"Watson," Holmes demanded, "Why are you wearing my dressing gown?"
"I'm not," I protested, hiding my smirk under my moustache.
"It isn't as if you haven't clothes of your own," he complained querulously. "There's no need for you to nick mine."
"Holmes," I said severely, struggling to keep a straight face, "this is my dressing gown. Mine. Not yours."
"Watson! Must I prove it to you? And there's no use your saying you've bought one just like it; mouse isn't exactly a popular colour for articles like this. Besides, those tears in the hem were left by Victor Trevor's terror--that is, terrier. That stain is the result of an early version of my haemoglobin experiment. Those holes are from when that confounded pup of yours nosed over one of my beakers. I still have the scars."
"Serves you right for wearing it without a shirt," I interjected. "And I told you that you might lock him in my room while you were puttering."
"Puttering? I--You're trying to distract me. It won't work. This stain is from when that same dog tripped Mrs. Hudson with the tea. The belt is all worn away from last week." I flushed despite myself, but had the satisfaction of seeing him do it, too, before valiantly continuing with his demonstration. "It's much too big on you, and your elbows would never form bare patches like those, and--oh."
"Yes?" I inquired innocently.
He regarded me with the nearest thing to a sheepish expression I've ever seen on his face. "Time for a new dressing gown?"
"And," I admonished, lifting his arm to his eyes that he might see the JHW embroidered on the sleeve of my new dressing gown, "spectacles."