Work Text:
Sherlock leant with both elbows on the kitchen unit watching John prepare breakfast.
“What is it, 'Lock? You've been there since before I got up.”
“Nothin'. Just thinkin'.” He snapped his teeth together.
“And what's with the accent?”
“Nothin',” he repeated.
“You've been acting really odd recently, but only when you're in here.”
The detective frowned, then pouted, then scowled. “Weird how?”
The doctor shrugged as he buttered some toast and slid it in front of the younger man.
“Eat it little boy.”
“I don't get it!” He stared at it as if he couldn't believe it existed.
John spun on his toe so he was back to facing him again. “Get what?”
“Toast.”
“Why not? It's food. It goes in there,” he poked his finger into Sherlock's mouth, “and comes out there,” he reached over the counter and smacked his bum.
“Idiot,” Sherlock sighed, shaking his head. “It isn't the process of digestion that I don't understand.”
“Then what? Trying to get something out of you, unless it's mindless insults, is like trying to drain blood from a stone.”
He picked up his toast and examined it closely, spinning it over in his fingers, comparing the buttered side to the non-buttered side.
“It doesn't make sense!”
“Sherlock, God damnit, tell me what you're going on about.”
“Toast. It comes from bread, right?”
John couldn't resist. “Obviously.”
The detective rolled his eyes theatrically. “I'm not as lacking in common sense as you seem to think. Bread has already been baked, before it even goes to the store, it's baked. Why do you feel the need to cook it again?”
“You know,” John paused to perch next to his boyfriend and wrapped his arm around him. “That is a very good question.”