This story features Guy Ritchie's (Sherlock Holmes) versions of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, and is set in the 1800s.

"It is a matter of professional integrity," he said with a smirk.

"It is not," I retorted, leaning forward in my chair with a laugh. "You're not making any sense at all."

"Professional and intelligent men wishing to make a respectable impression should always have a good taste in tea," Holmes teased as he lit a cigarette with a small chuckle. I could see his mischievous grey eyes flick upward as he examined my amused face for a reaction.

I glanced at him from under the brim of my hat as I prodded the soggy tea leaves in the bottom of my teacup, watching him – and just as Holmes turned away, I picked up the little wad of greeneries in my cup and threw them at him.

They landed squarely on his shoe, and Holmes leaned over and glanced at them with raised eyebrows, then squinted up at me and said rather calmly, "How out of character, dearest Watson. Now you're just being silly."

I stared at him for a few moments, and he stared at me, and then we both broke out into laughter, as if there was nothing in the whole world that could spoil the moment.

Indeed, it was a perfect moment in a perfect day – Holmes was happy and talkative, newly reinvigorated from a recently-solved case, and I simply found joy in spending time with the man I loved.

With not a thing to fill the niches of the day, it appeared Holmes and I had nothing better to do with ourselves than flick bits of tea leaf at each other.

Which, for the moment, was perfectly fine with me.

"Now, look here," Holmes said disapprovingly as he inspected the teapot with a furrowed brow, "We are all out of tea. You've gone and drunk the last of it."

"Call Mrs. Hudson, then," I said simply. "I'm sure she would bring a bit more."

Holmes leaned forward in his chair and squinted at me, though he stayed silent, and I was sure he had already predicted the words that would come from my mouth.

I leaned forward as well, mimicking my companion, and I peered at Holmes as I began to say, "Earl Grey, with bergamot, a bit of sugar, and," I paused, watching him closely. "And vanil –"

"Absolutely not." Holmes interrupted, placing his hands on his knees in protest. "I do not understand why you find vanilla flavoring so appealing. It is vile."

"Holmes," I said matter-of-factly, "It is opinion. And my opinion is quite the opposite. Adding vanilla to virtually any type of tea, breakfast or afternoon, will improve the taste. I quite like vanilla."

"No, no." Holmes folded his arms. "It is my personal belief that the obvious repulsiveness of vanilla flavorings is quite factual, and should probably be common knowledge."

"Oh, come on," I said with a scoff, "You can't possibly bash vanilla when you're always adding lemon flavoring to everything. Lemon, of all things! That is what is vile."

"Lemon?" Holmes said in an offended tone. "Lemon is the best of tea flavors." After a pause, he continued, "And that is also factual."

I gave a loud sigh. "You are impossible."

"No," said he, "Just correct."

"Would you just go get some more damn tea, Holmes?" I said in a flat tone, my arms now crossed.

He smiled. "Yes, of course."

He was away in an instant, off to locate Mrs. Hudson and ask for a bit more tea, and I stayed put in my arm-chair and stared lazily out the window.

Doesn't like vanilla, I thought. He hardly drinks tea with vanilla anyhow, so he can't judge so harshly!

Suddenly, a little idea popped into my mind, and I couldn't help the smile that crept up upon my face as the idea grew and unfolded until I couldn't resist at least attempting it.

Jumping from my chair, I hurried to the door and listened to see if Holmes was on his way back yet, and, upon hearing no sounds suggesting his coming, I rushed to an old chest-of-drawers that sat snugly against one wall.

Flinging open one of the drawers, I rummaged around until I found a small tin of sugar cubes that I had carefully hid from Holmes some weeks ago.

I popped open the tin and dropped several sugar cubes into my palm, which I then quickly hid inside my jacket-pocket, out of sight, putting the tin away before dashing back to my seat.

Holmes was back shortly, a fresh new pot of tea in his hands as he stepped through the door.

"You got Earl Grey, right, Holmes?" I asked, watching him cautiously as Holmes set the teapot down on the table.

