John entered Baker Street 221B without suspecting anything.
To be honest, that was rather stupid of him, because leaving Sherlock alone at home was a rather dumb action. John would pay for his mistake dearly, but for now he was blissfully ignorant about what lay ahead for him in the middle of the living room.
John had been shopping. John always did the shopping. He goes to the shop, takes milk and beans, heads back to Baker Street and carry the bags all the way up the stairs by himself. He gasps for a nice cup of tea which he always grabs before putting away the groceries. This is a sacred ritual, and no sulking detective can deter him from that.
Well, John always likes to think so. Because, although he would never dare to confess it, John always believes he is more stubborn than Sherlock.
Because Sherlock is clever, and he always knows how to take hold of John's attention, no matter how tightfistedly and unwillingly given.
But not today, no, not today. Because today is the day Sherlock has singled out to do it. Because Sherlock wanted to do something nice to John who always goes to the shop to get milk and beans, and gasps for a cup of tea when he has carried the bags upstairs.
So this is how John works. John is a hard worker, and his mind is rather placid and straightforward. Nothing to scoff at, it really is remarkable to remain that way, to remain simple, when one's flatmate is so clever and always feeling like an engine, a rocket trapped at the launch pad, tearing itself to pieces.
Mind you, not my words. Sherlock's.
John's mind is placid and straightforward. John is brave and loyal, and John loves tea.
This is why Sherlock decided to thank his faithful flatmate to make him a cup of tea.
But Sherlock has always had landlady's (and some housekeepers too), Molly or his mother to make tea for him. Sherlock hardly made tea himself. His tea, if he did make it, was horrible. Really horrible.
Just imagine watery lemonade. Add too much milk and sugar. Add a spoon and some lettuce.
Right. That brew would taste muchly much better than Sherlock's… thing.
But Sherlock was determined. And when Sherlock is determined, nothing can stop him to reach his goal. Well, perhaps Moriarty. But Moriarty was busy planning his new attack, but well… You don't need to know about that, do you?
But let's go back to brave soldier John, who was again struggling to get the bags up the stairs.
He shouldered the door open and slumped straight to the kitchen. He didn't notice the table in the middle of the living room.
When John had dumped the bag on the table, he turned around to turn the kettle on. But the kettle was gone because the kettle had been taken to the table in the middle of the living room.
John sighed and slumped to the living room. There he saw the detective. He did his best to ignore him. Sherlock did his best to get noticed.
Sherlock won.
John's shoulders lowered. All he wanted was tea. All Sherlock could give him was a brew that was worse than watery lemonade with too much milk and sugar and a spoon and lettuce. No, scratch that. All Sherlock could give him was a brew that was infinitely more horrible and gut-wrenching and nauseating than watery lemonade with too much milk and sugar and a spoon and lettuce.
Sherlock had his fingertips pressed together against his lips, his unfaltering gaze fixed on the cup and saucer that stood lonely in the middle of the table. The cup was filled to the brim with water and a teabag.
Sherlock didn't notice John. John did notice Sherlock. And he didn't like what he saw.
Finally, the brave shopping soldier was able to open his mouth to utter something intelligible.
"You are making tea?"
"Obviously. Good observation, John," came the sniping reply.
"Your tea is horrible. You made me taste once."
"I am aware."
John sighed and shrugged off his coat. "Even your coffee is horrible."
"I am aware," Sherlock repeated.
That worried John even more because Sherlock never repeated himself.
"I certainly won't drink it."
Sherlock opened his eyes and threw John a dirty, nasty, grim, murderous look. "Oh, you will," he purred.
John crossed his arms across each other most defiantly. "What makes you think so?" he asked, a daring look in his eyes.
Sherlock swallowed hard. John with a daring look in his eyes was dangerous. Oh, Sherlock loved danger. But John was really, really dangerous.
"I won't, Sherlock."
"I am aware my tea isn't the best you've ever tasted," Sherlock admitted freely. "Which is why I followed a tutorial about making tea in the only way it ever should be made."
John raised his eyebrows until they touched his hairline. "You did?" he asked, touched.
"Yes," Sherlock nodded.
"For me?"
"Yes."
"Well, thank you, I suppose."
Sherlock threw his best friend an eye-blinding smile, and sat up straight as an arrow.
This startled John. But John was a soldier, so he began to take in his surroundings very carefully. He noticed that the sofa and his chair had been pushed aside to make room for the table. As observed before, in exactly the middle of the table stood a cup and saucer.
No, not true. In the middle of the table stood a plate and a gigantic mug filled with hot water to the brim rested on a sort of napkin, a teabag floating at the surface.
With his long fingers, Sherlock gingerly lifted the bag out of the now brown water.
John held his breath.
The silence was tangible, which was why John jumped when Sherlock turned at him and asked for milk.
John quickly grabbed the milk out of one of the bags and handed it to Sherlock.
Sherlock cleared his throat and got to his feet.
He unscrewed the cap from the two-and-a-half-liter bottle and placed the rim of the bottle on the rim of the immense mug.
He lifted the bottle to his shoulder height
He titled the bottle so the milk flowed out of it. He tilted it even further so the bottle was vertical in his hand.
The milk poured down, straight in the enormous mug.
It filled it to the brim, it flowed over the brim. It flowed over the plate and the table.
Sherlock held it that way until all the milk was out the bottle and in to majestic mug and on the plate and the table and the floor.
Sherlock put the bottle down carefully. He glanced at John. John's mouth was agape, his jaw had dropped. His hand was half-way between his chest and his mouth. He was unable to move.
Sherlock grinned proudly at his cup of tea. Pardon me, Sherlock grinned proudly at his mammothy mug of tea he brewed for John.
He bent over and cautiously lifted it from the table before walking over to his friend and presenting it to him.
"Here, John," he said, beaming at his friend who still hadn't moved. "I hope you like it."
The smile Sherlock gave him had a defrosting effect on the brave soldier, who could move enough to accept the epic mug of tea.
Sherlock guided him towards the moved sofa and pressed on his shoulders until John's knees gave way and he sank down, holding the larger-than-life mug perfectly still so nothing sloshed over.
He slowly brought the impressive mugs to his till trembling lips and circumspectly took a sip.
"And? And? And? And?" Sherlock asked, bumping up and down due to impatience.
John closed his eyes and sighed deeply.
"That, Sherlock," he breathed, "is the best cup of tea I've ever tasted. I must have done it wrong all my life."
He took a large gulp, gurgling it before he slowly swallowed the tea.
He pressed his eyes shut, savouring the taste of the perfect tea.
When all of the tea was downed, he opened his eyes, a hazy look in them. "You, Sherlock, are a genius," he moaned and he groaned when the notorious mug was empty.
With a pleading look in his eyes, an almost desperate look on his face, did he look at Sherlock, offering him the much-loved mug as an offering.
"Please…" he said. When Sherlock only looked smugly at him, John's eyes darkened.
"Sherlock…" he warned, "I want some, get me some!"
A/N; just had to write this. Inspired by a vid on Youtube: /watch?v=K0OrZobhSQE&feature=BFa&list=UUR4s1DE9J4DHzZYXMltSMAg
Reviews are to me what tea made by Sherlock is to John. Please?