I wrote this up at two a.m. in Las Vegas. Yes, that about accounts for the possible insanity. I was riding the wave of obsession with Sherlock and it still hasn't broken on the shore. Sucks to be adrift. No wait! Third season on the starboard at 221 knots! [Insert other sea-faring jargon here.]
Disclaimer. (Everyone needs to do one appearently.) I don't own the characters. They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and BBC's amazing writers. I tried to buy them but the persons at BBC threatened to set Moriarty on me if I pushed the deal any further. They know a good series when they see it. So keeping my pride in check, I humbly present my fanfiction.
Cookies. A whole pile of them. They sat in the kitchen. A quiet monolith. It seemed as if they had appeared by magic to the untrained eye. This was not that eye. Was it Mrs. Hudson? No. She was much too busy to be bothered with this many cookies. No. It was not her. John? He decided not to return to the idea later and dismissed it completely from his mind. Lestrade? No. The fellow wasn't the type to appreciate his work. He sat scrutinizing it. Sally Donovan was not out of the question. However, the heady scent of her perfume would have left a residual odor in the room. Not to mention she hated him. He dismissed her as a candidate. Anderson was out of the question. Never had such hate blossomed. Sue, or whatever her name was. The girl John had taken a fancy to. No. These cookies showed a less detailed touch. Having met her, the observer could have noticed she was skilled in cooking. It helped that John had eaten at her place once and had complimented her cooking. Nothing compared to Mrs. Hudson of course but very good. Kerry? Nelly? Mary? Molly? Ah yes. Molly. The girl from the medical examiner's office. He looked at the cookies. No not hers. Who was left? Mycroft? Unlikely. He would have attached a noet and as the observer recalled Mycroft had a severe disdain for raisins. Hated the little mites for no reason what-so-ever. A distant patter of feet only barely registered in his mind. It was so focused on the pile. Yes, chocolate chip, raisin oatmeal, macadamia with white chocolate, sugar, lemon, strawberry crèmes, and snickerdoodles. It was a wide variety. The sound of a key being fitted into a lock reached his ears but he continued to stare with the same languid dreaming look. To the casual observer not well informed of his habits, it may have appeared he was day dreaming of eating one of those cookies. No, such a light puzzle had only served to stimulate his little grey cells for a second.
"Sherlock?" Doctor John Watson walked into the room. He was most well-known for being the flat mate and biographer of the greatest detective who had ever lived. And who now sat lounging in his chair staring at a pile of cookies. "I bought the milk." He moved for the kitchen and found the pile. "Really," he harrumphed, "I ask you to buy the milk but here you are staring at," he paused for a moment, "a pile of cookies." He put the milk into the refrigerator and turned to face the detective. "Does this really puzzle you that much?" John asked.
"It did for a second. But now all is clear." Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed deeply. "You have a sweet tooth, Doctor?"
John's face betrayed puzzlement. "No. Not really. How did you come to that idea?"
"Hmm. That is something to add. I have no sweet tooth either. Now, don't look so down John." Sherlock let a coy smile play on his lips. "I appreciate the gesture, John."
John's face revealed another expression of wonder, "How the deuce did you figure that, Sherlock?"
Sherlock reclined in his chair, "Oh, John, a man's features are his most telling statements. And yours are faithful servants. Any well trained eye could read you like a book."
"But how did you read me?" John was familiar with his companion's methods. But this was something that had surprised him.
"Firstly, you walked into the room. There was a slight shock upon seeing me. Natural as I was not to have returned from the university lab for a few hours but here I am. Next you followed my body's position. Your eyes traced my knees and they naturally led you to the kitchen table. You had a larger sense of shock. That was you had forgotten to hide the cookies. The dread was visible from a slight widening of your eyes. You made a smooth recovery and walked to the kitchen. You had a little bit of stiffness in your step. The psychosomatic part was acting up. Your movements were awfully mechanical to my eye. Then when you addressed what I was watching, you paused to steady your voice and compose yourself. All these little thing brought about these chains of thought. 'Oh, Sherlock is back. What is he staring at? Oh, it is just the kitchen. The kitchen! No, don't let him see it. Too late. Walk it off. Talk it off. Umm. Talk about the milk. Now act casual. Talk about it as if you were surprised too.' Is that correct?"
"Yes," John admitted, "Not in as many words but yes."
"Well," Sherlock sighed while getting up, "I may as well enjoy them. You made them for me did you not? Your face says it all."
"Sherlock, I did make them for you but don't take it the wrong way." John said stubbornly while trying to avoid Sherlock's eyes.
"And what would that be, good Doctor? You were bored and wanted to try that book of recipes Mrs. Hudson left on the table and wanted to share." Sherlock's eyes twinkled with an impish sort of tricky delight. John's look of relief evidently pleased him. And his grin grew wider as he picked up a cookie. He took a bit and gave a violent start.
John hurriedly accepted defeat and tried to explain. "Ah. They are no good, Sherlock? I tried a few myself and the cookies seemed fine but I guess to your delicate taste they might seem…"
"No. No. They're good." Sherlock said trying not to gag. "They aren't half bad."
The look of gratitude on John's face was a funny sight to see. He had found Sherlock's opinion so valuable that he had thrown away his own. "I'm sorry." He muttered. "I'm a doctor not a chef." He chuckled at his own ineptness.
Sherlock patted him on the shoulder. "It's not your fault." Watson didn't brush Sherlock off and instead reached for a cup. "I just hate almonds," Sherlock continued while sitting in a chair.
"IS it because they remind you of cyanide?" John asked casually while getting milk for Sherlock to wash down the cookies.
"No. I just hate them." John froze at that remark. Very rarely had Sherlock so openly expressed himself. "John?"
Startled beck into reality, John Watson stopped himself from over filling the cup. He separated the milk into two cups and put the carton back into the refrigerator. "Here you are." He said handing Sherlock a mug.
"Thank you." They sat down and started to dig into the pile.
It eventually took them a week after giving out as many as they could and eating them at almost every meal to get rid of them all. Sherlock was pleased when they were gone.
"Remind me to never let you bake again." He said with all severity.
"Why is that?" John asked looking up from his paper. Inside he too rejoiced at the prospect of a breakfast without the piles of sugar lying about.
"Because, I couldn't stand the idea of my flat mate giving sugar to every person he knows." Sherlock said.
That night John slept a happy man, who swore to never bake again, unless his only detective asked him.