John thinks he may be dreaming.
"Oh, hello," Sherlock says calmly, peering at him over his shoulder. He's wearing an apron. An apron. This, in itself, is enough to render his boyfriend speechless for a solid ten seconds, during which he continues, "I wasn't expecting you."
John raises an eyebrow. "I live here."
"Ah." Sherlock turns his attention back to the stove, where there is a very real saucepan resting above flickering bluish flames. "Please leave."
"Sure." John obliges, then stops in the doorway and holds up a hand. "Just one question?"
Sherlock's squinting at a label on the chicken stock. "Yes?"
"What the fuck are you doing?"
Looking only mildly wounded, Sherlock asks, "Is it not perfectly obvious?"
"As a matter of fact, no."
Sherlock frowns for a moment, then turns his attention back on the stove and consults a small print-out at his elbow.
"Sherlock?"
"I'm cooking," Sherlock snaps impatiently. "It's for an experiment."
"But... there are no body parts lying around."
"So? The recipe doesn't call for them."
John is speechless. Half frightened, half terribly confused, he says cautiously, "You're sure you've got this under control?"
No response. Can't tell either way.
"Just to make sure," he says, inching forward. "Sherlock?"
No response.
"Here's where the fire extinguisher is." John taps the bulbous metal top. "Instructions on how to use it are on the tag." Silence. He's a little concerned. "Okay?"
Still no response.
"Guess I'll leave now." He rolls his eyes at the lack of protest – although what could he have expected, really? A sudden, terribly out-of-character romantic gesture on Sherlock's behalf? A miraculously open profession of love? – and heads downstairs.
A pinch of salt. A pinch. How nonsensical. Sherlock drums his fingers on the table, trying to decode this measurement. Pinch: verb. To grip (something, typically someone's flesh) tightly and sharply between finger and thumb.
Sherlock wishes he were out on a case, getting shot at.
Or investigating a double homicide. He just read a delightful write-up regarding dismemberment.
But then he remembers John, and that article that he misclicked on the other day while researching poisons. Some ridiculous piece about ways to improve romance in a relationship, which included cooking dinner for one's significant other.
Sherlock detests romance.
But he does not detest John.
Salt: a mineral substance composed primarily of sodium chloride. A chemical compound belonging to the larger class of ionic salts. Known as rock salt or halite in its natural form as a crystalline mineral.
Forgetting the arbitrary measurement, he carefully turns down the stove and grabs a legal pad. This is an unprecedented and unfortunate setback; he does not have an abundance of time to spare.
Salts have cations and anions. Component ions can be inorganic, such as chloride, or organic, such as acetate. He racks up everything he knows about the mineral and produces a complicated diagram, frowning and scratching things out for a couple minutes. Based on chemical interactions with the other ingredients, and the various charges and composition of said ingredients, he comes to a conclusion.
8 ounces. Should be sufficient.
He fills up the cup and pours it in.
He's quite pleased with himself, actually. If there's one thing at which he excels, it's following rules and directions. As long as they benefit him, of course. Scotland Yard's absurd parameters regarding permissions and trespassing and authority and so on and so forth do not benefit him; therefore, he does not get too bothered over those particular regulations.
John will be home in twenty-seven minutes. Sherlock has selected a risotto recipe and, contrary to its initial appearance of maggots, it smells alright.
He leaves it warming on the stove and scrutinizes the table. First up: eliminate all traces of blood and eyeball mucus. Easy enough. What else counts as romantic? Ah, yes. Tablecloth? He's never seen the point of one, particularly given the fact that he rarely eats, and when he does it's standing up or pacing in front of his laptop while John grumbles to himself. There isn't enough time to run to the store; instead, he rummages around random cupboards for a bit. Mrs. Hudson would know what to do. She would also bubble over with joy if she discovered his little plan, and a bubbly Mrs. Hudson is not Sherlock's favorite person to be around.
Twenty-two minutes remaining. He finds a relatively clean sheet lurking in a bathroom cabinet. Good enough. It's slightly bunched and crinkled at the edges. Needs ironing.
