fffffuuuuuuuuuu--

[punchmeitssubtext]

It was shaping up to be a pleasantly slow Saturday afternoon at Baker Street. After a late-starting morning, they'd sorted through a handful of emails and texts together, then Sherlock had settled in with the violin and started playing a medley of The Who. (Living with John had brought his musical knowledge forward by about a hundred years, albeit in a sort of patchy way.) About halfway through "Teenage Wasteland", though, he stopped abruptly.

"God, I've just remembered. We're out of eggs and it's Sunday tomorrow. I'm going to run downstairs--do you need anything?"