The thundering of footsteps up the stairs made John sigh. He had been cherishing the quiet that fell upon the flat since Sherlock had left early that morning and he wasn't quite ready for hurricane Sherlock to make landfall.

"Remind me to do Mrs. Turner a favor, would you," he bellowed over his shoulder as he headed straight to his room. "I'm off to Bart's now, Molly's got a body for me to experiment on. I'm not sure when I'll be back, it looks to be very-" John, about to take a sip of his tea, paused and rolled his eyes. Sherlock never stopped mid-sentence unless he'd come to a conclusion about a case or found something preposterously out of order.

"Why have you been rummaging through my drawers?" John sighed and stretched before standing up and heading into Sherlock's room.

"Why would anyone rummage through your drawers? Mrs. Hudson and I hate opening the refrigerator because we don't want to stumble across one of your bizarre experiments. Who knows what ghastly things you've got in there," he said sternly. Sherlock glared at John and gestured towards the drawer.

"It's a drawer for clothes, John, and as I'm sure you can surmise, contains just that. This specific drawer holds my socks, and they're haphazardly strewn everywhere. Why is that?"

"I did the laundry a few days ago and thought I'd do yours as well. All you need to say is a simple thank you. You don't even have to say it if you don't want to, just don't berate me for doing you a favor!"

"Doing me a favor would include you organizing my socks according to my sock index," stated Sherlock in a tone that suggested that it was a blatantly obvious conclusion to come to. John raised his eyebrow gritted his teeth; Sherlock was starting a row because his socks weren't orderly?

"You're saying you've got a sock index? For your socks. Of all the things-no, you can't be serious. You, of all people, don't have a method of sorting your socks. Your flat looked like it was trashed when I first came to have a look, and now you're telling me you've got a sock index?" Sherlock stared blankly at John.

"Why yes, John, of course I have a sock index. I order them by color, thread count, and thickness. In that order, of course. How do you sort your socks?" He gazed intently at John, whose cheeks had turned an uncharacteristic shade of pink.

"I-I don't sort my socks. I just pair them up and put them in the drawer. Why would you sort your socks by thread count, they're not bed sheets! No system, no fuss. There's no point-"

"Of course there's a point! Instead of spending time searching for suitable socks, I could solve at least 2 cases and have the felons sentenced before finding the correct pair. It's quite simple, John. I'd think that a smart man like you would have come to the same conclusion." John snorted and began making his way back to the living room.

"You can do your own bloody laundry from now on. I need some air," he grumbled as he picked up his coat and headed out the door.

shjw-shjw-shjw-shjw-shjw

John returned to 221B to find Sherlock typing away at his laptop. Upon closer inspection, it was actually his laptop. Sighing, he headed to the kitchen to grab a glass of water before returning to the living room.

"How was Bart's, then?" Sherlock glanced up at John before resuming his typing.

"I told Molly to forgo the body."

John quirked his eyebrow, surprised that Sherlock would pass up an opportunity like this. Seeing that Sherlock wasn't going to divulge any more information, he shrugged and headed upstairs to change his clothes.

There were three neatly folded stacks of clothes and socks at the foot of his bed, stacks he didn't recall being there earlier. He fingered one of the shirts on top, which used to have a tomato sauce stain that he hadn't gotten around to cleaning, now spotless. He was fairly sure that Mrs. Hudson hadn't had a change of heart and suddenly decided to become their housekeeper, so it could only mean that Sherlock had had a hand in this. Was he doing all this to spite him? Because of socks?

He stomped down the stairs and paced in Sherlock's peripheral vision, effectively distracting him from his incessant typing. Sherlock, seeing that John was obviously trying to rattle him, closed his eyes and exhaled.

"What is it, John?" John stopped pacing and glared at him.

"You mean you can't deduce the reason why I'm upset? Do we really need to bring this up again?" John was running on a short fuse today, Sherlock noted; he wondered what had gotten him in such a tizzy.

"I'm guessing this is about the laundry folded on the foot of your bed. Well, I decided to return the favor and do yours for a change." John stared at Sherlock with disbelief.

"Really, you did my laundry? I've been trying to get you to only keep edible items in the refrigerator and you all of a sudden decide to do my laundry?"

"Well, when I say that I did your laundry, what I meant was that I took it to the cleaners and then folded it for you. That's typically what doing the laundry consists of, yes?"

"Did you sort my socks, then?" John asked, resigned, as Sherlock smirked.

"Seeing as you criticized my method of organization, I held back and merely sorted yours by color. I hope you can handle that," Sherlock said pointedly. John gave him a crooked grin as he shook his head and stretched out on the sofa, putting his hands behind his head.

"Do you want to grab some dinner? We haven't been to Angelo's in a while," suggested Sherlock as he made some final changes to the case he was working on. John shot up and grabbed his coat once again.

"Let's go. I'm starving."