"I can't believe it. You're supposed to be a bloody genius and you still can't make tea."
Sherlock glared at him and dumped the lumpy sludge out of the cup. "If you'd just make it for me like you usually do . . ."
"Yeah, no. This is a life skill, Sherlock. Aren't you supposed to be British? Show me what you did."
"So you can laugh?"
"Yeah, probably." John grinned at him. "Still enough water in the kettle for another cup, so give it a shot. Let's see."
Sherlock's lower lip jutted out, making him look like a particularly lanky five-year-old, but he grabbed John's RAMC mug from the cupboard (the only clean one left, now that there were four all lined up near the sink because Sherlock couldn't be bothered to even rinse the previous failed tries afterward) and dumped in a spoonful of tea. Dry. Not even in one of the six infusers sitting in the drawer not two inches from his other hand. He covered the mound of shredded leaves with two more spoonfuls of sugar, then poured hot water over the whole thing until it was nearly overflowing and backed away from it warily.
"How long do you usually let it . . . melt? Cook?"
"Steep."
"That."
John shook his head. "I'm never drinking your tea again."
Sherlock nodded. "Probably best."