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?"

Comments

[fighting_northumerland]

"Yes-- no. No, we weren't hiding any--" John gave Sherlock a hard look. "Well, I wasn't hiding anything. Just being discreet."

[punchmeitssubtext]

"I wasn't--" Sherlock looked a little insulted. "Yes. Discreet. Which I seem to recall learning about from you," he added, pointedly, more at his mother than to her.

"So he's not your dealer?"

"What--no!"

[fighting_northumerland]

"I'm a doctor!" John cried out, exasperated. "For heaven's sake- I promise I am doing nothing untoward with Sherlock and that we are perfectly happy and no one is selling or consuming drugs!"