John didn't know when it was that he woke up. He didn't check the clock. And he didn't so much wake up as enter a state of semiconsciousness. He became vaguely aware of his surroundings and moved around some, but he kept his eyelids firmly slammed.

Finally he decided he might as well get up, he had surely been sleeping in for a while. Cracking a yawn and shaking the curls out of his face, he looked over at the clock.

His expression of disbelief quickly turned into a scowl. 7am? 7am? That was only an hour after he usually got up, and last night he didn't fall asleep until 1am! Saturday was the one day John could sleep in, and here he was, waking up at 7am? Nuh uh.

John glared at the clock distastefully and burrowed back underneath his blankets, trying to go back to sleep. After half an hour of shallow dozing, John gave up. Clearly he wasn't going to get anymore sleep today. On Saturday.

He still couldn't get over the ludicrousness of it.

He fought his way out of the sheets (really, this bed was far too big for a hobbit), and as it was a mite nippy, he pulled on his dressing gown over his pajamas. June started in less than a week, and it was still awfully cold in the mornings. Welcome to England. Slippers weren't necessary, of course. His feet never seemed to get cold.

Pulling the dressing gown around his shoulders, John went into 221b's kitchen, hoping his search for caffeine would prove fruitful. As the water slowly began to heat up, John snooped around for a cup, using his stepladder to climb on top of the counters so he could look inside the cupboards. He found one, pushed to the very back, and he almost had to scale the surface of the cupboard to reach it.

Finally the craved-for coffee dripped into his cup, and John contentedly sipped. He opened the refrigerator and took out a recently purchased box of raspberry cinnamon rolls. It wasn't until his hobbity-ness had awoken a powerful love for food that the refrigerator was regularly stocked with fresh food, and unbelievably enough the edible treats actually outnumbered the inedible human body parts.

Mrs. Hudson seemed happy to be relieved of fridge-cleaning duty, but she also seemed to know that it wouldn't be permanent. Once things returned to normal, the fridge would probably go back to thumbs, heads and rotten tomatoes.

John shuddered. The thought was abhorring, and also not ideal for a hobbit about to eat his breakfast.

Then came the hunt for a suitable plate, and upon it John placed two large rolls. Into the microwave it went, and John sniffed happily as the smells of raspberry cinnamon rolls released into the air. One simply could not go wrong with raspberry cinnamon rolls.

They finished heating and John set a fork on top of the plate as he grabbed both that and his coffee cup. Under his arm he tucked a large butcher paper-wrapped package, and then carefully made his way downstairs and out the back.

Sherlock was awake, of course, peeling oranges. Somehow he had figured it out (and had been ridiculously proud of it), and now most mornings the dragon could be found peeling and eating oranges for breakfast.

"Brought you the meat you asked for," John said, and lifted his arm as Sherlock carefully took the package with a set of enormous claws. He ate the thing just as it was: while Sherlock was extremely picky about orange peels, he didn't at all mind the flavor of butcher paper and string. John had worried that Sherlock would choke on the string, but then Sherlock had pointed out that his throat was too large for something to block it.

"It's warm outside," John remarked, feeling surprised. While it was freezing in the house, out here it was cozy. A look up at the sky showed remarkable lack of clouds. "Looks like we're in for a nice day."

Sherlock glanced upward, then went back to peeling his oranges. John did not understand his fascination with them.

"You may want to start preparations, John," Sherlock said without looking over at him. "Sarah is expecting you this afternoon, and it is after eight already."

John shook his head with a chuckle, not even bothering to ask how Sherlock knew that. He already knew what the consulting detective's answer would be: Obvious.

"I've got time for breakfast, Sherlock," he said, sitting down in the chair that had been placed outside.

Sherlock angled an eye down at John's meal. "What is that?" he asked.

John forked a small piece of roll away from the rest. "Raspberry cinnamon roll," he told Sherlock. He put it in his mouth, and his eyes shot wide as he rolled it around. "Oh, oh my. This is amazing!"

Sherlock shook his head with a draconic snort. He frowned at the orange he accidentally scorched, and then it was John who was laughing. He quickly hid his grin behind his coffee cup. Breakfast went on in a relaxed manner, the way Saturday breakfasts usually did, and Sherlock started complaining that Mycroft was asking for his skills yesterday. John took that as his cue to leave, and after a shower and a change into some day clothes, he was off to Sarah's.

Sherlock's head appeared from the above the house. "John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?" John paused with one foot in the cab.

Sherlock hesitated. "Enjoy yourself. With Sarah."

Was Sherlock actually being nice? Good Lord, Mycroft must've slipped something into his oranges. "Uh… Thanks, Sherlock."

Sherlock quickly disappeared, as though embarrassed by his moment of humanity. John got the rest of the way into the cab and told the driver where he wanted to go.

For the most part, this was my morning. And raspberry cinnamon rolls are amazing. Really amazing. I am forever spoiled. *regrets nothing* Of course, there wasn't a dragon sitting in my backyard peeling oranges. And since I'm fifteen, I am not allowed to start on coffee yet. My parents will let me steal sips sometimes, though. Mm, love the flavor.

And what is it that has Sherlock so fascinated with oranges?