There never seemed to be enough milk.
There was always a shortage of fresh milk in their flat. And yes, fresh implying that often you could find curdled, sour milk sitting on the counter that nobody in their right mind would drink.
Sometimes you could blissfully make a cup of tea without the hour long trip to the stores and back for the ever elusive ingredient.
Sometimes you could not.
Like today, for example.
John had gone to the supermarket, at the whim of Mister Sherlock 'I'm-obviously-above-such-pedestrian-trifles' Holmes, to fetch the milk.
Again.
Because apparently that's what he was for, when they didn't have a case.
John Watson, the milk fetcher. How classy.
Maybe I should just retire and become a dairy farmer. Plenty of milk then.
John's step faltered as he walked, the bag of groceries swaying with the jerking movement, as the strange thought crossed his mind.
He needed more sleep. Much, much more.
By the time he had gotten home he was longing for that cup of tea he had wanted. Two. Hours. Ago.
Preferably with the milk he had bought specifically for this purpose.
He had even got past the chip and PIN machine.
But no.
And so, instead of throttling his flatmate, who had snatched the milk out of the bag and proceeded to dump it unceremoniously into a big saucepan filled with-
Well, filled with decomposing tongues.
Note to self: Inform Sherlock how pouring the milk his saint-of-a-flatmate has just bought into a saucepan filled with tongues is Very Not Good.
No, instead of throttling his flatmate he spent the rest of the afternoon getting more milk.
Again.
(And this time, the chip and PIN machine wanted revenge.)