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Sherlock dressed more sensibly than any woman John had seen since the Army, nearly as practical as he did without the zips, buttons and useful compartments of his jackets and cardigans. She could easily hide a gun in the billowing extra inches at the back of her button up shirts and covered by men’s coats, and John was certain that at one point or another he had seen Sherlock adjust blades strapped to her left calf. He didn’t really want to ask, and most of the time it was better if he didn’t. She didn’t drown in her clothing, though, which seemed impossible in theory given how thin she was (“You could pass that girl through the eye of a needle!” Mrs. Hudson clucked, shaking her head as she picked up another full plate of food and placed it in the microwave). Her movement was concise, predicted, barely a twitch out of place when Mycroft wasn’t present. When Sherlock left, it was sudden and sweeping, enormous and perfectly tailored wool coat from the hook behind the door, stepping in to Oxfords under the rack, a scarf thrown as wide as the door frame as she drifted out with a lilting call of, “A case, John!”
