Prove it to me...

"All right. Which one is it?"

Sherlock jumped and almost dropped the slide he was placing under the microscope. He hadn't even heard John come in. "I see you've been practicing your stealth approach. Very well done."

Without breaking eye contact, John placed the shopping bags on the floor, slid his coat off and draped it over the back of a chair. "Which of my jumpers have you victimized?"

An appraising once over, and Sherlock was left flummoxed. John's tone was steady, calm even. No inflection indicating enmity toward his flatmate, sorrow at the potential loss of personal possession, not even a hint of frustration. His stance was a close approximation of parade rest, though his arms were crossed over his chest. It was the posture John tended to most naturally assume under any circumstance. His face was schooled into a sort of placid passivity, his mouth quirked into a straight lipped smirk that Sherlock decided could mean either light amusement or impending doom. John stared, unblinking, right back at him. All of this was fascinating. Truly, Sherlock would have normally found John's demeanor intriguing, but within the parameters of this particular experiment, he found the viable data lacking considerably.

"What makes you think I've done anything to one of your ridiculously hideous jumpers?"

"I could smell the chemicals and burnt wool from the street, Sherlock. I just want to know which one, and why."

"You've already worked it out for yourself. Why don't you tell me?" Sherlock glanced up from his microscope. The corner of his mouth ticked up slightly when John rolled his eyes. Finally, they were getting somewhere.

"The kelly green one. It's old, threadbare, and you called it an affront to your senses last week. I told you to sod off because Harry gave it to me before I left for Afghanistan, and it was one of the only items from home I took with me. I believe your exact response was, 'Sentiment aside, it is garish, an insult to the ocular senses of anyone forced to look at you.'"

"Very good John, your deductive reasoning skills are improving. You're only partially correct, but it's a start." Sherlock bent his head down and pretended to study his slide. In reality he was watching John for a reaction. He was both surprised and disappointed when John simply shook his head.

"You pompous arse. Not all of us can afford to live every day of our lives in expensive designer suits. Some of us have to make do." There was no real heat behind the words. John actually seemed resigned to the fate of his cherished jumper. This experiment was not going according to Sherlock's plan at all.
It all started a few weeks before, when they'd had a row over something Sherlock couldn't be bothered to remember, but that John had placed some significant importance upon. John had gone red faced and sweary (Sherlock secretly thrilled when John would start in with the vulgarities; his skill in obscene turn of phrase was masterful and Sherlock always learned something new), and they hadn't spoken for two whole days after. When Sherlock asked him later on if he was still angry, John had stated bluntly, "Oh, that wasn't me angry. That was me exhausted and hungry. You don't want to see me well and truly angry. You won't like me. Trust me on this."

So, the fact that Sherlock was experimenting on John's jumper was, in fact, John's own fault. John couldn't just say that sort of thing and not expect Sherlock to respond; to need all available data. Because, truth be told, Sherlock didn't actually believe open, honest, guileless John had it in him to build up a proper rage. The man apologized to people who bumped and jostled him on the street. He made self-deprecating jokes to people who tried to insult him. He was civil even to the least tolerable individuals (Sherlock knew this well).

Sherlock had made the decision without much consideration that what was needed was an experiment to see how far he could push John. And push he had. And while John had not hesitated to push back during what Sherlock had dubbed "The Provocation Protocol," he'd also never had the sort of explosive reaction equated with true expressions of anger.

Huffing a frustrated sigh, Sherlock inspected the contents of the petri dish nearest him. "Dull." And it was. All of it. John's lack of response to stimuli? Dull. The chemical reaction when corrosive acids and bases were added to wool? Dull. Dull dull dull.

"Tell me what you've turned up so far."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock nearly choked and excused himself to get a glass of water.

"Your experiment." John looked at the remnant scraps of his jumper scattered on the floor, and then pointedly up at Sherlock. "What have you observed?"

