard me."

The cab stopped in front of Scotland Yard and John decided to do as his friend had done so often before: he exited the cab, ignoring the consultant detective's indignations and evading the topic by ignoring it.

Sherlock hurried after him, but after a few steps slowed down when he remembered that he had nicked two small items from John's room when he had been in the flat for the last time before he left the country to bring down Moriarty's web.

He had chosen them wisely - nothing that might give away his identity - to accompany him on his dangerous, uncertain journey. They had been a lifeline in several occasions.

One of the items was currently in the right inside pocket of the coat, the other in his room at Baker Street.

He smiled at his friend when he caught up with him waiting for the lift, which made John furrow his brows in suspicion, looking sideways at him out of the corner of his eyes.

The lift doors opened and Sherlock passed the doctor and spoke.

"Call it a draw then."

The doctor followed him into the cage and it took another ten seconds until John understood and threw him a scandalised look.

John spend the rest of the day trying to figure out what had vanished from his room, it proved to be unsuccessful.

...

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A/N:

I'd love to hear what you think.

This scene was written because I noticed that the scarf was a different one than used as a prop in S1 and 2, and I wanted to give a conical reason for that.

Feel free to tell me what you think Sherlock would have taken, I am curious.