A/N: This is my first attempt at a 221B, so sorry if it's bad... I may continue these with various ships and sillinesses; probably any later chapters won't follow on from the first.

Disclaimer: I'm not Arthur Conan Doyle, the BBC, or the Commonwealth.

In which Mycroft is a Bad Influence

Sherlock's bent over his microscope, and John can look at him properly for the first time since his return.

Sherlock is zombie-pale, and his hair is shorter. But there's another difference. John frowns at Sherlock's back, puzzled. Then it hits him.

Sherlock isn't "fat". But while he's been gone, he's lost the "mysteriously angular" look, replaced by "strong". Possibly "cuddly". The sleek trousers, which once hung with flair, are now amply filled.

"John," says Sherlock. "You have been staring at my back for seven minutes."

John jumps. "Sorry."

"Any deductions?"

"You've been indoors a lot?"

"Excellent. What else?"

"You've been eating?" hazards John.

Sherlock stiffens. "What?"

Oops. "Nothing! Just- having normal meals?"

"I am not fat," hisses Sherlock dangerously.

"I never said that!" says John hastily. "Just…healthy. Cuddly."

"'Cuddly'?" Sherlock says cuttingly.

"Um, no, just-" John trails off. "There's no way out of this."

Sherlock pulls on his coat- certainly a tighter fit - and stalks out.

Sherlock's abandoned phone buzzes. John picks it up guiltily.

Purchased some more chocolate cake- I know you prefer it to lemon. – MH

John laughs more than he has in months.

That evening, neither of them mention their argument, even when Sherlock refuses dinner.

Then Sherlock yawns, raising his arms, and John catches sight of Sherlock's waistband. There's an extra hole in his belt.

A/N: My first attempt at writing a 221B, so sorry if it's bad... I hope you enjoyed! Reviews and favorites are lovely.