Sherlock,
You will clean the kitchen.
John
Sherlock stood at the threashold of the kitchen. While it was wasn't filthy, it was far from clean. Mrs. Hudson had begun cleaning the flat when she was told of John's illness. John however, cornered her one day and insisted she stop. Sherlock had scowled at John. John had chastised Sherlock, telling him it was a horrible thing to take advantage of their landlady's kindness by using his coming death. Sherlock lost so much colour in his face at that declaration that John had grabbed Sherlock and kissed him fiercely. Sherlock had apologized and then the two of them had fallen into bed.
At first, Sherlock decided that he would only clean the counter. Cleaning the counter led to cleaning the table, which led to cleaning the floor. Cleaning the floor led to emptying and scrubbing out the fridge, which led to a memory.
"John?"
"Yes."
"Why do you insist on cleaning under the fridge?"
"Does a lab need to be clean? A hospital?"
"Yes, but you're cleaning under a fridge."
"So?"
"It's very weird."
"You're calling me weird? Because I like things clean?"
"I didn't say you were weird."
"I'm not weird then?"
"The act of cleaning under the fridge is weird. You, however, are not weird."
"Thank you?"
Sherlock found himself feeling just a bit lighter at the memory. Looking at the kitchen he sighed.
This is John. Cleanliness.