The empty milk

„Sherlock," John called, coming out of the kitchen. "Yes, John?" Sherlock asked from his seated position, hands stapled underneath his chin and eyes still closed from being in his mind palace not a minute before (the last 52 seconds he had spent silently listening to John's shuffling around in the kitchen).

He secretly hoped for John to ask him out for dinner. He purposefully had not been buying any grocery since... well since John moved in 9 weeks ago. Just for the simple goal of getting more John-time, his definition of highly well-spent and potentially emotional rewarding quality-time spent in the presence of no other than doctor John Hamish Watson, his favorite blogger (although he wouldn't ever tell him that) and only friend.

"The milk is empty. Again!" John complained to Sherlock, raising his voice a little. He was annoyed with the near-empty condition of the fridge, nothing in there except an empty milk carton (why even put it back there if it's empty??), a thump (nothing surprising there, at least it wasn't a bloody brain or an eyeball), a pitifully lump of butter, a lonely shriveled carrot, a half empty jar of marmalade (the only good thing in there) and a peanut butter jar well past it's expiry date.

Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at John angrily. "So what?" he snapped at John, sounding way ruder than he intended to. Johns face crumpled to a pained expression for a part of a second, evidently being hurt by the rudeness of his best friend. "I thought you would go grocery shopping this week – you promised!" John said, looking frustrated at Sherlock. "The week is not over, John. Besides that, I had better things to do!" "Maybe not over but it's Sunday, Sherlock! It's late and the shops are closed, there's no way to go shopping this week any more. And what do you mean, you have other things to do, you don't even have a case at the moment, you've been complaining all week about your boredom, not lifting a single finger to actually do something!" John near shouted at the end of his rambling, fingers clenched together.

Sherlock only lifted one finely curved brow, saying nothing as if to mock him, further enraging John's anger. "Fine," John hissed, "if you don't care about anything, I definitely won't come running the next time you call, because you're too lazy to grab your phone or you want someone to look through the papers for you." With this statement done, he swirled around, trampled up the stairs to his room and closed the door with an angry bang.

As soon as John had vanished, Sherlock looked exactly in the direction he knew John would be positioned now (most certainly sitting on his bed and clutching his head in his hands). He stared for a long few seconds, grumpily thinking that this outcome of the situation wasn't at all what he wanted it to be. He even felt a pang of regret, a feeling practically unknown to him.

Yes, you heard it right, Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective, regretted breaking his promise and thus making John sad. Eventually, he sighted heavily, going back into his mind palace, adding "broken promises" and "empty milk" to his list of "things that really piss John of", in a shelf called "negative emotions", category "anger", in one of the biggest and prettiest room in his mind palace, labeled "John" in broad golden letters, reminiscent of the elegant house numbers on the door of 221B Baker Street.