John still occasionally found bits of Sherlock's missing two years wedged awkwardly in the present. Today, it was eggs soaking in mugs of tea all over the table.
"Chinese tea eggs," Sherlock said, creamy marbled surface emerging beneath his fingers. "Surely even you can put it together."
John shrugged. "You never order them, how was I to know?"
"The version you get in London restaurants is rubbish. I had no idea they were worthwhile before the street vendors in Tianjin."
"Oh," said John. Oh. It rankled a bit, being called stupid on account of something he could never have observed.
Sherlock's movements went slow as he laid down the last shard of tea-darkened shell. He carefully pulled the egg apart and held one half out to John.
"This is the fermented pu-erh," he said softly. "I have high hopes."
John unclenched his hand and held it out. The egg felt clammy to his fingers, so he didn't let himself think before popping it into his mouth.
"That's quite nice," he said, surprised. "Can't really taste the tea, though."
Sherlock frowned at the panoply of mugs. "Lapsang souchong!" he said suddenly, reaching for a mug. "I know, it's appalling to drink, but try it. We'll find you your perfect egg." He glanced up at John. "If you're game?"
John smiled. "You bet."
