a/n: Here's a little piece about turkey, a consulting detective, and his doctor. It's holiday-ish, but not really. More just some fluff.
I don't own Sherlock and the idea that I do is rather laughable.
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'the fowl predicament'
sherlock holmes & john watson
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"John, I think I am more than capable of placing a pre-cooked turkey in the oven for a few hours." The slender man standing to John's left stated, rolling his eyes at the anxious looks his flatmate kept shooting towards the bird in question.
It'd been a fight to decide who was allowed to make the turkey to celebrate the hols, considering that Sherlock's knowledge of a kitchen extended only to the best ways of frying body parts in the various appliances.
"I know you, Sherlock, you'll get bored waiting on the turkey to cook and take to blowing up some poor bastard's ears or eyeballs and won't even notice when the flames erupt around you!" John exclaims, watching Sherlock pick carefully at a spot on the kitchen table.
"I hardly think I would fail to realize that I couldn't breathe! In any case, you'll be home right after it should be finished, but if you do not leave now you'll miss your taxi and arrive thirteen minutes and roughly forty seconds late to the clinic." He smirked in the irritating way about him, all but pushing John out the door.
When it was clear that the doctor was well on his way, Sherlock turned hopelessly back towards the kitchen and pulled a thick tome out of a secret compartment under the dinner table. He was aware that he was a man who struggled with his emotions and even more with how to voice those emotions.
Cooking seemed the most honest means at showing John how thankful he was to have him in his life. This would be a much easier feat if he could actually cook. He'd borrowed all of Mrs. Hudson's recipes, (though borrowed might not be technically accurate), and procured all the ingredients. He didn't think throwing them all together would be that difficult.
Three failed attempts at a fruitcake later proved him very, very wrong.
Eventually he had the turkey cooking in the oven and beans and even homemade bread baking. He surveyed his hard work with a superior smirk of pleasure and turned to go clean himself up for when John came home.
–
John dropped his coat inside the door, not bothering with the coat hanger, immediately smelling something that gave off an aroma like it was burning. He wrinkled his brow in exasperation and moved towards the kitchen, where he found a slumped over figure at the table.
He quietly made his way to the oven, pulling down the door and looking at the slightly blackened turkey and now hard bread. He looked back to the man still sleeping at their table, wondering why on earth he had been making bread and stuffing.
"Sherlock?" He asked gently after clearing his throat, causing the detective to jump and look around with a frenzied panic. His eyes snapped to the burnt bread in John's hands and he swore.
"Sherlock, when was the last time you slept?" John asked, staring back down at the bread and then to his flatmate's red eyes.
A shrug was what he received in response, because to Sherlock Holmes, things like sleep and food were merely trivial in the grand scheme of things. John let out a frustrated sigh and sat the loaf down and reached over to look at the bags Sherlock had taken to carrying under his stunning eyes.
"What am I going to do with you?" He said gently, shaking his head.
"I am sorry your dinner was ruined, I had hoped to surprise you tonight as a way of saying 'thank you.'" Sherlock sounded as though he was having trouble stringing the words together. His eyes were fixed on the table, refusing to meet John's confused gaze.
"Why on earth would you thank me?" He asked, taking a step closer to the tousle haired man who was beginning to look more and more like a cornered animal with every passing second.
Then Sherlock looked up quickly, rolling his eyes in a familiar fashion, "Oh, I don't know, possibly for the bullet in that cabbie, or being pushed into a pool as a bomb was detonated, or the fact that you didn't give up living here after forty-eight hours." John watched the fierceness that always burned so bright in his flatmate shift to something else. "You're the first real friend I have ever had and though I don't show it often, you do mean a great deal to me." The last confession was shaky, but John just smiled.
"Mycroft told me that the closest thing Sherlock Holmes could ever have to a friend was an enemy." He smirked as Sherlock rolled his eyes exasperatedly.
"Obviously Mycroft is an idiot, you're my friend, aren't you?" He asked, looking to John with a sense of pure curiosity. John, however, was two steps closer and barely five inches from Sherlock's angular face.
"Oh, I don't know, I think it's more than platonic for me." He confessed softly, a small smile lifting half his face.
It took the great genius of Sherlock Holmes a few seconds to fully understand what was being said before his own face was covered in a wide grin.
"Yes, I suppose you're right, my dear Watson." He murmured before pushing his lips against John's in a hunger that couldn't be quenched by just one kiss.
"I could get used to you saying I'm right." John grinned as they broke apart, but Sherlock scoffed once more before kissing John softly.
–
John was not surprised when he found the poor turkey submerged in goo as one of his boyfriend's experiments a week later.
Besides, he'd probably been saved from food poisoning anyway.