The kitchen exploded in a flurry of sparks. Sherlock held onto the doorframe, coughing and gagging into the sleeve of his bathrobe.
"I suppose that will teach you for brewing concoctions without wards," said John, eyes peeking over his newspaper. Sherlock shot him a look that could melt ice. With a sigh, John put down the paper and went to Sherlock's side to inspect him.
"Wards," scoffed Sherlock. He held out his hands for John to see. "Just some burns. Nothing to worry about."
John nearly jumped from the sight of the burns. "Nothing to worry about?!" he repeated.
"Some balm will heal it," said Sherlock, reaching for the pen pot. John wondered, not for the first time, how Sherlock managed to remember where he kept his belongings. As a raw finger touched the pen pot, Sherlock drew back his hand with a hiss.
"Nothing to worry about," mumbled John, just loud enough for Sherlock to hear. He received a dark scowl in return. John held his hands over Sherlock's, muttering a spell. The red of Sherlock's hands faded into pale white when the incantation ended.
"Thank you," said Sherlock, barely audible.
"Get those wards."
Of course, John's words went unheeded as usual. The alchemist simply sauntered back into the kitchen. John returned to his paper, waiting for the next bomb.
Author's Note: Set before Season 3 and 4.