"Right. The experiment. This experiment..." Sherlock gestured to the mess on the table. "The one with your jumper." He sat back down at the table and picked up a small container marked hazardous. He launched into a lofty hypothesis, and outlined his selection of corrosive substances, including common household cleaners, as well as not so common substances such as hydrochloric acid, sulfuric acid, and nitric acid. Not to mention a few compounds it was probably best for John not to concern himself with. And the addition of fire, obviously. He enumerated his many observations in great detail. Perhaps by breaking down the insignificance of the jumper on a molecular level, therefore belittling the overall sentiment of the item, Sherlock could prod John into a furor.

Sherlock kept his focus on John as he spoke, and grew increasingly perplexed by his flatmate's actions.

John, as he normally did, let Sherlock drone on, nodding occasionally (he was, after all, also a man of science, and no stranger to lab study). As Sherlock talked, John set about putting the groceries away. He neatly organized the body parts scattered around the refrigerator into the crisper drawer. He cleaned up the mess of half eaten toast, jam, and spilled tea Sherlock had left on the counter. He disinfected the kettle, made tea, and then did the washing up. Started something with the peas Sherlock had hidden in the back of the freezer cooking on the stove. Swept up the scraps of his jumper. Sorted the post. Tied up the overfull bin liner so it could be carried downstairs.

Damn it. John didn't seem to be bothered at all by the added stressors Sherlock had decided to add to the mix. He wrapped up his explanation, ready to concede defeat, as John placed his dinner next to him on the table.

"You know, we ran similar experiments back when I was in school. Sixth form, if I recall correctly. Not really graduate level analysis, yeah?" John stood in front of Sherlock, his arms crossed over his chest once more.

"Sooo..." Sherlock frowned as he attempted to read John's expression. There was something... In the way he was smiling. And his eyes... Oh. OH.... Danger... Abort. Abort mission…

"This," John nodded at the table "is not the experiment I wanted to hear about. You've been trying to make me angry. Really angry."

"I don't know wha..."

John held up his hand. "Save it. In this, you have not been nearly as clever as you believe yourself to be."

"I just... I need data John. I needed to see."

"I'm going to show you something, Sherlock. And you're going to have to let this thing serve as sufficient proof. Then, I'm going to ask you to let it be.

Understood?" John waited for Sherlock's reluctant nod. "Good." With that, John pulled his wallet out and rifled through the pocket.

Sherlock, fingers steepled under his chin, leaned forward in his chair eagerly.
Holding his hand out, palm up, John revealed the item he had been looking for.
"It's a... button?" Sherlock slumped back in his chair with a disappointed huff.
John hummed in consent. "Not just any button. A very important button. Look closer." Sherlock reached for the button, but John closed his hand. "Just look."
When he was certain Sherlock would not make another grab for it, John opened his hand once more.

It took 7.3 seconds for Sherlock to finally understand what John held in his hand. "You... how? That's just... How?"

Sherlock had only very recently discovered that his beloved greatcoat was no longer in production. In a panic, due in large part to the perilous nature of his career choice and the regular abuse the gorgeous Belstaff often took, Sherlock had contacted his tailor to see if it were possible to procure matching materials so that repairs could be done in the future. The elderly gentleman had done his best, but the items in question were produced in limited quantities specifically for the company. There were no spare buttons to be had, save the single, solitary spare button sewn into the liner near the seam.

The button now in John Watson's hand.

Smug bastard that he was, John flipped the button into the air like a coin. When Sherlock dove after it, John snatched it back, shoved it into his wallet, and returned the wallet to his back pocket. "I'll be holding on to this. Ruin any more of my things, and the next time you lose a button off that damned coat, you'll have to replace it with a mismatch." John cocked an eyebrow at his flatmate and smiled. "We wouldn't want that, would we?"

"What the hell, John?" Sherlock gaped. "I just can't... You're the nice one. I'm the sociopath. Or have you forgotten?"

"I tried to warn you, didn't I?" John shrugged, and dished himself some dinner. "You really do not want to see me angry."