A/N - Probably considered crack. Enjoy (:
John Watson likes to know precisely what in his life he can rely on. He is a man of order, right down to the meticulous making of his bed – probably a result of his military career, Sherlock reasons, but knowing where it comes from does not make it less annoying.
John wants to know the exact locations of stupid things, like his laptop or his jumpers, at all times. Sherlock, contrarily, having finished an experiment, throws the materials haphazardly into the current storage area.
Predictably, this has resulted in some problematic situations. (The day Sherlock deleted all information in regards to the whereabouts of all of the silverware, John didn't seem pleased even after he found the whole lot protruding from a foot in the closet.)
It also means that Sherlock has expected John's current line of questioning for quite some time now.
"Where exactly … are we, Sherlock?" John asks hesitantly over tea one evening. "221B Baker Street, London, England," Sherlock responds immediately, knowing perfectly well that's not what John means.
"I mean, in terms of our relationship," John replies; he's gained confidence at Sherlock's answer, apparently.
"I thought it was rather obvious, Dr. Watson," Sherlock replies, the hint of a smile at his lips. He leans closer to John, as if sharing the most delightful of secrets.
"You're my bitch."
Disclaimer: I do not own them. Sadly. ):