Five minutes, they've been home five minutes and Mycroft has began ringing his mobile. John has put it on silent several times now, but the ring-tone always seems to come back on even louder than it was before. He shakes his head and begins to read all of the ingredients on a cereal box, "Wheat and cinnamon." he mutters to himself as he puts the cereal box into a large box that he's going to carry down to Mrs. Hudson. He glances around at all the cabinets and sighs, they are all nearly bare. He'll need to run to Tesco tonight.

With how empty the cabinets were before he started to empty all the allergy foods out it doesn't take him but three more minutes to finish. He takes one look in the fridge, shakes his head, and tosses everything (including the damn half-dissected turtle) into the bin. "I'm running out to Tesco!" he shouts in the direction of the sitting room. He debates bringing his mobile, but decides to leave it since it is still ringing. John picks up the box and heads down stairs. He goes to knock on Mrs Hudson's door, but the door moves before his hand has a chance to reach it.

"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson says, sounding delighted, "Hello, John!"

He nods, "Hello Mrs. Hudson. I was just coming down to ask if you wanted any of this food," he pats the box.

She looks skeptical, "Has he done something to it?"

"No, he hasn't." John chuckles, then he stops, 'Not that I know of', he thinks. He shakes his head to rid rid of that train of thought, "We found out he's allergic to quite a few things today, we're cutting them out for the time being."

"Oh the poor dear!" the clicks her tongue, "I'll just bring him some biscuits to cheer him up."

John clears his throat awkwardly, "He can't have biscuits, Mrs. Hudson. He needs to be avoiding wheat, eggs, and milk for the time being."

"Goodness!" she puts a hand to her mouth, "I can hardly think of anything that doesn't have any of that in it."

He grimaces, "I know. I'm going to Tesco to try and find some things that he can eat." he sets the box on the floor, "Oh, let me give you a list of what he can't have." he fumbles around in his pocket for a few seconds before slipping out a folded piece of notebook paper, "Since you're always cooking for us it would be best for you to know what not to give him."

She takes it and skims through, clicking her tongue, "Well I'd better let you get on to Tesco, love. You certainly have quite the task."

John nods and waves his farewell as he leaves.

As he continues slamming the cereal box after cereal box back onto the shelf to reach for another he is reciting part of The List under his breath. "Wheat, egg, milk, cinnamon. Wheat, egg, milk, cinnamon." 'Damn this,' he thinks as violently as one can think something, 'Damn the food industry for making wheat their main ingredient.'

People pass by him, nearly pressing themselves up against the other side of the aisle to keep their distance.

He finally finds a box of off-brand Coco Puffs called Chocolate Poofs and tosses it into his trolley. The shopping trolley is pathetically lacking in food items, only containing vegetables and fruits at the current time. He also had nine cartons of different milks (rice, almond, and soy) in various flavors (normal, vanilla, and chocolate).

John tilts his head back to stair at the florescent lights overhead, letting the light burn its self into his eyes so he sees purple lines when he moves.

He slowly makes his way to the condiments aisle and ketchup is worse than the cereal, in fact, he isn't able to find anything without onion powder in it. Only after he has finished reading through the minuscule print on the three dozen brands of ketchup, his hand flies up and he smacks himself in the face, 'Dammit, John, you idiot!' he internally swears,'Tomatoes!'. He moves on down the aisle, a pink and hand-shaped mark on his left cheek.

Peanut butter is a blessing, seeing that their normal brand is clean, as is the jam. When he passes by the mayonnaise he remembers that it contains eggs and doesn't even try to have any sort of wishful thinking.

Bread is Hell. He spends just over an hour attempting to find any type of bread without wheat in it. He checks the cheap factory stuff, the all natural and extremely overpriced stuff, buns, roles, he even looks at waffles. In the end he puts a large buy-in-bulk type box of rice cakes in the trolley.

Skimming the aisles John picks up little things, honey, oats, crackers made of rice, actual rice, plain crisps, lactose free chocolate, raisins, chips that were buy-one-get-one-free, hot dogs to company the chips, ham, mustard, salad dressing, and enough lettuce to feed a small rabbit army.

John finally joins the queue and sighs in relief. When he notices the sliding doors a horrible realization washes over him. It is currently pitch black out. He pulls his sleeve up to check his watch, "Shit." he curses. Not realizing that he'd said that out loud until he received a pair of disapproving looks from a couple with a toddler in their trolley. Clearing his throat he goes back to staring at his watch. It's currently 10:14. Sherlock's appointment had been at 1:30 and lasted less than an hour. He'd gone out less than an hour after arriving back at the flat. So that's what? Six, seven hours? John swears again, making sure to keep it mental this time. His turn arrives and he loads his trolley onto the belt.

"That'll be 57 pounds right on the nose." the young man says and John nods, turning to run his card.

Seeing no other option he begins kicking the door and shouts, "Sherlock! Mrs. Hudson! Someone please get the door!" his arms are shaking, his right hand is numb from where the bags he's carrying have cut off his circulation. He had been so preoccupied with finding food that he didn't consider the fact that he would have to carry it all at once. He kicks again, "It's me, open up!" Finally the lock clicks and the door is opened.

"Beans." Sherlock demands, holding out both his hands in the way a four-year-old might say 'sweets.'.

John's arms are ready to give out and he shoves past Sherlock to place the groceries on the floor, "What?" he pants, awkwardly pawing at the twisted plastic to get off his arms.

"Baked beans. Did you get them?" Sherlock's arms are still extended.

He shakes his head, "What? No, you didn't ask. Plus, I'm sure they all would have had onion powder in them."

Sherlock nods sharply and turns to head back up to the flat.

"Oh no you don't! Help me carry this up." John doesn't think he can handle carrying much weight at the moment with his arms feeling like jam. "You can grab the heavier bags this time."

Quickly swooping down Sherlock picks up at least half of the bags at once, not even stumbling with the added weight. He takes the stairs two at a time.

John sighs and shifts the handles of the remaining bags up to his elbows, knowing he'd drop them otherwise. When he makes it up to the flat he trips over the bags that Sherlock left in the door way, flailing his arms and landing in a way that had the box of rice cakes pressing uncomfortably into his stomach. The air has been knocked out of him and he flips himself onto his back and arches his spine to stretch his diaphragm. "Dammit, Sherlock!" John rasps.

Sherlock continues sitting at John's laptop, typing unbelievably quickly and not paying any mind to his flatmate's suffering.

John slowly pushes himself up, wincing at the pain in his stomach and left elbow that he fell on. "Don't worry about me, I'm fine." he grumbles. When he's completely up he kicks the groceries out of the doorway so no one else will fall. He stomps over to Sherlock and yanks his computer out from under the typing fingers, "Go put the cold stuff away." When Sherlock doesn't move a centimeter, not even to look at him as he speaks, John snaps, grabbing Sherlock by the front of his shirt, "Put the damn hot dogs in the bloody freezer."

Apparently Sherlock is in a rolling chair because he pushes his sock covered feet into John's shins and begins drifting backwards.

Half of John wants to march upstairs and slam his door, but the other half of him remembers that those were some damn expensive hot dogs. He turns on his heels and goes back to search through the bags for those hot dogs. When he finds them he chucks them into the freezer, slams that door, then marches up the stairs and slams his own.

Only after he climbs into bed does his stomach begin growling. He groans and ignores it so he won't have to make a return trip downstairs.