Keeping Things in Perspective
John opened the cupboard and frowned; it was empty.
"Not again." he muttered, before turning his gaze to the flat.
In the living room were all the mugs; on the coffee and both end tables, the desk top and on chairs, some were even on the floor half filled with still dark liquid. The only place in the living room that did not have cups covering it was the couch which held his flat mate, one Sherlock Holmes, passed out, curled up in one of his silk robes.
Sherlock preferred coffee with cream and sugar in the morning and tea with lemon at night, a habit that John quickly adopted when he moved in, mostly because the hot beverage was always available if he wanted, and even if he didn't. But there was one drawback to Sherlock's preference, it had to be perfect or the great detective would deem it unworthy for humans to consume. But for a man who was routinely involved in high pedial chases through the underbelly of London and kept mummified body parts in the crisper having every coffee mug and tea cup they owned littered around the flat was the least frustrating eccentricity he had to deal with on a daily basis.
John sighed and slowly closed the cupboard. Carefully tiptoeing around the cups to the coat rack in the hallway, John reached for his jacket and headed down the stairs, wondering if the café down the street still had fresh scones.