A/N: Hello, everyone! Just letting you all know that this is my first Sherlock story. I know, the title and summery sucks, but it's good. No, stop laughing, it really is! And just a warning: there might be some Americianisms laced around in there. If there are, I'm sorry. But remember, it's the thought that counts!
Disclaimer: Like everyone else, I own nothing. Nadda. Zip. But In DO own a wooly sweater like John's, which I will sell to the highest bidder...no, I'm kidding, I'm not going to sell it. I also own any OCs you find scrounging around. But seriously, that's it.
Rated T for language and...oh, I don't know, there's bound to be something else I can't see.
One more note, I have NOTHING against cats. Nothing. They just got on the page and refused to come off.
Alright, enjoy. I'll just be off, hiding.
John Watson was tired.
He was tired of Sherlock, for being more of a child than a flat mate. He was tired of the constant running around London to make sure Sherlock was in one piece. He was tired of worrying about his sister every night before going to bed. He was tired of his job where young children bite his fingers when he tries to check their throats and old women believe that just because he can cure them means that he can cure their cats. He was tired of people assuming that he and Sherlock were a couple, and was tired of Sarah complaining that he spent too much time with Sherlock than with her. Which was completely untrue, but he was just too tired to think about it.
Long story short? He was tired.
Which was why on one Saturday morning, when John came down from his room to make breakfast, he didn't bother complaining about the experiments leaking on the table or Sherlock's damn skull tripping him through the doorway—he doesn't bother asking "Why" anymore. He knelt down and picked it up to look at it. The skull—Yorik, he calls it affectionately—grinned at him with a big, toothy smile, and large, black hollows where its eyes were once, as if saying, "I understand." John barred his teeth at it in a similar grin and placed it carefully back on the mantelpiece and turned to see the culprit. As usual, Sherlock laid stretched out on the couch, fingers dashing across the keyboard of his blackberry. The way he sat, with his limbs stretched out completely, made him look feline. Like an oversized cat, he thought to himself, and couldn't hold back a giggle.
Sherlock immediately tore his gaze from his blackberry and set it at John. "Do you find something amusing?"
John quickly covered his escaped giggle with a series of coughs. "No," he said once he was sure he wouldn't chuckle again. He moved into the kitchen to hide his smile. "Tea?" he asked from over his shoulder.
He waited a moment, then the usual response: "Yes, thank you."
John laughed to himself. Sherlock didn't know a "thank you" to a "screw you" when he was working on a case, but when it came to John's tea, his manners were impeccable. Unless he didn't make it strong enough. Or put too much milk in. But hey, a thank you is good enough for him.
He prepared the two tea cups and got the biscuits out on a plate, and then got the milk out of the refrigerator. But just as he was about to pour some into his cup, Sherlock's voice floated into the kitchen. "Don't use that milk."
John, knowing better, immediately drew the bottle away from the cup and examined it under the kitchen light. "Why, what's wrong with it?" he asked. "Is a toe inhabiting it? Some brain tissue?"
"Cyanide."
John nearly dropped the bottle. He re-opened the lid and carefully lifted it to his nose and sniffed. The strong scent of almonds filled his senses. He groaned and poured it down the drain. "Dammit, Sherlock…"
"What, it never occurred to you to smell it before going ahead to consume it? Honestly, John, one would've thought that after living with me for over a year, it would've occurred to you to smell something before using it."
John snorted and stomped into the living-room with two cups of tea in hand. "Oh, so you're blaming me for almost poisoning myself with cyanide? Who was the one who put it in the milk? And furthermore, why the Hell did you even put it in there in the first place?"
Sherlock sighed and gave him the look that he usually reserved for Anderson. "Cats," he said slowly.
John blinked. "…Cats?"
"Yes, John, cats. Mrs. Hudson's been complaining about a group of stray cats that have been lurking around the building and copulating quite loudly near her bedroom window. She said that she needed some help controlling them, so…"
John took a moment to process the information, then rubbed a hand over face and said, "Sherlock, you can't go around poisoning stray cats with cyanide-laced milk. It's not looked well upon, and is frankly inhumane. And all it gets you is in trouble. Remember when you spiked the police dogs' food with ground up Viagra?"
