"John, make me a cup of coffee, would you?" Sherlock asked his friend. John glanced over at Sherlock. He was sitting on the couch, but instead of leaning back and relaxing, he was hunched forward over his phone, staring at it intently. The light emitted from the tiny screen washed over Sherlock's face, accenting his prominent jawline and high cheekbones.
"Sure, Sherlock. But you do realize that one of these days you'll have to do it yourself."
"I'm perfectly capable of brewing my own coffee, John, as you well know. But there are more important things at the moment," Sherlock retorted. He punctuated the remark with an eye roll. The armchair squeaked a little as John got up, and he ambled over towards the kitchenette to make the coffee. When he had finished, he took the pot and poured the steaming drink into Sherlock's favorite mug. But he missed a little, and the burning coffee splashed over his sweater and bare hand.
"OW! Shit!" John shook his hand out rigorously and blew on it in an attempt to cool his hand down. He raced over to the sink to run it under some cold water, but he whacked his hip on the corner of the countertop on the way there. "AH! BLOODY HELL! FUCK!" John fell to the floor, seething in pain and holding his hip, the burns on his hand forgotten. Sherlock had deigned to raise his gaze at the spectacle, and he erupted with laughter at the sight of John, covered in coffee stains, writhing in pain on the kitchen floor.
"That's thirty pence in the swear jar, John," Sherlock remarked through a laugh.
"DAMN THE FUCKING SWEAR JAR, YOU DICKHEAD!" John shouted back, still holding his hip.
"And you're up to sixty." When John had recovered sufficiently, he angrily dug the coins out of his pocket and jammed them into the near full Mason jar.
TWTWTWTWTWTWTW
A knock on the door roused both Sherlock and John from their naps. They'd worked around the clock for the past two days, and now, at six pm, were just finally getting some sleep. John shuffled into the living room, rubbing at his hair. He saw Sherlock emerging from his own room to get the door. Sherlock flung it open hastily and saw Anderson standing there, upon which he promptly shut the door. "Sherlock. Rude." Without having to be told, Sherlock fished a ten-pence piece out of his pants pocket and handed it over to John, who deposited it in Sherlock's rude jar. Sherlock reopened the door to a now-miffed Anderson.
"What do you want, Anderson?" Sherlock asked in a flat voice.
"I was told to ask if you could come and have a look at a murder case," Anderson answered.
"There is a magical, foreign device called a telephone you could have used to let me know instead of waking me at this ungodly hour, you imbecile," Sherlock said drily.
"That's another one," John interjected. Sherlock groaned, but gave John another coin.
"Yes, I'll come in," Sherlock told Anderson.
"Okay. I'll pass it on to Lestrade."
"Obviously. Now leave." Sherlock fixed Anderson with a gaze so fiery he immediately turned tail and ran without question. Before John could say anything, he took the last coin out of his pocket and dropped it in his jar. John looked at his own swear jar, at Sherlock's rude jar, and back again. Both were full to the brim, and after only a month since they emptied it last. Sherlock joined John at his side.
"They're both full," John commented absently.
"Yes, they are," said Sherlock.
"Time to take Mrs. Hudson to dinner?"
"I'll get my coat."