A/N: First, I know this has been done before, but I seriously did not intend to copy anyone. This idea just came into my head before I knew fics like it existed. Second, as you all may have noticed, these are going to become more sporadic now. I'm already low on ideas. And those that I do have are so short as you can tell from this one! I have also been distracted lately reading Sherlock fanfics and on that note I would like to recommend one. Got My Eye on You by sevenpercent is another story about Sherlock and Lestrade before John came along. I don't like the cussing, but there's not a ton and, aside from that, I love the story and highly recommend it. Third, and last, I hope you all enjoy this one and I again want to thank all the people who have favorited, followed, and reviewed my story; thanks so much, guys!
Sherlock Holmes did not do shopping. Before John had come along, the consulting detective had practically lived on carry-out, on the rare occasion that he did eat. Usually, the only reason he went to the store was for the seemingly ever-scarce commodity of milk. Or, perhaps, to buy tea, or supplies for an experiment. And, in the case of the latter, he often avoided going to the store by getting supplies at St. Bart's.
But, now, the aforementioned doctor had a cold, leaving Sherlock with no choice but to go to the store.
The genius strode darkly through the building, his coat pulled tightly about him and yet still flying in his wake. He looked very much the part of a vampire, hating the store's florescent lights, withdrawing into the coat. One could almost picture a little thundercloud hanging over his head as he stomped through the place collecting what he needed.
Once or twice, someone who worked at the store tried to approach him to ask if he needed help. After the second time, passersby gave him a wide berth as he walked on, all swirling coat and deadly looks. The sound of someone crying could now be heard in the place.
Sherlock gathered a few more things and then made his way to a self-checkout, just barely smiling when he pictured a certain man yelling at the machine in front of which he now walked from the store with a few grocery bags and got a taxi, the smile still pulling at his lips.
"How did it go at the store?" John asked when he walked into 221B. The doctor was congested and his voice sounded all wrong.
"Fine," Sherlock answered curtly, clearly determined to show how much he hated shopping.
John did not really believe the monosyllabic reply. There was something about Sherlock's tone that said all had not been fine, at least not for the other people at the store. And he was almost sure he saw the detective bite his lip to repress a smirk. But, the doctor was too tired to think about it, or to observe that strange, almost evil gleam in his friend's eye.