Sherlock woke to the sound of the refrigerator being opened. He sat up groggily, rubbing his eyes. It seemed he had fallen asleep on the couch.
        "Good morning, Sherlock," came John's voice from the kitchen.
        "Mmm," the detective replied. He swung his legs over the side of the couch and stood, stretching his arms above his head.
        "I'm making omelettes. Do you like mushrooms?"
        "Maybe." Sherlock made his way into the kitchen. There was a frying pan on the stove, obviously the pan John was going to make the omelettes in.
        John rolled his eyes. "Well, you're getting them, whether you like them or not. We don't have any other vegetables." He took the mushrooms out of the fridge and began slicing them into smaller pieces.
        Sherlock merely nodded. "I'm going to take a shower." He stood and went into the bathroom, leaving John alone in the kitchen.
        John scrambled the eggs and added the mushrooms. He was folding the first omelette when Sherlock came back in, hair dripping and clad in his blue bathrobe. "Welcome back," John greeted. He served the first omelette, placing it in front of Sherlock. "Eat," he ordered sternly. "You hardly ever eat. You need to eat more. You're skinny." He poked Sherlock in the stomach to prove his point.
        Sherlock reluctantly picked up his fork, figuring John was right. John was always right.
        "Thank you." John made his own omelette and began to eat it. It tasted better than he thought it would. Sherlock was acting as if it tasted like dirt, making a face every time he took a bite. Perhaps he didn't like mushrooms after all. "Something wrong with your omelette, Sherlock?"
        "No, it's excellent." He took another bite and smiled unconvincingly. John rolled his eyes.
        "Forgive me if I don't believe you, because you've been making some interesting faces."
        "Fine. I don't like mushrooms."
        "That's what I thought. Why didn't you say so?" He finished his breakfast, and stood to wash the plate.
        "I must've deleted it. It wasn't relevant."
        "Well, it's good to know. I won't make things with mushrooms for you again."
        "Mmm." Sherlock, too, had finished his meal and began washing the plate in the sink. Both placed their dishes on the dish rack to dry ((okay, I admit that I've never seen a dish rack in the flat, but go with it XD)). Sherlock went back to the couch, and John pulled on a coat. Judging by the casual wear and the fact that there were no vegetables in the fridge, Sherlock easily deduced that he was going to the grocery store. "Don't forget milk. We ran out yesterday."
        "Yes, alright. I'll get milk." He exited the flat, and Sherlock heard him go down the seventeen stairs and out the door.
        Alone and bored, Sherlock closed his eyes and steepled his fingers in front of his face. He began to think.
        He thought of the friendship between himself and John, and how it had suffered recently. John still hadn't completely gotten over the fact that Sherlock had locked him in that lab, and there was some slight tension between them. Sherlock felt he needed to do something as an apology. But what?
        Perhaps he could help more around the flat. John did all the cooking and shopping. He even did all of the blogging, which was what brought them clients. Sherlock's site, The Science of Deduction, wasn't nearly as popular.
        But what could he do to help? He knew he was not the best cook, and writing interesting stories was not his forte. Shopping, then? He'd probably fail at that, too.
        He made a frustrated noise and opened his eyes. Barely any time had passed and he was still bored. He glanced over at the kitchen, at the equipment cluttering the table. Sighing, he stood and made his way over to it. He cleaned it up the best he could, organizing the things he was using and putting the things he wasn't into cabinets. He mentally noted where he had put each item in case he needed it again.
        The whole process took less than a half hour. Still bored, Sherlock picked up the newspaper. John had already read it, based off of the small creases on either side of the paper. He skimmed through the first page, but nothing was interesting. He turned the page. Nothing. More page turning. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Exasperated, he threw the paper back down onto the table. Why couldn't reporters write about the interesting stuff? Why was it all politics and already solved cases?
