John has a precise routine. He wakes at 0430 sharp, walks into the kitchen, turns on the coffee pot, and dashes downstairs for the paper. He drops the paper on the kitchen table on his way back through the flat, jumps in the shower, and is bathed, shaved, and dressed by 0500.

At 0515 he turns on the stove and makes himself breakfast. Two eggs, scrambled, two slices of toast, dark, one half of a grapefruit, and one cup of coffee.

He takes his time, alternating between eating bites of food and reading the paper, and gets up from the table at 0555. By 0600 he has pulled on his jacket and shoes and, after peaking in on a dozing Sherlock, is out the door and off to Surgery.

He never deviates from this routine.

Well.

Almost never.

Some days, like today for example, he suffers what can only be described as systematic sabotage. His alarm clock has been discretely unplugged while he slept, the newspaper is missing, and the shower is full of entrails.

When this strange phenomenon first began occurring he passed it off a Sherlock being Sherlock: I.E. being selfish and ignorant of other people's needs. It took four straight days of the same behavior for him to realize that this was Sherlock's passive-aggressive way of asking for a lie-in.

So when the heavy pattering of rain reaches his ears and flashes of lightning flicker through his eyelids, pulling him from sleep, he's not surprised to see the alarm clock is off. He fumbles around for his wrist watch. It's much later than it should be. Sherlock's arm is heavy across his waist and the soft puff of his breath is easily felt on the back of his neck.

He wriggles away from Sherlock's sleeping form and pads his way slowly to the kitchen. He makes two cups of coffee – one black with two sugars, the other cream with one sugar – and returns to the bedroom. He places Sherlock's cup on the bedside table, sits back against the headboard, and waits for the enticing smell to wake his lover.

He's half finished with his own cup by the time those iridescent blue eyes flutter open. "Good morning," John says. "You've sabotaged me again."

Sherlock stretches like a lazy cat, arms over his head, back arched upwards, and yawns. "The storm must've knocked the power out," he flips to his side and reaches across John for his coffee.

"Sure it did," he smiles and shakes his head.

Sherlock drinks his coffee in three large swallows and rests his head on John's chest. John curls one arm around his shoulders and threads his fingers through Sherlock's hair, sometimes pausing to wind a particularly defined curl around a finger, tugging on it, and watching it bounce back into place.

"Do you think we'll ever actually sit down and have a real breakfast together?" he asks.

"And just what does a 'real' breakfast consist of, John?"

"I dunno. Pancakes? Orange juice? Setting the table?"

"Setting the table? That's very…plebian."

"You're trying not to offend me and it's slightly disturbing. Say what you mean."

"It's dull," Sherlock pushes himself up on one arm and takes John's cup from him, placing it on the bedside table. "And predictable. And…cliché."

He throws one leg over John's hips and, straddling him, begins to kiss his way along the curve of his neck. John brings his hands up and runs them down the length of Sherlock's spine, eliciting a shudder and a moan from the man on top of him.

"And breakfast in bed followed by morning sex is less cliché, is it?"

Sherlock chuckles and presses his mouth to John's ear. "No. But it's definitely more interesting."

John rides out the storm between Sherlock's thighs.