(A/N: I've been told that they eat a different kind of pudding, that doesn't get skin, in the U.K. If true, please forget it for the duration of this story. Thank you.
On a non-related note, the more you type the word 'pudding' the more ridiculous it sounds.)
Sherlock Holmes stared at the bowl, his keen eyes flashing as they drank in every detail, every facet, every little, tiny, seemingly insignificant thing. He opened his mouth.
"John, there's skin on my pudding."
John Watson looked up from his own bowl. "Hmm?"
"Skin, John. On my pudding. I don't like skin on my pudding."
"Just eat it. It's not a big deal."
"It's my pudding, John. And it has skin on it. I don't like skin on my pudding."
"Oh, for gossakes." Rolling his eyes, John reached across the table with his spoon and scooped the skin off Sherlock's pudding. He ate it. No use, after all, in wasting good pudding.
"John, I can't eat this pudding."
"What?"
"Your spoon was in your mouth. Now it has been in my pudding. This is unacceptable, John. I don't want your germs."
John once again rolled his eyes, a skill at which he was quickly becoming adept. "And what do you want me to do about it?"
"I want another bowl of pudding."
"Sherlock, that's a perfectly good-"
Sherlock fixed John with a look that clearly said I can do this all night, if you want me to. Get me some more pudding.
Heaving a sigh, John shoved the untouched-save-for-skin bowl into the fridge and got another. He plunked it down in from of the detective and returned to his own bowl.
"John."
The person in question glanced skyward. Not again.
"There's skin on my pudding."
(A/N: I bet John has to put up with junk like this every day. Poor guy. Review please?)