Sherlock sighs. Ironing is not his forte.
He grabs the iron anyway.
There is a giant, smoking hole in the center of the improvised tablecloth. Ironing did not go as well as he anticipated.
Seventeen minutes, too.
Sherlock is beginning to panic slightly.
God knows what happened with the iron. It didn't really want to cooperate. Perhaps he ought to have turned the heat down? Maybe used that funny button with the water droplet on it.
Deciding that he'll just cover up the blemish with the food, he returns to the kitchen, where somehow the saucepan is also giving off wisps of smoke, risotto spilling out of the edges slightly. So that's a shame.
He lowers the heat and reaches to pull the pot off the stove, but it's stuck. Further investigation reveals that the bottom has burned and is now adhered to the surface. Okay, so he'll just have to dish it out onto the platter without moving the pan. Easy enough.
After managing to locate a nice plate and run it under water for a couple seconds, he scoops mounds of risotto onto it and places the tray at the center of the table. If one ignores the smell of burning cloth and food and plastic, it's shaping up quite nicely.
What's next? Ah, yes. He retrieves a bottle of red wine and extracts two relatively fancy glasses.
Paper towels will have to serve as napkins; he used all the cloth ones mopping up a chemical spill yesterday. Does he have time to YouTube how to fold them nicely? He whips out his phone and Googles. Thankfully, there's a step-by-step tutorial with pictures, and he's impressed with the Sydney Opera Houses he produces.
Candles. Right. Apparently flames are romantic. He finds the holder he once used to roleplay a particularly dull homicide and sticks a candle in. Others are nowhere to be found, but it's probably okay. Nothing he can do about it now.
Ten minutes.
He hurriedly lights it, crossing his fingers that nothing else will catch on fire, and assesses the situation.
Risotto (scorched) in the center of the table. Plates and (sort of) posh-looking paper towels at each setting. No time to fuss over cutlery placement. Wine, glasses, and a candle.
Seven minutes.
He hopes John likes it.
John is definitely dreaming.
"Hello," says Sherlock, nervously twisting his apron in his hand. "Um... I made this for you."
Something smells awful, really awful, and the iron is smoking on the kitchen counter. John shakes his head, unable to process what lies before him.
"Oh, wait," Sherlock says, and flicks off the light switch, plunging them into near darkness.
John is still speechless.
"I couldn't find more candles."
Nope. This is not happening.
"Are you alright?"
Sherlock has attempted to make a candlelit dinner for him. Sherlock Holmes. The most aloof, arrogant, incorrigible dickhead to ever walk the planet. Who also happens to be his boyfriend.
"It's not as extravagant as I had hoped it would be, and I had some difficulties with, er, the stove, and the tablecloth, and – I hope – do you?"
John stares at him, flummoxed.
"Like it, I mean." Sherlock takes a deep breath. "Do you like it?"
Still staring.
"It was supposed to be romantic. Please say you like it."
Please. He is definitely dreaming.
"John? That's getting a bit creepy now. Are you feeling ill? It was perhaps unwise of me to expose you to the victim of the –"
John still can't find words, so he throws himself at Sherlock and kisses him. Knocking over the bottle of wine in the process, but oh well.
Sherlock returns the gesture with gusto, then pulls away. "I'm... did I do it wrong?"
John wants to cry. "No," he says, "no, you did it perfectly. Come here."
Sherlock's lips crinkles into a smile against John's. "Good," he says. "Do you want to taste it?"
John shakes his head. "Absolutely not."
"I worked hard on it."
"I'm good."
"I love you," Sherlock whispers, hand cupping John's neck as he kisses him again. The intensity of his gaze is practically tangible in the dark. Despite his best efforts, John's going weak at the knees. Manipulative cock.
"Fine," he says, somewhat angrily, "I'll taste it."
He does, and he spits it out in the sink, and the sheet is permanently damaged, and half an hour later the smoke alarm goes off because Sherlock left the stove on next to a roll of paper towels, but as he shivers in the cold outside whilst firemen crowd into the flat, John can't think of anywhere he would rather be.