A/N: This takes place between the Hound of the Baskervilles and The Reichenbach Fall. It's just something I wrote after getting inspiration when I was having a cup of tea and some biscuits. Sherlock and John might be a little OOC, it's my first time trying to write them so I hope I haven't done too badly. I hope you like this. And if you do, please review!

Disclaimer: Don't own anything to do with the wonderful world of Sherlock; it belongs to Conan Doyle, Moffat and Gatiss.

It's a cold, dreary morning in London and the residents of 221b Baker Street are stirring. John shuffles to the bathroom and on his way, flicks the kettle on so that he can have his morning cuppa. Sherlock is still in bed, something quite unnatural as he is known for not being one to sleep a lot. By the time John has brushed his teeth and is fully awake, the kettle has boiled merrily away and a thin stream of steam is floating upwards. John pours the water into a cup and then reaches into the fridge for the milk. He locates the carton and marvels at the fact that for once, they're not out of milk (Hallelujah!). He pours the milk into his tea (no sugar, courtesy of Baskerville's testing ground) and frowns when little flaky bits of milk bob onto the surface of his tea. Great. The milk's gone off. Not enough to stink up the whole flat, but enough to ruin his tea. Time to run down to the shops, then. He pulls on his jacket and shouts to Sherlock that he's going out, and needs money. Mycroft is quite generously paying for all their expenses, which, in John's opinion, is a little unnecessary as he has a job, as does Sherlock- though Sherlock's doesn't pay all that well. Well, it doesn't really pay much at all. Still, John is happy to accept money from Mycroft- he still hasn't forgotten about how Mycroft only too easily liked freaking him out by bundling him in a car and sending him to some industrial estate. Maybe bundling is the wrong word, but still. If Mycroft was offering money, John was happy to take it. And it wasn't as though Sherlock had any objections. The only objection on his part was having to see, or even hear of Mycroft.

Sherlock walks into the room and brandishes a few notes. There's something in his eyes that doesn't quite match to the usual sociopathic personality Sherlock loves to display day in, day out, and John frowns.

"What are you so excited about?"

"I'm not excited, John, we sociopaths don't get all that excited."

"Unless someone dies."

"Yes, but unfortunately that doesn't seem as though it will happen in the next twenty seconds." Sherlock says despondently. "But I am looking forward to something."

"Looking forward, being excited, it's the same thing. Go on then, what's gotten your cigarettes all fired up?" asks John, raising his eyebrows.

"I'm coming with you, John."

"Coming where?"

"To the glorious food giant that overwhelms half of Great Britain!"

"Sherlock, are you feeling all right?"

"Perfectly fine, John." he says dismissively. "What I mean is, I've decided to come to the supermarket."

"No-one calls them that anymore. It's either Asda or Tesco or Morrisons. Why the sudden interest in 'supermarkets' anyway?"

"Well, I'm not one for caring about trivial things such as milk-"

"Or the solar system." interrupts John.

"Yes, yes, no one cares about the sun going round the planets." Sherlock says impatiently.

"Planets go round the sun." interjects John.

'Same thing, I don't care! But what I do care about, John…" he trails off mysteriously.

"It's not the time to be all mysterious, Sherlock. I want my tea."

"Allright, calm down, John. What I want is… biscuits! I've recently discovered a certain affinity for them!" Sherlock announces, his face lit up like a child in a sweetshop. John is puzzled and it clearly shows on his face- his eyebrows are creased and his nose is scrunched in confusion. Sherlock simply grins back at him, looking quite un-Sherlock like.

"We have biscuits already." John says bluntly.

"But, John! You buy rubbish biscuits."

"Nice to know my efforts are appreciated."

Sherlock ignores this last comment and continues. "But John, I want biscuits that are picked by me. Plus, I'm perfectly capable of going to the supermarket, you know. I used to go before you came."

"No you didn't. Mrs Hudson used to do the shopping."

"Well, I do clothes shopping myself."

"From the internet."

"John, I can and I will go to the supermarket!"

"Who said you can't?"

"Your tone of voice implied that you didn't want me to come."

"My tone of voice, Sherlock, was actually one of puzzlement. Evidently you're so excited about setting foot in a shop that you've lost your deductive powers."

