Another long day. Another case solved. Another 27 hours without sleep or food.
John Watson was at the "end of his rope." His companion, a singular Mr. Sherlock Holmes, was much better off. While John searched the kitchen for some trace of solid food, all he was greeted with were a few human fingers in the microwave.
"Sherlock...nevermind, I won't even ask," the good doctor sighed in dismay.
Human fingers. Definitely not food.
"Hm?" his flat mate muttered, not bothering to look up from his cell phone.
"Sherlock, we're out of food. I haven't slept in over a day, and why the hell do you not look at me when I'm talking to you?" John grumbled angrily.
Sherlock grimaced, rolled his eyes, set his phone down in his lap and looked up at his friend, "Yes, John. Go get some food, if you're so hungry. You know I don't bother eating while working; digestion takes away energy that could be going to my brain. Why do you think I never bother buying anything? Your diet is your own concern, as are your sleeping habits."
John fumed, "Sherlock, why don't you ever think of anyone but yourself...God, why am I even surprised. I don't know why I agreed to this hellish arrangement. I'm going to get Chinese, and maybe tomorrow I'll start packing."
Sherlock's eyes remained fixed on his screen, but did notice the noise of the other man's boots clumping down the stairs, as well as the rather loud bang of the front door.
"Hm..." He went back to looking at his phone.
Meanwhile, John was walking quickly, dodging puddles and passersby, grumbling to himself the entire time.
"God, what an arrogant sod. What did I even agree to this? Even Harry's would've been better than this..." John's face was locked in a scowl as he marched down the street.
To make things worse, when he reached the street corner, a lorry drove through a rather large pool of standing water, soaking Dr. Watson from the waist down.
"Shit!" John barked, "Just what I needed."
The passersby just looked at him strangely and continued on their way.
John's stomach was growling, demanding, rather than asking, as it had been hours earlier, for some sort of food.
Damn, I really should get something...but I'm not going to embarrass myself in public with wet trousers. It looks like I pissed myself...oh, wonderful, looks like I have to go back and get a different pair...
John Watson made his way back down to 221 B Baker Street, groaning at the thought of having to return to his indifferent room-mate. However, a surprise was awaiting him. When he reached the bottom landing of the stairs, he noticed a unusual aroma. He paused and sniffed for a moment, No, not human flesh...then what is it?
Brow creased in deep thought, he made his way up to the second floor. "Sherlock, what the hell is that sm-Sherlock?" John's eyes widened in amazement.
"Ah, I was expecting you back later. Sorry, but the sauce still needs to finish heating."
John's eyes were still huge when he stepped further into the apartment. There was a tablecloth on their plain ikea table, and there were two place settings with china. What on Earth was going on?
"Sherlock, what...what is all this?" John couldn't wrap his head round it all.
His friend, not looking up from his sauce pan, spoke, "It's dinner, obviously. Can't you tell?"
"But..why? You never bother to eat much of anything, let alone cook. I didn't even know you could cook, actually."
"Don't usually have a reason," came the curt reply.
"And your reason?"
Sherlock threw his towel over his shoulder, then turned to meet his friend's gaze.
"My best friend is hungry."
John blinked in astonishment, then returned his friend's smile.
The food turned out to be awful, but it didn't matter. Both men were happier then they'd been in a long time.