The kitchen floor was a sea of shattered glass and vaguely suspicious liquid. Sherlock, of course, had moved on from whatever experiment had resulted in such a mess, and was now in the sitting room, typing away on John's laptop. Gingerly, John made his way through the hazards and road traps and pointedly shut the laptop, trapping Sherlock's hands.
"I do hope you don't intend to leave the kitchen in that state."
"Hm? Oh, I thought you or Mrs. Hudson could take care of it."
"But neither I nor Mrs. Hudson made that mess. Sherlock Holmes, we are not your live-in cleaning service, and unless you've somehow suffered a massive disabling trauma in the ten minutes since I last saw you walking, there is no reason we should be picking up after you."
"But it's dull."
"Yes, well, unfortunately it's something the rest of us grown-ups have to deal with on a regular basis, and it's about bloody time you joined us."
Sherlock scowled, delicately pulling his fingers out from their computerised prison.
"Fine, fine, as soon as I'm done."
"Nope." John glared. "Now. I'd like to make myself a cuppa, and I don't much fancy pulling glass shards out of my foot."
Punctuated by a theatrical sigh, Sherlock stood up and stalked towards the storage cupboard to get a broom.