"I highly doubt that. In fact, I can go now and analyse someone on the street. Or even better, I'll do it while we walk down to the supermarket." He announces, pulling on his coat and winding his scarf around his neck. The two men make their way downstairs and into the cold air of early morning London.

"What is it with you and calling shops 'supermarkets', by the way?" asks John.

"What else are you supposed to call them?"

"I don't know; call them by their names, perhaps?"

"Stop personifying shops, John." says Sherlock, rolling his eyes. "They aren't human."

"Neither are you, after all I've been through with you." John mutters.

"Wonderful compliment- it beats Mycroft's disastrous attempt to congratulate me on buying a new scarf- good God, he said it suited me! Which, I know it did, my mind is brilliant, so why wouldn't the rest of me be? But your intended insult, John, now that's what I call a compliment!"

"Glad to hear it. So what biscuits are you going to buy, anyway?" asks John, as they walk into the warm Tesco Express on the corner of the High Street.

"Custard creams! Mrs Hudson offered me some the other day while I was drinking my tea. Thought I'd give them a try and I quite liked them. She said some were on offer so I though I'd come along today and buy some."

"I do like custard creams myself. What brand were they?" asks John, reaching for a basket from the basket stand, before realising that Sherlock has left him. Sherlock has already gotten a basket and has walked briskly to the biscuit aisle. John wonders how he located it so quickly then sees a huge stand at the other end of the store, advertising some chance to win an unlimited supply of custard creams. He hurriedly chases after Sherlock before he does something stupid.

"Sherlock, I think that's enough biscuits, don't you?"

Sherlock looks confusedly back at John.

"What are you talking about, John? I've gotten milk, too!"

John spots a tiny one pint of milk crammed between packets upon packets of custard creams.

"Sherlock, are you sure these were the ones Mrs Hudson gave to you?"

"Of course I am, John. I don't just see, I observe. How would I miss a trivial detail such as this?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes then rushes to the checkout, while John makes a mental note to get more milk as one pint definitely won't last more than a few hours at the very least. He walks to the dairy aisle and grabs a few six pint cartons of milk and is just about to go to the checkout when suddenly he hears an almighty crash. The sudden clenching of his stomach tells him its something to do with Sherlock. John dashes to the end of the biscuit aisle and is faced with a rather funny, albeit serious, situation. Sherlock is laying on the floor, buried in a sea of yellow packets of custard creams, his unruly hair poking in and out of the waves of biscuits that have silt out of their packets. John laughs at the absurdity of the situation and helps Sherlock up, who, quite surprisingly, looks delighted at the mess he has just made.

"You haven't eaten any, have you?" asks John.

"I can excercise some self control, John."

"What are you grinning about then?"

"We get to take these biscuits home!"

"No." protests John, shaking his head. "No way, Sherlock. We are not taking this home."

As it turns out, the two men do end up taking all the biscuits home, much to the delight of Sherlock. The store managers are most definitely not delighted and forbid the two of them from ever coming to the store again. Sherlock simply shrugs this off and says that Mycroft will sort it out, which is a testament to just how happy Sherlock is about winning a lifetime's supply of custard creams- he would never mention Mycroft unless it was to ridicule, mock, or complain about him. The two of them make their way home and as John flops down onto the sofa, tired from all of the aggravation that Sherlock's bloody biscuits have caused him, Sherlock brews a cup of tea and sits contentedly down at his chair.

"I'm glad all of that's over. Never again are you coming shopping with me." says John.

"I won't need to anyway, not with all these lovely biscuits here to keep me company!"

"Seriously Sherlock, I'm never buying you any biscuits for as long as you live now."

"Agreed."

"And I'm not going out for the rest of the day, I'm bloody knackered."

Sherlock nods in understanding, then reaches out to take a biscuit, which he pops into his mouth merrily. His expression changes from one of happiness to that of shock, and then to anger.

"Now what do you want?" asks John exasperatedly. He sighs and sits up straight. Sherlock looks him in the eye, an unreadable expression etched on his face. John tilts his head, trying to fathom what has happened, and as a wave of understanding washes over him, he shakes his head in desperation.

"You haven't. Have you?"

Sherlock nods morosely.

"It's the wrong type of biscuit."