Disclaimer: I don't own 'Sherlock' or any of the characters ... God I wish I did!

Warning: English is NOT my native language. So please don't punch me too hard for my mistakes :)

A/N: This collection is an attempt at breaking my habit of a.) not finishing stories and b.) not writing on a regular basis. So I came up with the idea of writing a ficlet a day, just to keep me busy and you entertained. The keywords I use were kindly provided by friends and the "Duden". THX for that.

1. Milk

a novella of "365 days 221b Baker Street"

Life was normal again at 221 b Baker Street. Well as normal as it could be with a bored consulting detective - the only one in the world, mind you - and a dedicated Blogger with a writing block. Dr. John Watson was sitting on the desk in the living room, staring at the rhythmical blink of his cursor while listening to the heavy raindrops crushing against the high windows of the flat. It had been raining for days now and it seemed that every drop of it washed away a tiny bit of John's creativity. "What are you doing?", asked the too familiar rich voice of Sherlock near John's right ear. He hadn't noticed the detective emerging from the bathroom before, but when a small drop of water fell from the dark curls on John's shoulder he looked up into the inquiring eyes of his flatmate. "Writing. Blog!", came the short answer from the former soldier. Huffing Sherlock turned away and strolled into the kitchen. "What?", John asked, equally on edge. "You didn't hit a single key in the last twenty-three minutes. I hardly consider that writing.", Sherlock replied taking his usual seat in front of the microscope. John tried, he really tried to keep his anger down but didn't quite succeed. "Yeah, like you could do it any better.", he snapped, closing his Laptop an abandoning any further attempt at doing something useful. Sherlock's mocking laugh reached the ears of the doctor but when he glanced to the detective the dark-haired man was already focused on his latest experiment again.

It had been like that for the last few days. Endless rain and no case to solve left both men slightly irritated and John had to admit that even he was bored. There was only so much reading and watching crap telly someone could do without going insane. Not even writing on his blog seemed to work as the words just wouldn't come. And as much Sherlock pretended to be engaged with his 'experiment', John could tell in a heartbeat that the detective wasn't really into it. For every other moment Sherlock would fidget and readjust his position on the chair.

Five minutes after John traded his work on the blog for an only mildly interesting novel, Sherlock stood with the grace of a cat and an annoyed sigh, closing (?) the distance to the fridge with two long steps. The doctor didn't look up, but he could tell by the familiar sound of the fridge door what Sherlock was doing. Could it be that the detective was hungry? John tried to recall the last time they had eaten together when Sherlock spoke up again. "We need some milk!", he informed his flatmate. Not accusing but indicating. Curious, John looked up from his book. "I only got some yesterday. There's no way we used it up already."

"It's not right.", Sherlock muttered without sparing a glance back at John. "What?", John asked confused. Sherlock sight again, turning around and waving the carton of milk in his hand. "It's not the right one.", he pointed out again. "It's wrong." John could only look at his flatmate, not comprehending what was going on. "It's wrong?", he asked at last. "Yes. Wrong.", Sherlock confirmed. Still not understanding, John stood and entered the kitchen as well, looking at the innocent carton in Sherlock's hand. "It's milk Sherlock. It's not expired, it had been in the fridge the whole time, and as long as you didn't put any kind of chemicals or body parts in it I don't see what's wrong with it." Sherlock rolled his eyes, as if dealing with an exceptionally stupid child. "It's the wrong brand, John." The soldier looked into Sherlock's eyes to see whether the taller man was mocking him or not. Sherlock's expression was deadly serious. "The wrong brand?", John asked. Sherlock nodded. The doctor took a few calming breaths before pointing out, "It's the same kind of milk I always buy, Sherlock." The detective raised an eyebrow. "No. It's a different brand."

"What the hell does that matter?", John shouted, his a patience wearing thin. "It's WRONG.", Sherlock repeated emphasizing the last word. John shook his head. He couldn't believe that they had an argument about milk. "So what?", he asked eventually, "You want me to go out and get the RIGHT ONE?"

"Yes, of course." Sherlock answered innocently. "I'm not going to drink that one." He looked at the small carton as if it contained some kind of deadly poison. "Just in case you didn't notice Sherlock it's raining. HARD!" Sherlock glanced at the window as if taking in the current weather conditions for the first time. Then he shrugged. "That's hardly my fault now, isn't it?"

"Well, why don't you go and get it yourself then?", John spat out angrily. Sherlock calmly placed the carton of milk on the countertop before retaking his seat in front of the microscope. "Can't. Busy."

"Bloody hell.", John muttered. "Why do I even bother?" With that the doctor put on his shoes and jacket knowing it would hardly protect him from the rain, but at least he got something to do. "Oh, and take some biscuits too, will you?", came the voice from the kitchen. "Oh, shut up, Sherlock."

John could practically feel the other man's wicked smile.