Sherlock looks up from behind his fortress of books at the table.
"Dinner." John's head is tilted slightly, like a question mark. "Want some?"
"... Dinner. Yes. Fine."
Fried rice swiftly appears in front of Sherlock, a savour of garlic under soy and onions and new plastic chopsticks. John clatters around the kitchen, cleaning the wok while his own meal sits meekly growing cold next to the kettle.
"You made this?"
"Yeah. Don't you like it?"
Sherlock grunts and pokes rice into his mouth, embarrassed. He's never before eaten fried rice that didn't come from a restaurant.