A/N: This is my first Sherlock Holmes fic, so enjoy!
Holmes glared at the sliver of sunlight peeking out from behind the heavy drapes. Watson had opened them yesterday, insisting he get some light in his room, and in his haste to close them again Holmes hadn't had the time to make sure the two panels completely overlapped.
Now he was awake because of the light. Of course, Watson could sleep right through any form of intrusive light, so it didn't bother him in the least.
Holmes toyed with the idea of going over and closing the curtain but quickly gave it up. He closed his eyes, trying to fall back asleep, focusing on the sound of the ticking grandfather clock, the buzzing of the flies in the corner, his bedmate's quiet breathing, the muted carriages on the street below—
Precisely as he was almost asleep, Gladstone chose to wake up from his latest drug-induced coma with a loud snort, bolting to his feet on the other side of the room.
Holmes groaned. "Sleep, dog," he ordered in a whisper, and Gladstone settled back down on the rug.
If he wasn't fully awake before, he certainly was now. Holmes eased himself off the bed and grabbed what was his out of the pile of clothing on the floor.
On his way out the door, Holmes pulled the curtain shut.
Two hours later, Watson came downstairs and found Holmes drinking out of a cup and half of a scone on the plate before him. "Good, you're eating," Watson said in approval. "Is there any tea left?"
"Don't ask me; ask Nanny," Holmes grumbled, still sore about the curtains.
Watson gave him a strange look. "You're having some of the tea she made, aren't you?"
Holmes glanced into the cup in his hand. "Oh. Yes. I am."
"Wait a minute—" Suspicious, Watson marched over, took the cup, and sniffed it.
"Brandy at nine in the morning, Holmes?"
"I started drinking it at eight-thirty, you know," Holmes confessed, not sounding sorry at all.
Watson ignored him. "Why are you drinking this early? I wouldn't think you'd be bored so soon."
If Holmes heard the hurt evident in the doctor's tone, he made no indication of it. "I though I'd start the day off right," he said absentmindedly, staring into the brandy. "I have no cases at the moment and you'll be busy with your patients for most of the day, so I have nothing better to do. If I continue at this pace, do you think I would be drunk by noon?" he mused.
Watson wasn't paying attention any longer. "Something's not right," he announced. He stared intently at Holmes for a long minute before pointing an accusatory finger at the detective's shoulder. "That gravy stain."
"What gravy stain? There's no gravy stain there," Holmes said, inspecting the fabric covering his shoulder for a stain.
"Exactly. You spilled gravy yesterday and some ended up on your shirt, remember? And—" Watson plucked at the shirt he wore, which bore the offending gravy stain on the shoulder. "There. You're wearing my shirt, Holmes."
"Terribly sorry," Holmes muttered. "It fits me quite well, though, and if it fits me then how does it fit you? You should let me have it."
Again, Watson ignored him. "And that's my waistcoat! And—good Lord, is that my cravat?"
Once he'd verified that he was in fact wearing the wrong pieces of clothing, Holmes defensively began, "How was I supposed to tell which was mine? It was too dark to see when I dressed, and all the clothes were thrown together."
"It's your fault for not taking the time to put your clothes away last night, and the only reason the room's so dark is because you closed those curtains again," Watson ground out irritably. "My clothes, if you would."
"I would not," Holmes indignantly. "I'll give you the cravat, but the rest? Not out here." He unwound the cravat and held it out between them. Quickly, Watson snatched it away, mumbling something under his breath along the lines of "this is what happens when I sleep late…"
"Now would you go change and give back the rest?"
"Be polite," Holmes admonished.
Holmes stared at Watson, considering his request, then gave a tiny shake of his head. "You're still wearing my clothes, you see. A proposal—you can wear mine for the rest of the day, and I'll wear yours. That spares us the time of changing back, and anyway, this shirt fit you horribly in the first place."
"At least give me the waistcoat."
Holmes smiled lazily. "No. I like it far too much. I'll exchange it later today, though."
Watson snorted. "What, do you have some sort of fetish for my waistcoat? Make sure to return it later."
"Of course. It will be part of the terms."
"Terms of what? A…" Watson fumbled for a suitable phrase.
"A barter system," Holmes suggested. "Clothes only, of course. Enjoy your time with the patients, old boy." He winked and took another sip of brandy.
Exasperated, Watson left to find a clean shirt, knowing full well he wouldn't get his clothes until he stole them back.
Much thanks to Sydni, who gave this a read-over before I posted. Reviews are muchly appreciated!