A New Tradition
John stumbles blearily into the kitchen. Eyes: tired, head: fuzzy, hair: all over the place. He has snatched twenty minutes for a nap while Sherlock pores over photos of the latest murder victim. They have been on the case for three days now, Sherlock hasn't stopped yet and John is on the point of collapse.
He stops on the threshold and rubs his eyes, confused. Why is there a teapot?
"Morning John," Sherlock greets him as he pours milk into two mugs.
"Papers by the door!" calls Mrs Hudson's voice from the landing.
Sherlock brushes past John and John seats himself wearily at the table, then catches the Weekend section as Sherlock chucks it at him.
"How are you, John?" Sherlock asks as he pours out the tea.
"How… am I?" John stares at him, bemused.
"Yes, a simple question, don't you think?" Sherlock seats himself opposite John. As usual he looks totally fresh and composed. He gestures to John to pick a mug and John takes the plain one, raises it to his lips.
"I'm tired." He sips and hums in gentle pleasure, then sighs. "Why the tea? Is it a special occasion?"
"It's Sunday. I'm going to make tea on Sunday mornings now."
"Right, okay." Not worth puzzling over it really. He takes another gulp and feels the caffeine beginning to wake him up. "It's a nice idea, I like it."
"Good."