John trudged his way exhaustedly up the stairs. Once more, Sherlock had got caught up in a moment of brilliance and left him to find his own way back home. Sighing, he reached for the door handle and entered his flat at 221B Baker Street.
"Bless," he murmured when he saw the tray on the table next to the settee. Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough to leave something out for him. He picked up a biscuit and wandered into the kitchen to put on the kettle. A cup of tea would do him a world of good just now. Steeling himself, he opened up the fridge in search of some cream. "Got you," he whispered triumphantly to himself, moving aside a jar with a kidney in it and another that contained two ears of different sizes and ethnicities, and grasped the small pitcher.
He lifted the kettle off of the burner just before the whistle began to shriek. Cup in hand, he returned to the plate of biscuits and grabbed another.
"And what sort of a time do you call this, then?" asked Sherlock, appearing in the doorway just as John was in the act of sitting down.
"Jesus -!" John swore, jumping in surprise and spilling tea down the front of his clothes. He glared up at Sherlock.
"Well?" Sherlock asked placidly, one eyebrow raised.
"Well, what?" John replied in exasperation, picking up the towel that Mrs. Hudson had lain over the biscuits and attempting to sop up some of his spilt drink.
Sherlock tightened the belt on his robe rather haughtily. "I've been waiting for you."
"Waiting for me?" John asked incredulously.
"Yes," Sherlock confirmed. "Where did you disappear to?"
"I disappeared?" John gaped.
Sherlock squinted at him. "Are you drunk?"
"Drunk?"
"Yes," Sherlock drawled. "You had trouble on the stairs, you've spilt tea for no reason, and now you're repeating everything I say. Therefore, I ask, are you drunk?"
John took a steadying breath and stood up ramrod straight. "No," he replied simply.
Sherlock looked at him for a moment, weighing him up and analysing whether he was telling the truth. "Fine," he said dismissively, turning back towards his room. "Now come to bed. I'm cold."
John looked up at the ceiling in resignation. "Can I at least bring the biscuits?" he called out.
"Don't bother," Sherlock replied. "I've something else for you to nibble on."