The Purple Shirt

John nearly fell down the stairs, as he went down them to answer the door. The door bell's chime resonated throughout the flat persistently, pausing for a mere four seconds. John sprinted from his bedroom as soon as he heard them. The former army doctor yelped as he stumbled.

"Rachel!" John gasped out, breathless, after he swung the door open to reveal a black haired girl wearing a short black dress. She smiled at John, as he looked at his watch. Six thirty. "I wasn't expecting you until seven," John exclaimed.

Rachel blushed. "I couldn't wait, sorry!" She followed John up the stairs, as the doctor led her to the kitchen. Earlier Mrs. Hudson brought up a tray of food, for John and his current girlfriend. John pulled up a chair for Rachel, as he poured her some wine.

The pair had been talking for a few minutes, when Sherlock strode into the flat, pulling off his coat and jacket. John's eyes widened, when he saw the purple shirt. Rachel glanced up at the detective, her mouth slightly open. Suddenly, she fell out of her chair and onto the floor, unconscious.

John swore, and turned angrily to Sherlock. He had worn his purple shirt, AGAIN.

"You seem to have a fetish for girls with narcolepsy, John," Sherlock said, looking down at Rachel.

John's jaw dropped, and speech evaded him for several seconds. "W-why the HELL did you wear that bloody shirt today, of all days?" Sherlock turned his gaze to John, an eyebrow raised.

"What does that have to do with-"

"Every SINGLE time you wear that shirt, Sherlock, it's when I'm on a date. You come flouncing in, and they pass out when they see you!" John clenched his fists. "That purple shirt, they LOVE it! LOVE. IT."

Sherlock shrugged. "I like this shirt. It's not MY fault your girlfriends all end up having narcolepsy."

John groaned.