Exactly 5 hours, 34 minutes and 23 seconds ago, Sherlock and John had a little fight.
It wasn't one of those horrible fights where they don't talk to each other for days on end, but rather a little disagreement that left them both silent for the past five hours.
It had started when John found three fingers in the cooking pan that morning as he was heating his breakfast. He had asked Sherlock to refrain from putting his experiments in the kitchen where they kept their food, and the argument had started from there.
In the next four hours they managed to find other things to have petty little arguments about, such as Sherlock's lack of social grace in situations involving Anderson and Donovan, and John's refusal to run around at early hours of the morning to pursue a criminal around rooftops along with Sherlock.
Now it was late at night and they were sitting in front of the fireplace in silence. You could describe the situation as a bit awkward, but neither of them expressed their discomfort. John sat in his chair reading the paper and Sherlock had his head bent over his microscope as usual, and neither of them was talking.
John broke the ice a few seconds later.
"I want tea," he said to no one in particular.
"If you want some tea," Sherlock answered, not bothering to raise his head from his position, "You can get it yourself."
"But we're out of my favorite tea, Sherlock. I want my favorite tea."
A small sigh could be heard from across the room. "Mrs. Hudson has some herbal tea downstairs if you're interested."
"What happened to my usual tea?" John asked, looking up. He knew he was seeking out another petty argument with Sherlock but he didn't want to stop, for reasons he didn't know. "We had three packets of tea in the cupboard last time I checked."
"Oh, yes. That." Sherlock looked up. "Well, we got rid of that."
"We?"
"Of course. I needed to calculate the average amount of tea in individual packets, so I had to cut them up and weigh them individually. I posted the results on my website – have you read it yet? It was quite a success, if you ask me."
John closed his eyes and counted to ten. Then he counted backwards from ten to one, and took a deep breath.
"Sherlock, I want my tea."
"Well you're not getting any, John; I've already informed you that there isn't any more tea in the flat, unless you like Mrs. Hudson's herbal tea, and in that case be my guest. Her flat's just downstairs." He looked up again. "You'll have to get some more at the grocery store tomorrow then," Sherlock continued.
"Me?"
"You wouldn't think I'd voluntarily step into a supermarket or grocery store, would you?"
John looked at Sherlock unbelievably, huffed and folded his newspaper. He has had enough.
He stood up and started walking towards his room. "I'm going to sleep."
"Don't wait up," Sherlock answered, his voice already sounding a bit distant.
John didn't answer and started getting ready for bed. He wanted to finish the day with a nice hot bath, but he didn't want to walk by Sherlock again. He almost laughed at how childish they were both acting.
He pulled off his clothes and threw them in some undesignated corner of the room, still in a bit of rage. After he had pulled on a night shirt and his shorts, John got into bed and pulled the covers over his head.
"I still want that tea," he muttered into his pillowcase.
Why he was acting so childish about a cup of tea he didn't know, but it probably had to do with the guilt he was feeling about his and Sherlock's arguments, somehow.
He'd have to apologize for acting like a child tomorrow, then. It wasn't fair that Sherlock acted like a two year old most of the time and got away with it scott-free, but John acted like the adult in their relationship most of the time.
John couldn't sleep for another hour or so until he finally felt sleepy and rolled over, finally comfortable enough to go to sleep. As soon as he closed his eyes, however, he was suddenly disturbed by a presence in his room.
"Sh'lock?" he murmured, his voice thick with sleepiness. "Is that you?"
The figure in his room was indeed Sherlock.
Sherlock moved from his position at the foot of John's bed and carefully sat on the mattress. John lifted himself and rested his back against the headboard and was about to ask Sherlock what the bloody hell he was doing in his room at 1 A.M in the morning until he realized what Sherlock had in his hands; a cup of tea.
He stared unbelievably at the cup in Sherlock's hands and looked up to see the detective's cheeks flushed pink.
"I got you your tea," Sherlock explained, not able to look John fully in the eyes. "Three teaspoons of milk, no sugar, just the way you like it."
He handed John the cup of tea and watched the doctor taste it. He watched as a little mustache of foam appeared on the top of John's lips as he drank the tea down, obviously liking the taste.
"It's just the way I like it," John affirmed, smiling up at Sherlock. "How–"
"The supermarkets were all closed," Sherlock explained. "I called Anthea and she had it delivered a few minutes ago. Mycroft has a stock full of it, seeing as it's his favorite tea as well. He was a bit reluctant to hand it over, but I explained the situation and declared it an emergency."
John was dumbfounded. He felt his heart swell and he looked at the detective with eyes full of love and appreciation for him, and the fact that Sherlock sheepishly looked at him with flushed cheeks and apologetic eyes made him want to pull the detective into a kiss.
Which he did.
He brought their lips together, feeling Sherlock wrap his hands around his face and melt into the kiss with a soft moan. The detective tasted like spearmint gum and espresso coffee, and he smelled faintly of cigarette and chemicals and the distinctive smell of Sherlock that John could never, ever get enough of, no matter how many times they kiss.
John softly pulled away, and hovered his lips below Sherlock's, feeling the man's warm breath hit him. "I'm sorry for being such an arse today," he apologized.
"I agree," Sherlock whispered back, bending down to take another kiss from John. John scoffed into the kiss and playfully smacked his fingers into Sherlock's head, calling him a piss-pot under his breath.
"Okay, it was partly my fault too," Sherlock smiled, flopping down onto the bed and pulling the covers around them. "I hope you liked the tea."
"I did," John confessed. "Although I wasn't aware of your tea-making abilities. You make very good tea."
"Of course I do."
"Then why have you let me make the tea every day when you could've done it too?" John asked, wrapping his hands and feet around Sherlock's lanky body.
"Hey – your feet are cold–"
"Shut up, you piss-pot, and answer my question."
"Piss-pot? Is that your new name for me?"
"Quite," John replied back.
"I let you make the tea because you make it just the way I like it."
"Well, so can you, apparently,"
Sherlock lazily smiled and pushed John's cold feet off of his thighs. "Keep your cold feet to yourself."
John rolled his eyes and didn't move his feet, keeping them where they were comfortable and warm on Sherlock's thighs. "I'm beginning to think that you making tea was just an excuse to kiss me,"
"Maybe," Sherlock hummed, and ran his tongue against his bottom lip. "You taste very good anyway. I'm actually impressed; I do make very good tea."
"Do you want to taste again?" John asked, a glimmer of mischief twinkling briefly in his eyes.
"John Watson, that was the most clichéd thing you've ever said to me,"
"Shut up, piss-pot," John murmured as he pulled on Sherlock's shirt and brought their lips together again.
Quick one-shot I came up with in 45 minutes. I'm suffering from writer's block and this plot appeared to me as I drank my morning tea, would you believe it? Hope you enjoyed and please leave some feedback!