        Huffing, he sat down at the other table and opened the laptop. He put 'interesting news' in the search bar and scrolled through the results for a bit. Nothing. He slammed the laptop shut and leaned back in the chair. Sighing, he stood and walked through the flat to his bedroom. He opened the closet and contemplated what to wear. He eventually decided on a black dress shirt and slacks. He had worn the exact same thing the day before.
        After changing, he flopped down onto his bed and exhaled slowly. His hair was still wet, and it quickly formed a damp spot on the pillow. He shivered. It was a bit chilly. He closed his eyes and tried to find something interesting to think about. He estimated John would be home in about seventeen minutes, based on previous experiences. Seventeen boring minutes. Sighing again ((my gosh. Sighing is in this story, too. Help, guys. I might as well call it Sherlock Sighed XD)), he got to his feet and went back to the kitchen. From his spot by the sink, he could see the yellow smiley face on the wall. It stared at him, taunting him with its silly grin. He stared back at it, scowling. He wished he could shoot it again, but he knew John and Ms. Hudson wouldn't approve. He abruptly turned away from it, slightly sickened by its cheerfulness on such a boring day.
        He decided he would make tea. John liked tea, he thought. He seemed to remember John saying something about liking tea. He filled the kettle with water and put it on the stove to boil. Now to wait. More waiting. His scowl returned. He internally chastised himself. Smile, he thought. Smiling makes other people happy. John should be happier. He practiced smiling, looking at his reflection in the shiny surface of the tea kettle. The expression didn't suit him, and he soon gave up. While he waited for the tea to boil, he found some tea leaves and mugs. He couldn't remember whether or not John liked cream in his tea or not. Maybe it was milk? Half-and-half? Or just black? Mildly frustrated, he tapped his foot impatiently on the floor.
        All of a sudden, the tea kettle whistled. He jumped to pour it into the mugs he had placed on the table. Two minutes until John came home. He put the tea bags in the hot water to steep. It would be perfect by the time his flatmate returned. Sherlock walked across the room to the window, where he watched for John. When he saw a cab pull up in front of the flat and John stepped out, carrying groceries, Sherlock picked up the tea he had prepared for John and walked over to the door wearing a smile. The door opened shortly after, and John jumped when he saw Sherlock standing there.
        "I made you tea," Sherlock told him.
        An expression of surprise crossed John's face, then suspicion. He walked across the room to put the groceries on the counter, saying, "You're not conducting another experiment on me, are you?"
        It was Sherlock's turn to look surprised. "No! No. Of course not. Why would I do that?" He followed John and handed him the tea. "I'll put the groceries away. Enjoy your tea."
        John looked at him strangely. "You feeling all right?"
        "Yes, of course. Why wouldn't I be?"
        "You're acting, um, nicer than normal."
        Sherlock began to put the groceries in the fridge, not making eye contact with John. "You deserve a better friend."
        John looked at him. "Sorry?"
        "There have been times where I've treated you like dirt. I even used you in an experiment."
        "You're not still trying to apologize, are you? I've already forgiven you. You're my best friend."
        Sherlock finished putting away the groceries. "You forgot the milk."
        "Oh, d***!" John clapped a hand to his forehead. "And you specifically reminded me."
        "I did."
        Sighing, John walked back towards the door. "I'll go back and get it."
        "No. I'll get it." Sherlock went and pulled on his trench coat.
        "You sure?"
        "Yes." Sherlock ran to his room to get his wallet, then came back. "I'll be back soon." He opened the door and exited the flat. He waited exactly sixty-eight seconds until a cab came by, then hailed it.
        "Taxi!"
        The cabbie pulled over and Sherlock climbed inside. As he was driven away, he glanced back and saw John standing in the window, smiling. He smiled back.
~~~~~~~~~~~Author's Note~~~~~~~~~~
That's the first chapter of my Sherlock fanfiction. Please comment! If I made any mistakes anywhere at all, please inform me.
I hope you guys liked it. The next chapter will introduce the mystery. There might be some feels. I'm not sure how I want it to go yet.