A/N: I know, I know-I'm supposed to be writing the next Chapter of Freak and the sequel to Every Time. Both are in the works, I promise! Until then, this is a little fic about a pairing I kind of ship WITH a twist that I've added. I hope that you enjoy it-it's quite fluffy, actually, so that will please some of my less angsty readers-and it features cameos by Mrs. Hudson, mentions of Mycroft (who deserves a fic himself sometime soon from me, more than Indecipherable), and OF COURSE Sherlock. Read and Review please! :)
Sometimes, it rains.
Sometimes, there is no milk.
Sometimes, life happens and the two coincide.
John Watson sighed. The sigh was hardly to be remarked upon—it was an often enough occurrence. But today's sigh was more poignant. He reflected on this as he gazed rather than glared—he just…didn't have the energy for a glare—out at the fat, splashing raindrops from the window of the flat, his usually unimpeachable patience wearing as thin as the fraying spot on his jumper sleeve.
"Sherlock."
Sherlock was looking like some intensely focused, entirely hyper, and vaguely alien being, with his thick dark hair springing out above a pair of enormous safety goggles. He was measuring precipitate into a test tube with a precision and preoccupation that belied how little interest he had in the lack of milk, the prospect of conversation, or the existence of John.
"Sherlock, I'm going to get milk, I'm taking your umbrella, and I'll be back in half an hour. Thanks. Actually, you know what? I'm not thanking you. You should be thanking me, but you won't. Cause you're Sherlock. You're welcome anyway."
"Copper wire," Sherlock demanded, in that toneless, detached voice that very nearly made the last thread of John's patience snap. It was pretty obvious that he hadn't heard his flatmate's little tirade.
"Get the Godda—Mrs. Hudson. Hi."
"Everything alright, boys? Just came up to drop off your mail. It's a little wet, but if you put it near the fire—not too near, of course—it'll dry up right nicely. I'll just be bringing it up this once, mind—I'm your landlady, not your…John, are you going out? It's raining something dreadful. This weather and my hip…" she shook her head with a significant expression that did not bode well for the hip's welfare.
John murmured some condolences, for the weather or the hip he did not completely remember. He snatched up the umbrella—why is Sherlock the one who owns the umbrella instead of me? That makes no sense—and tramped down the stairs.
Sometimes it would be nice if someone would just bloody notice everything I do.
Yeah, like that's going to happen.
He was feeling sorry for himself, and he recognized this.
Count your blessings, John Watson. You've got a flat, a flatmate, and a far more interesting life than half of London.
More than half. Sherlock could probably give me the exact percentage.
Alright, he was grateful for that. But he wasn't grateful for the fact that, for one, last night Sherlock had managed to foil John's third relationship in two months by his usual means of "deducing" the hapless girl; two, that it would be great if both people who used up the milk would take turns at buying it; and three, that—well, did it have to be raining?
He took a deep breath of the moist air and wondered how it was possible for London to be any greyer than it usually was.
He dipped into the little market on the corner—the grocery shop was more reliable, but he'd need to catch a taxi to get there and that was a dreadful business in bad weather.
No chip and pin machine at this little shop, either.
That was a comfort.
He stepped inside, courteously closing his umbrella on the step. Then he turned, and nearly crashed into a young lady who was reading something on her phone.
"Sorry—" they said, at the same moment, and then both stopped short.
John had found himself face to face with Anthea.