The detective remained in his chair, leaning forward as though the closer he got to John, the more he could deduce. This theory was only partially true; sometimes he had to see from a distance to understand.

But nothing was working. He'd already used up two of his guesses as to where Mycroft's key to the flat was hidden. One more mistake and brother dearest would be over whenever he'd like. Sherlock had expected the challenge to be easy—he was going against a mere doctor—but so far, he was shooting blind.

"Give me a hint," he demanded.

"Do criminals give you hints?" John smirked. He was enjoying this; Sherlock hadn't smoked in a week, and the only cases to distract him from the puzzle were fascinating. The detective even bothered to eat once every few days.

Sherlock stood for the first time in a few hours and looked over John's shoulder, into his blog. "Put it down. That's unimportant right now."

"This blog is our living," John said, nevertheless closing the laptop. "People are interested in you. Maybe if you read it every now and then you'd understand people more. See what they like."

"I do read it. I comment on it."

"You make snide remarks, and no, you don't read it. You look at the title to see what case I'm talking about, and then you comment about my writing skills."

Sherlock shrugged and flung himself onto the couch. "You're not playing fair. It's Cluedo all over again."

John ignored the last comment and grabbed his mug. "I'll make you a deal. You start buying milk, and I'll tell you where I've hidden the key."

Raising his eyebrows, Sherlock considered. "So in essence, my birthday gift from you is getting blackmailed into doing monotonous chores so my family will stay away."

"In a nutshell."

A pause. "Fine."

"You'll do it? You'll buy the milk from now on?"

"Yes, yes. Now come. Where have you put it?"

John shook his head. "Milk first."

"But—"

"No." John grabbed his coat, finished his tea, and headed for the door. "I'll be gone for a few hours. I expect a gallon when I'm home. And, Sherlock, don't be a smart alec. We don't need a fridge full, alright?"

"You're going out already; why can't you get it?"

"Because I'm going to work and I've gotten the milk more times than I can count. Now go shower and get on it. I'll return the key afterwards."

*SIX HOURS LATER*

John dumped his coat on the floor before dumping his body into his chair. The day had been full of mindless patients, snot-nosed kids, and lazy coworkers. "Sherlock?" he called, running a hand through his hair. "You home?"

The detective emerged from the bedroom, but John had to look several times to make sure it was him. He was sporting a faded red t-shirt and ragged jeans a size too big; his hair was fluffed in all the wrong places, and a smear of clay ran across his right cheek. "You called?"

John stared for a few seconds before responding. "A case?"

"What?"

"This." He pointed and laughed; he'd only seen Sherlock in suits and bed sheets. The median looked ridiculous.

Sherlock looked down. "Oh! No, no. I got milk."

John had forgotten about their previous conversation. "And that required you to dress like a commoner?"

A small, terrifying smile crept onto the detective's face. "I've solved all our problems, John. You're going to have to make a hundred copies of Mycroft's key and built a bonfire to melt every last one to repay me."

The doctor's face fell. Sherlock's happiness rarely constituted his own. He stood, slowly, and made his way to the kitchen. What would it be this time? A kitchen full of jugs? A personal milkmaid? A thesis paper over why milk was bad for you and why you should never ever drink it again?

Before he reached the kitchen, he heard a distinctive, guttural moo.

Mycroft got his key back the next day, and Sherlock Holmes never got a birthday present from John Watson again.

(Final Author's Note)

I've thoroughly enjoyed writing these shots. Hopefully you all enjoyed following the adorable pair. Thanks for all the prompts and reviews. To the next story!