John opened the cupboard to get a mug for his tea. Just moments ago he was thinking of his old mug. It was just the right size and weight for him to drink his tea or coffee from. The retired army doctor and now clinician came home to 221B Baker Street last month to find Sherlock Holmes picking up the pieces of his favourite mug.
"I'll replace it," was all the consulting detective said as John nodded and proceeded to make himself some tea in a different mug. It's just a mug he thought to himself. Still, it bothered him. John put the disappointment aside because, after all, it was just a mug.
The days went on. The surgery was busy with the usual winter colds and flu. On his days off and in the evenings he worked with Sherlock solving cases. In time the mug was forgotten.
That Tuesday was a terrible day. He had to give bad news to two patients both too young to be facing the inevitable. Rosie was fussy and Sherlock left the remains of an experiment on the table. Sherlock wasn't even home to complain to; Tuesdays were reserved for Molly. Every Tuesday, as long as she had the evening off and without fail, they went out for dinner and he stayed at hers. Every Tuesday since the horrors of Sherrinford Molly and Sherlock spent time together. John knew that they were rebuilding their friendship and perhaps something more.
Rosie fell asleep with her daddy holding her and pacing around the living room. After laying her down in her cot John thought a cup of tea would be nice. Opening the cupboard he saw it, a new mug, just like his old mug. He quietly smiled.
John drank his tea and left the empty mug on the counter near the sink. A small note simply said, "Thank you".