He needed John. Where was he? He'd sent a text seventeen minutes ago emphasizing that his presence was required urgently at 221b but so far nothing - not even an acknowledgement - and he was growing desperate. He prodded at the sticky red substance that was threatening to explode again, its lava-like consistency emitting fat bubbles that made a sort of glumping noise as they burst. Figuring the experiment was at an end he dumped it into a bowl just as John burst through the door.
"Sherlock! Sorry, my battery died mid-text. Are you ok?" The doctor panted, quickly scanning the detective head to toe. "Oh my god, is that blood on your face?"
"Tomato sauce. I've made you dinner. Sit!"
"What? Why? Mary is expecting me for dinner. For god's sake Sherlock I thought you were in trouble!"
"I am!" He said crossly, "now eat!"
"No way, not now! If you're in trouble we discuss that first, not food!"
Sherlock sighed dramatically and frowned.
"I'm in trouble because of the food," he explained patiently to the bemused doctor. "I invited Greg to dinner tomorrow night. It's supposed to be our first proper date and I read that cooking for someone is a romantic gesture."
His mouth twisted on the word 'romantic' like it left an unpleasant taste, rather like the first three attempts which were now safely contained in the bin. For the first time John noticed every available surface of the kitchen was covered with open, sauce-splattered, recipe books.
"Where did you get all of these?"
"Mary, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, the couple next door, and the library." He gestured at each untidy pile with the wooden spoon, adding to the blood-like spatter pattern reminiscent of a crime scene. "Couldn't find anything I liked that had terms in it I had any interest in understanding. Things like 'julienne' and 'bain marie' and 'fricassee'. I found some dried pasta you left in the cupboard that seemed a straightforward alternative and the instructions printed on the packet seemed simple enough."
"O-Kay," John said slowly. "But Greg knows you don't cook. It's why you live on convenience microwave muck and take-away when we're not around to cook you something healthy. Why would you tell him you'd cook for him?"
Sherlock tried not to look shifty, in no way prepared to admit he may have made a mistake. He hadn't been able to stop prodding at Greg's former relationship with Kate, poking at the details like one might tongue a sore tooth. The Wonderful Kate, as she had lodged in his mind palace, was apparently an expert in every area of Sherlock's inexperience. Greg had finally grown exasperated with his constant need for reassurance.
"Greg and I had a minor disagreement. I may have implied that I was more experienced than I actually am."
"We're still talking about the kitchen, right? We haven't made some sort of tangential shift to the bedroom?"
"It started in the bedroom, but that's not important. Greg said that DI Waterstone and I were very similar in some respects and maybe that's why he liked me. I said there were many things I could do better, and I may have suggested cooking was one of them. In my defense, he did say she was awful in the kitchen."
"So this is some sort of attempt to prove that you, his new boyfriend, are better than his ex-girlfriend? And this started in the bedroom?"
"John!" Warned Sherlock, "We aren't discussing that."
"Only you could fight two days into a relationship. Most people don't leave the honeymoon period for at least a couple of weeks!"
"Shut up and eat!"
He slid the bowl across the table towards John with what he hoped was an encouraging smile. John eyed it warily, entirely too familiar with Sherlock's capacity for disaster in the kitchen, and fearing this was an experiment. John knew from bitter experience that this probably meant he was a guinea pig for something unpleasant. Nervously he sat and regarded the dish in front of him.
"Well go on then, it won't bite!"
"What is it?"
"Pasta with tomato sauce. That's all."
"And it has no exotic ingredients? I'm not going to fall asleep face first? Or find I lose the next twenty-four hours?"
"Of course not. I'm planning on serving it to Greg; I just need your reaction."
He paused with the fork halfway to his lips.
"Reaction? Please tell me it has no aphrodisiac properties? Because that goes well beyond the bounds of friendship even if I do want you and Greg to get along. And Mary still isn't really up for anything too, um, vigorous. And because I've clearly put that thought in your head - I can see you thinking - I'll just say that drugging Greg to make him amenable to make-up sex is not acceptable under any circumstances. Promise me?"
Sherlock scowled at the doctor, mentally filing that little gem in a drawer marked 'ways to put things right when I mess up', and growled "Promise!" John could be so boring.
With a sharp nod of his head, and against his better judgment, John lifted the forkful mouth-wise. He could tell by the flaccid way the pasta spirals dangled limply from the tines that it was a bit over-cooked. One slimy piece slid from the fork to plop wetly back into the bowl. Al-dente was history apparently. The sauce didn't look too bad, but the evidence all over the kitchen may suggest he was being optimistic. Come on John, you were a soldier for goodness sake. You've eaten worse things than this. He closed his eyes and bravely took the mouthful and...
"That's not too bad actually," he admitted, "not much bite to your pasta - you need to cook it for less time - and the sauce is a little bland - try adding a splash of Balsamic vinegar and a touch more garlic. But otherwise, good job!"
He grinned at the consulting detective who was still watching him anxiously, searching his friend's face for any trace of deceit, but he could see none.
"Really? You think it's acceptable? Yes!"
He punched the air in triumph, hopping round the kitchen laughing. John grinned back, pleased to see Sherlock genuinely excited about something that didn't involve a case. The jealous niggle at the back of his brain was firmly squashed. He's happy, John, and happy means you're less torn between him and your family. He did plenty for you that showed he cared; this is just cooking.
"Serve it with a green salad. If you want to cheat you can buy bags of ready prepared that will be plenty for the two of you and will save you time. Are you doing dessert?"
"Um, got that covered," Sherlock said quickly, thinking of the tub of mint-choc-chip ice cream he'd stashed in the freezer. He hadn't yet decided if he'd take it out a few hours early to thaw. His cheeks grew pink at the thought; John definitely didn't need to be reminded about that, but he hoped Greg would appreciate it. A nice bottle of wine sat at the ready, but definitely no whisky this time!
"Ok, so do you need me for anything else?"
Sherlock cleaned splatters of sauce from a couple of books and handed them over.
"You can return these to Mary for me with my thanks. Tell her they'll expand her repertoire if she bothers to open them. The spines weren't even cracked!"
"Yes, well. I'll pass on your thanks but maybe not the comment. I'm fine with her repertoire - enough so that I don't fancy spending the night on the couch anyway!"