John Watson slumped down in his chair. After scrubbing his hands over his face his head shot up looking about the flat suspiciously. His annoying, irritating, genius of a flatmate was no where in sight, nor was he interrupting John's momentary peace. He was too tired to bicker with his best friend, but it felt odd not using the last of his reserves exchanging witty banter with Sherlock. John wearily lifted himself up out of his chair and put the kettle on hoping a cuppa would jump start his mental facilities in order to suss out what Sherlock could be doing. This was a lull between cases, so Sherlock would usually be moping around the flat asking John to make the boredom go away.
The front door slammed and his insane flatmate taking the stairs two at a time in his haste to return. Sherlock's face was flushed and his eyes were twinkling with mirth. John narrowed his eyes even further, leaned against the counter crossing his arms and legs and giving Sherlock his "I-know-you're-up-to-something-now-spit-it-out" look. Sherlock returned it with an innocent look of his own, but his open child-like grin couldn't help but make a slow appearance, lighting up his face. He held up the paper bag and triumphantly announced, "I got the milk."
John rolled his eyes. "Well, bully."