Sherlock waddled into the kitchen, wearing nothing but his blanket which he wrapped himself up in.
“You look like a walking burrito,” John commented, barely looking up from the morning paper.
“I'm glad you noticed,” Sherlock smirked, “Did you fix me tea?”
“Yep, it's beside the kettle,” John replied.
Sherlock walked toward the kettle and cried out loud.
“What?” John asked in concern, putting down the paper.
“This isn't my mug,” Sherlock growled through gritted teeth.
John rolled his eyes and returned his attention back to his paper, “What are you talking about?”
“This is not my mug,” Sherlock repeated in the same pained voice, “My mug is black with the handle on the left side.”
“It doesn't matter what side the handle it on,” John groaned, “You can just turn the mug, can't you?”
“Turn the mug?” Sherlock asked in distaste, “Are you telling me the drink my tea from the wrong side of the mug? We can't be flat-mates if you don't understand the basic rules of mugs and tea.”
“For God's sake, Sherlock,” John said, exasperated. He put the paper down and walked toward the kettle. Sherlock remained wrapped up in his blanket, watching John curiously. John fished Sherlock's mug from the dishwasher and placed it in front of him. He poured Sherlock a new cup of tea in the mug.
“There. Are you happy now?” John said, heading back to his chair.
“Yes. Erm. Thanks,” Sherlock said curtly, grabbing the new mug and held it as if it was the Holy Grail. He studied John as he read the paper.
“Anything?” Sherlock asked as he settled down with his tea.
John leafed through the giant pages, “Erm. There's a couple cases. Nothing too hard. A missing uncle, a couple stolen tools-”
“I meant anything worth my time,” Sherlock said, sipping his tea.
“I...” John shook his head, “Nevermind. Nope. None of these cases are fit for you.”
“That's what I though,” Sherlock said thoughtfully, “Does Sharon know you're staying over at her loft tonight or are you just going to surprise her?”
“How-” John started.
“Nevermind, of course she knows. She's the uncomfortable one that always needs to be in control. That is her, right? Or was that Julie. No, it's definitely Sharon. It's a shame. There's some good program on tonight, John. I wouldn't want to watch them alone.”
“Ask Mrs. Anderson,” John said coolly, “I hate it when you do that.”
“Oh, you love it.”
John tried his best to compress his smile.
“I do not.”
Sherlock stood up and tossed his mug into the sink.
“No point arguing. Well, what time are you heading out? We have time for a case, don't we? About those missing tools-”
John began to speak, “Actually, I-”
“Great, grab you coat.”
Sherlock waltzed toward to door.
“Erm. Sherlock?”
“Yep?” he turned around, his eyes already glittering with excitement.
John faltered, then quickly composed himself, “Aren't you forgetting something?”
“No, I don't think so,” Sherlock said, trying to deduce what John's falter was about. He had no clue. John had nothing to be nervous about. It was just him and John here. Sherlock's face scrunched up as he tried to figure out why John faltered.
“A t-shirt? Trousers?... Pants, for God's sake!” John said, hurrying back to Sherlock's room, “I swear, you're six years old.”
“I am not six.”
“Really, I nearly forgot.”
Sherlock followed John to his room, his blanket trailing behind him.
