There was milk in the fridge.

John frowned at it, confused. He shut the door, paused for a moment, and then opened it again.

Milk. Right.

"Sherlock?" he called, his voice calm and steady. He heard movement in the living room, and then his flatmate's voice.

"John."

John moistened his lips and considered how to phrase his problem.

"There's milk in the fridge," he settled on.

"I bought some," Sherlock replied absently, clearly occupied with other thoughts.

There was a short pause.

"Not that I mind," John said carefully, "but… why?"

He heard Sherlock shift position on the sofa.

"Well, you're frequently asking me to. I thought it was your opinion that as flatmates we were both expected to participate in… chores."

John blinked. Not a single note of sarcasm?

"Is there a problem?" Sherlock asked sharply, and John thought he heard a rare note of concern in his flatmate's voice. This had clearly been Sherlock's idea of a good deed.

"Well – it's not exactly – it's just that –" John stopped, closed his eyes, and decided to simply state the situation. "There is only milk in the fridge."

Sherlock appeared in the entrance to the kitchen.

"Yes. Well. There wasn't room until I took out everything else."

"Hm," John replied as Sherlock joined him by the fridge. "How many bottles?"

"Thirty-seven," Sherlock said, as though stating the obvious. John nodded slowly.

"How did you, um…"

"Taxi."

"Right… thirty-seven?"

"The number of times you've asked me."

"Ah."

The silence stretched out. John thought very carefully before he spoke.

"Thank you, Sherlock."

"You're welcome."