It's quiet...almost- no, not almost, it's most definitely too quiet for anything good to be happening. Oh God. What's he done now? An impossibly long list of possible things that Sherlock Holmes could have done, now ran through the only man's head in the world tolerant enough to have taken up a flat at 221b Baker Street with the world's only high-functioning sociopath (and Consulting Detective), as he called himself, this strangely rare type of man could only be known as Doctor John Hamish Watson.
The few things John Watson prided himself on was firstly his extraordinary ability to not break his flatmate's scrawny neck every time he was insulted, ignored or experimented on by the crazed man he currently shared a flat with. He was also surprised that he'd managed to actually sustain a relationship with really quite a charming girl from the surgery, Sarah.
Sarah was pretty, had above average intelligence and somehow was the only girlfriend that had so far put up with John dashing off with every text he received from the flat mate that he was oh-so devoted to. Sarah often thought they would make a funny but brilliant couple, but then she remembered, this was her boyfriend she was talking about and he was most definitely not gay.
So, as the doctor walked the walk of 'oh-dear-god-what-has-he-done-now' down the stairs from his bedroom where he had been reading a rather interesting detective novel, he prepared himself for what he may see.
Perhaps a corpse on the floor? Blood everywhere? Sherlock desperately trying to paint over the entire flat because he somehow managed to throw acid all over the walls so now he's trying to clean it up subtly? Is Sherlock even in the house? Has he been kidnapped? Most probably due to the number of enemies he's managed to make. Oh crap, shut up John, he's fine.
I'm sure he's just- cooking?
He'd crept down his flat, expecting a horrific scene, to find the improbable Sherlock Holmes cooking?
John realised he'd been staring for far too long when he was prompted with a small cough from the curly-haired man.
"Oh, please don't tell me you're surprised? Then again, I wouldn't put it past an average mind like yours..." And with that Sherlock turned back to whatever concoction he was preparing and began mumbling observations to himself.
The kitchen of 221B was fairly small with a square oak table in the middle, covering the table was a spotted cloth that had experienced so many experiments go wrong on it, it was more holes than material. The kitchen had no door as it was merely an attachment to the living room, it had a long counter around the three sides that had walls and spaced equally out was the sink, a fridge/freezer and the cooker that Sherlock never bothered to clean when he'd finished heating up whatever acid that eroded away your skin if you so much as passed your hand through the steam rising from it. Above these counters were various cupboards with tacky handles and squarely opposite the non-walled side, above the sink was a long rectangular window that looked out onto a small patch of green that the residents thought fit to call a garden.
John, still looking entirely shocked, was standing in the cross-over from the living room to the kitchen and had stuck one hand out to brace himself against the side of the wall. Sherlock bloody Holmes was cooking.
"Sherl- what are-...do you know what you-...what?" The shorter man spluttered out.
"I'm cooking, John. I sincerely hope you know what it is? I can only suggest retrieving a dictionary from the shelf if you're not familiar with the correct definition." Sherlock replied swiftly without looking up from his 'meal'.
Dr. Watson crossed over to where the detective was standing and peered over his arm, looking into the frying pan to see what awful food (if it was fit to be called that) was being made. But instead he was, again, thoroughly surprised.
In the pan there was actual (and edible-looking) food. Eggs, bacon, sausages and fried tomatoes greeted the doctor.
"Since when did you bloody cook?" John managed to get out before he began to chuckle, "Has someone reprogrammed you into a house-trained human being? Please thank them when you go in for your next upgrade!"
"How hilarious you are, John. Ever thought of becoming a comedian since you amuse yourself so much?" Sherlock was not impressed.
So that day, Sherlock Holmes had cooked lunch for both himself and his blogger.
A few days later, at precisely 6.27am in the morning, a worryingly loud 'thud' that came from downstairs managed to wake John Watson, this noise sounded distinctly like someone falling over.
John's army instincts kicked in and immediately he switched from sleepy, harmless, tea-consuming John to trained army doctor, with a killer shot, John. He silently crept down the stairs, like he'd done a few days beforehand, expecting someone to have died (either Sherlock or some CIA trained killer).
Instead, when he peered into the darkness from his perch at the bottom of the stairs he saw what was distinctly a Sherlock-shaped blob on the floor, clutching his shin bone and muttering a certainly colourful variety of curses under his breath.
The army doctor stood up, flicked on the light and was by Sherlock's side immediately.
"Sherlock? What the hell were you doing?" He questioned as he crouched down to roll Sherlock over, "It's six thirty in the morning, you should bloody well be in bed!" He knew he sounded like a mother of sorts, but he didn't care, he was tired as fuck and wanted an explanation so he could go back to bed.
"I was...sleep-walking..." Sherlock tried.
"Yeah, sleep-walking my arse. What were you doing you crazy idiot? There I was, dreaming away blissfully when I heard what could have easily been an elephant falling over down here, you were obviously moving quickly as the only piece of furniture tall enough and close enough to get your shin is the coffee table and that's a few metres away, so you must've been moving at a fair speed." John was surprised at how much like Sherlock he sounded when he sort of 'deduced' this.
"Very good, John, It looks like you're actually learning something!" He said, avoiding his flat mate's original question.
"Thanks." Even though John was being a little sincere, he still lathered this in sarcasm to cover up. "But seriously, Sherlock, what on Earth where you dong? We're not leaving until you tell me." He said forcefully as he stood up, half picked up the lanky detective and plopped him on the sofa.
John then sat down opposite him and leant forward, placing his elbows on his knees so he was able to rest his tired head on his hands.
"Seriously Sherlock, what were you doing? And tell me the bloody truth!"
Sherlock now saw no point in lying as he would eventually have to say. 'I was preparing your birthday present.' He said quietly.