To be honest, he wasn't entirely sure how this had happened. If asked, he would always wholeheartedly deny it.

Absolutely.

Because he was a grown man and a genius. He didn't need gold stars. The thought was preposterous. Ridiculous. Childish. Completely outlandish.

And of course, entirely true.

It'd started out as more of a joke than anything. A desperate hope of possibly getting through to the absolutely bloody impossible detective he'd decided to live with. It was a simple idea, in theory and in practice. John himself remembered having something similar in primary school. A simple chart on a dry-erase board, plain black lines in an easily-read grid. And a sheet of gold star stickers. He'd pinned the chart to the wall of the kitchen when he woke up before work, where he knew Sherlock would see it (because the man was always doing some sort of usually dangerous experiment on the dining room table,) filled in with his own handwriting. Easy enough. The chores were simple.

Clean the dishes.

Make the bed.

Clean up the acid spills.

Do not put the skull in John's bed.

Very simple. He'd doubted it would work, originally, expecting the detective to scoff at him and more than likely rip the chart from the wall and throw it into the fireplace.

So when he came home to see all the dishes put away, the covers on Sherlock's bed pulled up neatly, an astonishing lack of acidic spots on the table, and no Billy sitting on his pillowcase, well, he was surprised to say the least. Even more so when Sherlock practically barrels into the room at top speed, vaulting over his armchair like a child on Christmas and in what seems like a blur of motion comes to stand in front of John, positively beaming. "I get a star now," he says entirely seriously, pointing at the chart. "Your chart said so."

John smiles. And chuckles. And then bursts into laughter.

"You actually did all of it?" he asks breathlessly, incredulous. "All this time and all it takes is a star to get you to do your chores?" He shakes his head, leaning for support against the back of the sofa as he laughs.

Sherlock scowls. "Yes, well, if I'd known you were going to lie about the star I would have just burned the chart."

John shakes his head, still chuckling, and reaches into his pocket for his wallet, where he's kept a sticker sheet neatly pressed. He hands Sherlock a star from the sheet, and the detective very nearly skips into the kitchen, putting the star neatly on the corner of the paper tacked up next to the chart with pride, grinning at John.

John bursts into laughter again.

After that, it'd more or less become a thing. John would leave chores up on the board before he left for work, and when he came home they would all be done, and the expectant detective would run over eagerly to his paper to pin up his newest gold star. It didn't take very long before they were on to a second sheet, and a third, and a fourth, and Sherlock pinned each on the all-but bare walls of his bedroom.

John made it a point to poke fun at his boyfriend for it, but never around anyone else, and it stayed between them.

And only John got to see the joy of the gold stars on Sherlock's face.

Hello! Sorry for the pure and utter fluff (not really) even though it's not what I usually write. I'm currently working on something quite a bit darker than this and Playing Pirate, but I won't publish the first few chapters for a while. Most likely, they will be up before New Years, though.

Anyways, more fluffy goodness will more than likely end up being written in the meantime, so I hope you enjoyed reading this little prompt fill.

Please review if you liked it. Or didn't like it. Or want to talk about penguins. Any reason is good, I just love reviews :3 And follow me- if you want- for more fluff, crack, and then some dark seriousness.

XO -Sherlocked-with-Loki