Five times Sherlock had to buy John a new kettle, and the one time he didn't but he did anyway

A/N: This is a story that has been floating around in my head for a while now and I've just put it down on paper. Now that I've gotten rid of it, hopefully I can get on with my other story. It's raw and unBeta'd, any mistakes are my own. I got the original idea from another fic where Sherlock puts fingers in the kettle and John gets mad at him, I just can't remember the name of it D; And I've wanted to write a 5 and 1 fic for a while too…anyway, enjoy, read and review :) critique if you wish.

Disclaimer: They're not mine.


Human Body Parts

"SHERLOCK!"

"Leave it John! It's important!"

John Watson stormed into the sitting room, his face like a thundercloud.

"There had better be a good explanation for why there are human thumbs in my kettle Holmes, or god help me, I may have to kill you."

Sherlock didn't move from his position on the couch.

"Killing me would be slightly over-dramatic for such a simple thing as finding fingers in the kettle don't you think?"

"No, I do not. Especially when it's my tea at stake."

Sherlock looked over, John's hands were balled into fists. Perhaps Sherlock had underestimated how much the kettle was worth. But he still didn't understand, John could always clean the kettle and make more tea. He opened his mouth to say so, when he saw John's mouth set in a thin line and decided against it. He would probably be contradicted with some meaningless drivel about hygiene and disease, even though Sherlock had thoroughly disinfected the thumbs before placing them in the kettle. John wasn't to know that.

"I'll buy you a new one."

Johns face went slack, as if his train of thought had been interrupted.

"Sorry, what?"

Sherlock smiled impassively, "I said, my dear Watson, I will buy you a new kettle. One without thumbs in it. You will be able to have your tea buy lunchtime."

John opened his mouth, then closed it again, "Fine," he scowled, still mad about his original kettle.

"You're still mad at me?"

"Yes."

"But I'm buying you a new kettle."

"It's doesn't matter, you still put thumbs in the old one."

"I won't put thumbs in the new one."

"You'd better bloody not."

"I just said I wouldn't."

John stood, "Good. Well, I'm going to the shops seeing as I need to find my tea elsewhere this morning."

Sherlock watched as he left the flat, still wondering what had possessed him to offer to buy John a new kettle before lunchtime. Now he had to get up and leave the flat.


An explosion or two

When John arrived back at the flat from the clinic he noticed two things immediately. One was the slight smell or sulphur and some other chemical he couldn't quite put his nose on. The second was the utter silence. He put his coat on his chair, walked into the kitchen and stopped dead. The whole room looked like a bomb had gone off in it, and judging by the state of the microwave, one had. There were burn marks on the benches and on side of the table. The microwave may as well have been thrown out for all the good it could do cooking now with it's insides charred to a crisp.

That was when John saw it. It was sitting proud and shiny on the black bench. There was a note next to it, written in Sherlock's messy script.

'Gone out for a case. The experiment went awry and the kettle exploded, twice. The only course of action was to again buy you a new kettle. This should work as well, if not better than the old one. I'll be back late, don't wait up."

John smiled at the note, then at the kettle. It was impossible to be mad at Sherlock when he insisted on buying new appliances.


Chemicals in the kitchen

John could hear Sherlock bustling around in the kitchen, no doubt tending to one of his various experiments. There was a few bangs here and there, but nothing that appeared to be worrying as yet. He still hadn't quite recovered from the explosion last week that had seemed to rock the flat to it's very foundations. He flicked through the pages of his paper idly, stopping to try and fill in the crossword.

He had nearly finished it when there was a loud curse from the kitchen. He stood quickly and walked to the door, nearly colliding with Sherlock who was walking swiftly in his direction with a guilty look on his face. John tried to peer around his flatmates body but was stopped by a hand holding his chin in place.

"You really don't want to look. It will make you sad."

John sighed, "What have you done to our poor kitchen now."

Sherlock swallowed visibly before saying, "I have accidentally poured Hydrofluoric Acid on your kettle."

John shook his head slowly, bit by bit he was slowly getting resigned to the fact that he could never be attached to his kettle. Sherlock just kept destroying them like his life depended on it.

"I will of course, buy you a replacement."

Sherlock's deep voice cut through John's daydream of owning a kettle for more than a month at a time.

"Sure, fine." John turned to go back to his crossword.

"You're not mad at me this time?"

John looked back over at his flatmate, Sherlock looked genuinely confused.

"There's no point getting mad about something that happens every few weeks."

For a small moment Sherlock looked as though he were about to say something, then he abruptly turned and walked back into the kitchen.


