John pushes the spoon around the mug. He takes a secret pleasure in getting into a real rhythm, stirring and stirring until he remembers himself and starts to drink, self-consciously. But this time, he keeps going, and tries to keep the metal spoon from hitting the sides of the mug with an irritating "clank," which it always did. Finally John holds the mug to his lips, and takes his first sip of tea—but nearly spits it out.
"Ugh," he grumbles. "No milk." He knows before he checks that the fridge will be empty of food and full of experiments, but he looks anyway before groaning in disgust.
"Sherlock! What have I said about body parts in the kitchen?!" he calls into the sitting room.
"What have I told you about my experiment specifications? Those fingers have to be kept at exactly 6°! Besides, where would you prefer me to put them? In your room? ...Actually, come to think of it, your closet is fairly empty…"
"Forget it," is John's rapid reply. He definitely doesn't want Sherlock getting ideas. Then he glances at his watch and groans again.
"Dammit, I have to go to the hospital. Suppose it's too much to expect for you to get milk at Tesco in the next eight hours?"
John says this last sentence boredly, knowing there is virtually no chance of it happening. He grabs his mobile, and without waiting for an answer, closes the door and leaves for work.
It is 7:30 in the evening when John returns from Bart's. He puts down his things, yawns, and, on a whim, walks over to the fridge, looking for milk. His jaw drops. The entire refrigerator is filled with gallon jugs of milk. On one of the front cartons he finds a note:
John—
I went to Tesco's, but the organization is appalling. It took me an hour to find the milk, and then the manager—well, the point is, he banned me from the store. But I got the milk. You're welcome.
—Sherlock
p.s. All I asked him for was eyeballs! How is that too much to ask?