Sherlock crooked one side of his mouth into a half-smile. "Lestrade certainly does."
John could still remember the look on Lestrade's face when one of the dogs got a little too…emotionally attached to his right leg, and couldn't help the grin that appeared on his face. "Right, well remember that it was wrong. Funny, but wrong. And poisoning cats isn't even funny, so cut it out."
"Of, course, Doctor."
John rolled his eyes and grabbed his wallet. "Yes, and while you're lounging on the couch, I'm going to be a responsible flat mate and get some more milk." He dashed down the stairs two at a time, not seeing the smile that spread on Sherlock's face.
John took his time strolling through the long aisles of the supermarket. He picked up milk long ago, and now he was perusing through the aisles, looking at the sales and food brands. He stopped in the middle of the aisle: he had a date with Sarah tonight. How could he have forgotten that? He walked through the aisles, trying to remember what Sarah told him when he was getting off his shift. Why don't we have a night in? We can watch a movie and I'll make you my favorite meal, Tofu Stir-fry? Tell you what, I'll get the movie, and you can get the tofu and vegetables. John sighed with relief at the memory and happily got an assortment of frozen vegetables, then looked around until he found the tofu section. Get some tofu. How hard could that be?
He looked at the selection and felt his mouth drop.
Silken tofu. Firm tofu. Extra-firm tofu. Marinated, dried, seasoned. What the Hell?
John picked up two different types of tofu and stared between the two. He's been on the battlefront of Afghanistan. He's been shot in the shoulder. He was in a pool explosion with his friend and a psychopath. But he was never prepared for this. He looked between the two squishy packages and had absolutely no idea which one to buy. The silken? Or the firm? The silken? Or…
"The firm."
John blinked and looked to his side to see a woman a few feet away from him, staring back with an amused grin on her face. John paused and asked, "I'm sorry, what?"
"I said, you should get the firm tofu."
He continued to stare at the woman, and her smile grew. Finally, he realized what he was doing and cleared his throat and looked away for a moment. He looked back up after a minute and asked, "How do you know what tofu I need?"
She took a step toward him and motioned towards his basket. "Your vegetables. The particular brand you bought is usually made into a vegetable stir-fry. Most women I know, including myself, tend to put tofu into their stir-fries, usually the firm kind. So, there you go. Firm."
John looked at her in disbelief and realized that he was gaping at her. He closed his mouth and with as much dignity as he could muster, asked, "Good observation. But how do you know I was making a stir-fry now? I could have had another dish that didn't have firm tofu in mind and other ingredients at home, and these," he lifted the basket, "could've been for later."
She smiled and brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Well, that is a good point. But, judging from the completely…" She paused and bit her lip to find an appropriate word. "…stumped look on your face, I'm guessing that you don't have much experience concerning tofu dishes. So, I'm guessing you're buying dishes for a girlfriend."
John raised an eyebrow. "What about wife?"
Her face lit up and she laughed. "Oh, goodness no! No wife would ever let you leave the flat wearing those socks with those shoes!"
John looked down and his feet. He thought he looked decent enough. "What's wrong with my socks and shoes?"
She shook her head, but looked utterly amused. She walked up so that she was standing side-by-side with him. "Just remember, use the firm. I, on the other hand," she gently plucked the silken from his hand, "need this tonight." She put it in her basket and looked up at him with a smile. "Well, I hope your night in goes well!" She walked off with a chuckle and turned the corner, leaving a wooly-jumpered doctor stuck in his place. He looked down at the box of tofu and slowly placed it in his basket. He rubbed his head in agitation, and had a good itch to scream, but the only thing that came out of his mouth was, "Unbelievable."
Hey, look at that cute little "review" button, sitting there. All alone, just waiting for someone to click it. Come on, for the sake of Wooly-jumpered doctors, press the button. Don't make us bring out the riding crop...