Enjoy!

It was a dreary Sunday, Baker Street barely visible out the window amidst sheets of mist and raindrops cascading against the panes. Perfect day for a cuppa, and so John Watson headed to the kitchen, while Sherlock Holmes was curled on the couch tuning the strings of his violin. A small groan of dismay sounded from the next room.

"We're completely out of tea."

"Completely?"

"Well, there's one bag left. Because someone didn't get the shopping when I told him to while I was at work."

"I have far more productive things to do than stock the contents of a refrigerator like some peasant workman-"

"Oh, there's also only a few drops of milk left, and two spoonfuls of sugar. We're going to have to share."

"I am hardly sharing a cup of tea with you, split the bag -"

"Oh, would you rather suffer the consequences of a thin-tasting less-than satisfactorily sweet but bountiful cup? Or would you rather have half a cup of nice tea?"

And so it happened that John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, both too stubborn and unwilling to head to the store, grappled for access to the single cup of tea that could be brewed that morning. It lay on the table between them, and they repeatedly reached for it simultaneously, resulting in a war of glares before one simply snatched up the piece of porcelain for a sip, and so they grudgingly alternate.

When roughly one sip remained, the newspaper Sherlock had been reading, and the laptop John had been tapping at lay abandoned, shoved to the side as the final battle of wills was fought.

"This beverage gives me better access to my mind palace, it's necessary to my daily routine."

"Should have done the shopping then, shouldn't you? Since I'm the one who'll undoubtedly end up on the foray into the miserable weather conditions to do said shopping, I need the fortification of this last sip."

"Mind. Palace."

"Shopping. I don't think the takeaway place will deliver tea, much less how you like it."

The debate was interrupted by Sherlock's phone pinging, and he slowly reached for it, scowling at John. "Don't touch that cup. Hello? Ah, Lestrade."

It sounded like Lestrade was giving Sherlock an overview of a case, and that he was on his way with some evidence and details. As Sherlock went to hit the button to end the call, John lunged across the table, grabbing the still-connected device. "Lestrade? Bring tea, milk, and sugar, if you don't mind."

There was silence on the other end for a moment, before the detective inspector gave a small sound of affirmation, at this point never surprised at the spontaneous requests he was given.

A short time later, the teacup lay spilled across the kitchen table, as both John and Sherlock had lunged for it at the same time, resulting in the toppling of the fragile piece of china. Now both sat, arms folded, staring at the other.

A knock at the door finally interrupted them, and the front door was opened to reveal Lestrade, soaked from the rain and holding a glass pint bottle of milk, and a package of tea. "Funny story, I may have dropped the sugar in a puddle of that blasted rain…"

Mrs. Hudson, a floor below them, was jarred from a session of needlework by the sound of several gunshots in quick succession from above, and squealed as she pricked herself. Sticking the injured finger in her mouth for a moment, she shook her head, ignoring indignant yells from her tenants above, among which she could distinguish the words "mind palace". She shook her head, returning to the stitches of a flowery teacozy.

Thanks for reading! ~Bon