Tantrums

Sherlock was mad. How dare Lestrade dismiss him from a case like that, especially when he was 'this' close to solving it. So what if he had maybe gotten his evidence from a different source, it wasn't like it mattered as long as the killer was caught. In his rage he kicked the table beside John's chair. The resounding crash as it toppled over and the sharp pain in his foot made him feel slightly better. He slammed open the door to the small kitchen they shared and promptly kicked the table in the centre of the room. The table moved slightly but his foot hurt even more now. With one quick movement of his arm he uprooted the contents of the bench onto the floor. His current experiment landed with a crash, beakers breaking into tiny shards of glass, liquid spilling onto the floor. The destruction was intoxicating. He performed the same action on the other bench, until the benches were completely clear of obstructions. He kicked the objects on the floor sending them flying into the cupboards. Each blow was accentuated with growls of distaste at Scotland Yard, Lestrade, John for not being around to defend him, John working long hours at the clinic so Sherlock had to put up with Anderson on cases. By the time he had finished destroying the kitchen he was exhausted. He leaned against the bench feeling much better, until he looked around himself. His experiment he could redo, but there wedged between the fridge and the skirting board was John's kettle. The cord had somehow been ripped apart from the kettle itself, and it's body was dented from when it had become wedged between the two objects. He couldn't tell John that he'd destroyed his kettle again, he would just be all disappointed, and that would make Sherlock feel bad. It was not in his nature to feel bad about such petty things, but Sherlock had come to respect John and his love for his kettle and as such, he realised that he would have to buy John, yet another kettle.

When John came home and saw the clean kitchen, the bag of glass shards and the new kettle he said nothing save for, "Bad day at the yard was it?"

Sherlock didn't reply from where he standing near the window, but merely nodded.

He felt John come up to stand beside him, and realised that John must have deduced the tantrum from earlier on. He knew he should have taken the bag he'd put the glass in out of the flat earlier. He was not expecting John's arm around his waist loosely, nor did he expect to hear a soft, "I'm sorry I wasn't there, and thank you."

By the time he looked down John was gone, already reading his book. He could hear the new kettle boiling away in the kitchen, already being put to good use.


An experiment with food

John had his normal morning routine. He would get up, have a shower, go downstairs, put water in the kettle, make his breakfast, enjoy his tea.

The only issue today was, when he opened his kettle, it smelled funny. Not the kind of funny when you leave water in it a bit too long, but more of a...coffee sort of funny. The inside of the kettle had granules of instant coffee stuck to the side. John tried to pick one off with his finger but it wouldn't budge. He sighed, before turning around to face a bemused looking Sherlock standing right behind him. He tried not to start, but he couldn't hide the fact that he was surprised. Sherlock just had a knack for being able to sneak up on him. He opened his mouth but was silenced by Sherlock's finger on his lips.

"I wanted to see if it was possible to make coffee in the kettle itself. As it is, apparently not."

"Sherlock," John groaned, "You need special coffee for that, you need a special diffuser, and you need to not put half a jar of your instant coffee in my kettle with a minimal amount of water."

Sherlock nodded, "I am aware of that now."

John looked at the kettle again, and tried unsuccessfully to remove some more of the coffee, "I'll need a new kettle."

Sherlock took the kettle from him gently, "I am aware of that too."


The one time he didn't need too

John liked tea a lot. In fact, Sherlock would go so far as to say that there was nothing John like more than tea, except perhaps jam. It was his birthday tomorrow, and Sherlock was aware that it was customary for friends to give each other gifts on their birthday's. His own parent's had given himself and Mycroft gifts when they were younger, but never any gifts that didn't enhance learning, or some other ability that they were working on. He vaguely remembered receiving a teddy bear from one of the servant girls as a present once and being confused as to what to do with it, as he had never received such a useless gift before.

At first he was completely lost when he decided to buy John a present. He wanted it to be something useful, something knowledge enhancing, but John already knew a lot of things, and didn't seem interested in learning more. Something practical then, something he could use.

It was through this train of though he decided what he would get John. It would be useful, and he would love it, and more to the point, Sherlock couldn't destroy it by accident.


When John ambled down the stairs he was not prepared to see Sherlock sitting attentive, fully awake, as if he was waiting for him. There was a box wrapped in paper in front of him.

"Happy Birthday John!" Sherlock said jovially, standing up, picking up the box in front of him.

"What, Sherlock, did you buy me a present?"

"That was very observant of you John."

Sherlock was smiling now, and John took the package cautiously. Sherlock was bouncing on the balls of his feet in excitement as John unwrapped the paper, remarking as he did so, "This is the first birthday present I've gotten since the year before I joined the Army."

There was a plain box inside the paper, and John turned it around, searching for the way to open it. Sherlock was silent, almost too silent. John looked at him, he just looked excited, before he opened the box and looked inside.

Inside was a teapot, an old-fashioned looking one from the outside, but when John took it out, he realised that it was actually quite new. When he lifted the lid, he saw the metal strainer inside and was lost for words. It was exquisitely made, and very beautiful. John looked at Sherlock, and back at the teapot.

"There's some tea in the box as well, the shop assistant assured me that you would like it."

John put the teapot down carefully, almost reverently. He hadn't expected a present from Sherlock for his birthday, and he certainly had not expected him to put so much thought into it. It was almost ironic, that Sherlock would choose to buy him a present based on his one personal object that he so frequently destroyed. It made John feel quite loved.

He was glad Sherlock was standing so close to him as it meant he didn't have to move to far, or awkwardly. He put his arms around the taller man's waist, and was pleasantly surprised when he felt the return warmth of arms around his shoulders.

"Thank you Sherlock," he whispered into the younger man's shirt. He felt Sherlock rest his chin against his head before saying quietly, "I won't need to buy a replacement for this one, I promise."