As any English man, Sherlock took no exception to tea and biscuits.
It took him not having a case to actually sit down and partake in tea time, but the thing was that biscuits were constantly nearby. They were in the alcove right above his head when he sat at the microscope, straight up and to the right slightly. If he was hungry when he was working- which was rare- all he had to do was reach up and grab the tin of the chosen biscuits of the week.
Such as was this morning.
Sherlock irritably knitted his fingers into his pyjamas as his stomach growled loudly in the otherwise silent flat. It was three twenty-seven in the morning. John was asleep and therefore, he had no one nagging at him to actually eat when his stomach growled. But, still, he hadn't eaten in a couple days and it felt like his stomach was turning in on itself.
Grumbling under his breath, he fumbled for the shelf and felt around for the tin of biscuits. His fingers closed around the cool metal box, the place where all their biscuits went when they were, inevitably, opened to take the first taste of. If left in the package, they would quickly get stale and a stale biscuit was of no use to anyone.
Without looking away from his microscope, Sherlock set the tin down almost silently next to him, freeing his opposite hand to reach across to the tin. Steadying the box with one hand, he easily flipped it open with his other before both hands went back to changing the slide of his microscope.
His stomach growled again; perhaps it was aware that food was in arm's reach and it had no desire to be ignored any longer. Sherlock impatiently- but ever as carefully- slid the new slide under the lens before straightening, magnifying, focussing. Only after his eyes were able to stare keenly at the new specimen did he allow his hands to other things: the tin of biscuits.
Long, pale fingers reached in, felt first the crumbs of biscuits long since consumed. He felt around for a hairbreadth of a second before his fingers brushed over the smooth expanse of a biscuit. He removed it from the tin and, still without once looking up, parted his lips and placed it between them. Light pressure from his teeth, the slightest constriction of his jaw, and the biscuit broke into two unequal pieces with a delicate crunch. Crumbs fluttered down from the mismatched edges, littering his trousers with barely noticeable beige flecks.
He chewed the biscuit quickly, slow enough to savour the slight sweetness and the delicate craft, but in such a time that his saliva would not cause the biscuit to become soggy. He swallowed and placed the leftover part of the biscuit on his tongue, letting it chase its companion in its journey to his stomach.
Methodically, he swiped the crumbs from his trousers and reached to switch out slides again.
He repeated the process again, drawing another chosen treat from the tin at his side to begin anew.
I want some biscuits now. And that's all I'm going to say.
(Although- It's almost Thanksgiving for the non-Brits, which meaaannnss... Bonaffee pie! With lovely lovely British type biscuits.)
I do not own Sherlock. Thank you for your kind comments. :)