I opened the refrigerator and stared at our last dribble of milk. Hardly enough for a cup of tea, let alone the five that I'd need to get through the medical report for Lestrade. The body had been found in an alley in the shopping district midmorning yesterday. Sherlock had been called in to assist Lestrade on a jewelry theft, which I had accompanied him on, when the body was found. Naturally, I examined it when we arrived at the scene, and needed to file a report by tomorrow afternoon. The older man, as it turns out, had been stabbed multiple times in what seemed to be gang style violence. The culprit had turned out to be the man's ex-wife, who had a brother with gang ties. Sherlock and I had arrived home from the arrest, made at noon today, just ten minutes ago. It was nearing five o'clock, and I'd been too long without a decent cup of tea. Sherlock, as usual, was concentrating in a corner of the living room on God-knows-what. It probably had something to do with the jar of rat tails in the freezer. In vain, I yelled to him from the kitchen.

"Sherlock, I'm going to run and get some milk, need anything?"

He didn't reply, so I picked up my coat, snatched my keys from the table, and headed out the door.

Twenty minutes later, I returned to 221B with some milk and another box of tea. I'd vaguely recalled being low on it, and I couldn't risk running out tonight. The apartment smelled like burnt rubber, so I assumed Sherlock had moved from his earlier reverie. I deposited my keys and tea on the counter while putting away the milk, and scanned for my largest mug. It'd been in the dish drainer a few days ago, so it could really be any number of places by now. Apparently not in the kitchen, though.

"Sherlock, have you seen my brown mug?"

"End table, red chair, next to medical report."

I could've sworn it hadn't been there when I'd set my report down earlier. I didn't think I'd become this unobservant, especially while living with Sherlock. Sighing, I went out to grab it for my much-needed tea. It was just where Sherlock had said it was.

Except there was tea in it.

Steaming.

I hadn't made tea.

Especially not in that mug.

I looked over at Sherlock, who was examining something in a book.

"...Is there tea in my mug?"

"Yes."

"Why, exactly, is there tea in my mug?"

"I thought you wanted tea."

I stared blankly at him. This was Sherlock. Sherlock did not make tea for other people.

"Did you actually make this for me?"

"Yes."

"...Why?"

"Because you wanted tea."

Sherlock hadn't looked up from his book. I cautiously sat down in my armchair and took the cup. I sniffed it. It smelled fine, but so did lots of chemicals.

"Is it drugged?" "No. If I was going to drug you, I would have done it while you were sleeping. Quicker and more efficient."

I suppose that made sense, however twisted it sounded. Bracing myself, I took a sip.

Not bad.

Actually, quite good. Not too sweet, as Sherlock had been known to make tea for himself in the past. I picked up the medical report and made to start filling it out. Pausing before I started, I looked over at Sherlock, who was immersed in his book.

"Thank you, Sherlock."

My reply was a noncommittal grunt. I took it as 'You're welcome'.