John Watson leaned against the door of his apartment – having to put more strain on it than he was accustomed to, the young doctor could only assume that there was something blocking his way on the other side. He pressed his shoulder against the wooden blockade with more force, slowly making enough of a gap for himself and the groceries which he was carrying to step through.

Once he entered the apartment, he found the source of his troubles. Piled around the entrance and seeping into the rest of the living room were books, all removed from the shelves around the flat into scattered stacks. John walked into the kitchen with careful steps, setting down his groceries and stepping back into the den with a screwed-up face of confusion.

"Sherlock?" He called out, jumping slightly when a lanky man popped up from behind a wall of books, holding three of the texts in his hand. His slim fingers wrapping around the spines of the books protectively.

"Ah, John – you're home." Sherlock stepped around a pile of books expertly and placed the three in his hand atop a pile to his left, the wide grin of a child spreading on his face.

"Would it be ridiculous to ask what exactly you're doing?"

"Yes, but it would not be cumbersome for me to answer your query anyway – I've devised a new system to organize the texts in the flat. Not by author – or title, no no – this is a categorization of my own device. I've made a schematic of the method if you'd like a look."

John nodded slowly, his expression still somewhat perplexed. He walked over to the paper and looked at it for a moment before deciding with the combination of Sherlock's messy scrawl and bizarre mind set he'd never be able to understand the diagram which his flat mate had constructed. "Right, what exactly does this all mean?"

"It's right in front of your face John, honestly. Hand me that book on your left." John looked to his side where Sherlock was pointing then back again at the man with a amused grin. There were at least five piles of books – let alone no less than thirty books themselves – which Sherlock could be speaking of with his flamboyant hand gesture, his fingers dangling in the air like some delicate fluttering insect.

"Be more specific, Sherlock." John requested.

"Red spine, author Morris." John nodded and scanned the books quickly. Grabbing the book requested, he handed it to Sherlock who was now sitting perched on the ground at the lowest shelf. He took the book from John, double checked the title – flicking his fingers over the pages in a rapid movement as if he's petting them and then set it on the shelf in the far corner. "Right, next book please."

Some hours later, both men were finish the last of the rearranging – John looking pleased as the apartment was much less cluttered with the books off the floor. He held a pile in his arm, prearranged by Sherlock to be put on the shelf, but stood still and stared befuddled at the shelf above him.

"All done then, John?" Sherlock walked into the living room flipping through a case file, his expression teetering on bored as he scanned the text.

"Just these last few." He mumbled still staring dejectedly at the shelf just out of his reach.

"Good, shall I ask Mrs. Hudson to order in then? – Thai sounds good." Sherlock paused waiting for John's response and looked up when he wasn't answered. He examined the doctor's expression and took two long strides to the other side of the flat to stand parallel to him. "Something's not right, what's the problem?"

John mumbled under his breath and bit his lip, glancing sideways at Sherlock – his cheeks tinting with a pink flush. "What was that, John?"

"I said – " he spoke through gritted teeth, "I can't bloody reach the shelf Sherlock." John's face flushed with embarrassment and anger – looking up at the length of man that was standing beside him. His lips were set in a thin line and he shoved the books into his friends arms and stomped out of the room to his bedroom upstairs.

John spent the majority of the day in his room. He realized that his behavior was somewhat childish – or completely childish – but he didn't have the energy to walk back downstairs after storming out like a petulant teenager and remained in his room until he fell asleep. When he awoke it was nearly dusk out and his stomach was growling for food.

He splashed his face with water and looked at himself in the mirror for a moment before heading toward the kitchen to scrounge for food. Surprisingly he found still warm Thai food out on the counter – thankful he didn't have to work around various body parts in the fridge to try and find something to eat. He stepped out into the den and settled down in his chair – after a few bites of some curried chicken something in the corner of the room caught his eye.

He set his food down and walked over the other side of the room, smiling at the small stepping stool that was sitting by the book shelf, a folded card resting on top. He picked up the paper and immediately recognized Sherlock's nearly indistinguishable scrawl.

John –

To help you acquire things just out of your reach.

- SH

John couldn't help but let a small grin settle onto his lips as he read the card. He tucked it into his back pocket and looked at the stool with some skepticism. It wasn't new, in fact it looked somewhat in shambles with the stain of the wood faded and the steps worn down from years of use. Sherlock probably asked Mrs. Hudson if she had a spare, or just found one on the street while he was clearing his head.

"Aren't you going to try it?" John heard the familiar baritone behind him, his mouth turning up in a small grin.

"I was debating whether or not it would actually support me without falling apart." He said cheekily, turning to his companion.

"I tested it thoroughly John, it's more than sufficient enough to support your weight."

John nodded and stepped onto the small stool, looking around at the slight height he was at. "Well, hand me a book or something – I'll see if I can reach." Sherlock spun around, his coattails kicking up around him before he grabbed a book and handed it to John, standing next to him as the doctor placed it easily on the highest shelf in the apartment.

"Excellent." Sherlock said, his tone congratulating to himself – as if he specifically designed the stool for John.

"Yes, prefect for acquiring things just out of reach." John said, before leaning over and pressing a chaste kiss to Sherlock's lips – without even having to stand on his toes.