"A/N: Just a little silly. Just a little crack. Just a little stupid. But enjoy!
"Sherlock!
There came only a grunt in reply, and John sighed. "Sherlock, please. Where's the breadknife?"
A huff of annoyance, and a creaking of springs. He was curled on the sofa, then. "John, why would I know?"
John rummaged about the piles of mystery stuff on the counters with one hand, the other holding a fresh loaf of bread high in the air. He didn't want the fumes from Sherlock's abandoned "experiments" contaminating the beauteous thing Mrs. Hudson had just given him.
"Well," he growled, "You are a bloody consulting detective. Can't you just deduce where it is by the spot on the wall that looks like a janitor mopping the floor with an upside down troll?"
A dignified silence prevailed for a moment or so, and then...
"Don't be ridiculous, John."
"You looked for the spot, didn't you?"
Sherlock sniffed. "It looks like an eagle trying to carry off a fridge, you idiot."
"But," John said derisively as he shoved a rotting human ear to the side, "Did it tell you where the breadknife was?"
Another silence, and then more creaking, and then Sherlock had swept into the kitchen looking for all the world like an insulted prima donna. "I refuse to put my prodigious skill to something as mundane as divining the current residence of a breadknife, John."
The army doctor turned, bread in hand. He took in the detective, who stood merely two feet away. He was resplendent in his blue dressing gown over an inside out t-shirt and plaid pyjama bottoms, his ice-white eyes flashing frozen fire. His cheekbones reflected the morning light from the window as though he'd sharpened and polished them. John thought waspishly that maybe he had.
Suddenly he came to a decision, and abruptly brought down Mrs. Hudson's beautiful bread on Sherlock's left cheek. He grinned at the shock on the detective's face before setting the loaf on the cutting board and watching as it separated into perfectly sliced pieces, like a freshly thwacked chocolate orange.
"Irrelevant," John snorted.
Sherlock could only stare at the bread.
It had been cut upon his own cheekbone.