"Ah, yes, of course," he said blandly. "I'm sure you'll enjoy it."

He poured both of us a cup, then took his tea and sipped it gingerly. "Lovely," he said with a wide smile. "A bit hot, perhaps you should let it cool? But very lovely indeed."

I glared at Holmes suspiciously for a moment, but eventually I peered down at my share of the hot drink and took a tender sip.

Instantly I spit the tea out and coughed, my face twisted into a scowl.

"Too hot?" Holmes asked, unable to keep the smile from his face. "I told you to let it cool."

"Damn it, Holmes!" I cried. "You and your bloody lemon-flavored tea! I told you, no lemon!"

His eyes twinkled mischievously.

"The least you could do," said I, after recovering from my slight outburst, "Is fetch me the paper. I've had enough of you for one day, so I'll bury myself in the news."

"Oh, come now, my dear Watson," he said. "Don't be so mean." Taking another sip of his tea, Holmes continued, "Where have you left the paper?"

"The step-ladder." I mumbled hotly.

Holmes set his tea down and wandered into the side room, in search of the newspaper, and I was quick to drop a few of my sugar cubes into his cup and the rest into the teapot, unbeknownst to my partner.

I sat back, my own eyes now twinkling with mischief. Holmes returned momentarily and tossed the paper into my lap.

"No new cases," he said, taking up his tea again. "No murders or anything exciting of the sort."

"Come now," I said, hiding my face with the newspaper as I scanned the events of the week. "You just finished up a case yesterday. Surely you are set for a while."

He made no response, and I waited ever-so-patiently for his verbal reaction, his face hidden from my view.

"You bastard," he said suddenly from behind my thin screen of newsprint, laughing and coughing all at once. I peered over the paper, the expression on his face similar to mine upon drinking the tea he had presented me with only minutes before. "Vanilla-flavored sugar cubes, am I right? Watson, you are a fiend."

I folded down the corner of the newspaper and smiled at him.

"Well, I presume you have also poisoned the entire batch with this foul substance, haven't you?"

My smile remained unchanged, and Holmes set his cup down.

"However," said he, "Though I am right in my assumption that the teapot is now plagued with vanilla, I am guessing," Holmes paused and, to my surprise, snatched my own teacup, "– that you did not think to infect your own portion."

I dropped my paper into my lap and watched as he took a drink from the steamy liquid of my teacup, to which he returned a little smile.

"Indeed," said he. "Lemon is indeed the very best of flavors."

Dropping my head and glowering at the carpet, I sighed and eventually rose from my seat and stared at dear Holmes.

I watched as he took another drink, then set it down and focused his excellent grey eyes on me. "You know, Watson," he said. "I think I might go out later this afternoon and purchase some more lemons for the tea. I really don't think we have enough."

This simple statement permitted me another sigh. "I'm not going to argue with you any more, Holmes," said I.

"And why is that, dear Watson?" my companion asked, his voice curious and awash with a mocking tone as he stood from his seat.

I paused and gave a huff, glancing at the ground in an attempt to hide the smile that had begun to creep up upon my face.

"Because, Holmes," said I, looking up, that happy smile still on my lips. "Because you're always going to win."

Holmes gave me a strange smile, and again his eyes were bright and shining with mischief – and those brilliant grey eyes of his rested upon my contented expression as he tilted his head for just a moment.

And then Sherlock Holmes suddenly crossed the room to me, took my face in his hands, and kissed me, hard, and the rush of passion that rose up between us was warm and exhilarating, as it always was.

When he finally pulled away, Holmes leaned in toward my ear, and I could feel the smile on his lips and his breath in my hair as he whispered, "You're right, dearest Watson."

And with one last amused glance at my contented and pleased features, Holmes turned, murmured something about vanilla and lemons, and then gave me one more dazzling smile before exiting the room, closing the door behind him with a little click.

A/N: This is one of my favorite stories that I've written. :3 It was a lot of fun to write, and I hope you enjoy the extreme fluff.

Drop me a review on what you thought - I would really appreciate it, and it means a lot to me!

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