John Watson sat on the edge of his bed in his flat, clutching a cup of tea that had already gone cold. His gaze was fixed on the wall, but his mind was elsewhere. He had argued with Sherlock again. As always, over something stupid. This time, the reason was an argument about who had left traces of dirt on the floor of their living room. Sherlock, of course, insisted that it was John, and even gave a whole theory based on the shape of the sole and the type of dirt. John, in turn, tried to explain that it didn’t matter, but Sherlock, as always, didn’t listen.

John was slightly angry. He knew it was a small thing, but it was exactly these small things that got on his nerves. Sherlock could be insufferable: he always thought he was right, always proved his point with such persistence as if his life depended on it. And John, as usual, felt stupid because he couldn’t think as quickly as Sherlock.

But it was hard to be mad at Sherlock. This was Sherlock, his friend, the man who, despite all his faults, was always there for him. John knew that behind that cold mask was someone who truly cared about him, even if he never showed it. And that made it even harder. How could you be mad at someone who, however strangely, always tried to help?

John sighed and put his cup down on the nightstand. He knew that soon everything would go back to normal. Sherlock would probably have forgotten about their argument, immersed in a new case or experiment. And John... John would just accept it, like he always did. Because this was Sherlock, and being mad at him was like being mad at the rain for being wet. Pointless.