A Study in Fur
"Sherlock I asked you to get think milk when you went out an hour ago!" shouted John from the kitchen. As usual the kitchen was bare; he couldn't even make himself a decent cup of tea.
He ambled into the living room grumpily to find Sherlock lazed on the sofa, his limbs sprawled out everywhere. On the coffee table lay a cereal bowl, full to the top with milk. An empty carton lay discarded on the floor. There was a time when Sherlock would spend all his time awake working on cases, but recently he seemed to prefer sprawling across the sofa and sleeping for sixteen hours a day.
John remembered he had left earlier in the morning, muttering something about chasing up a lead. He returned before John headed out to work, circled him, sniffed him, and then threw himself down on the sofa. Sherlock was a strange man indeed; John wasn't sure how he had put up with him all these years.
He decided to let Sherlock be and headed towards their bedroom, ruffling Sherlock's hair as he passed. The detective let out a deep purring noise before stretching his limbs out further and licking his lips.
John just shook his head. Sherlock Holmes was a strange creature indeed.