John cursed under his breath and hung up the phone, after it had gone to voicemail for the third time. He couldn't find his key, Sherlock wasn't answering the phone, and to top it all it was pouring buckets of rain. He hammered on the door of 221b, hoping that Mrs. Hudson could hear over the pounding rain and thunder. It seemed ages before the bolt was drawn back and the door swung open.
"My goodness, John, what on earth were you knocking so hard for- oh it's absolutely dreadful out, come inside," said Mrs. Hudson, dragging him inside by the soaking arm of his jacket.
"I forgot my key," John admitted, pushing his sopping hair off his forehead.
"Well, you could have caught cold," Mrs. Hudson fussed as they walked up the stairs together. "And by the way, I thought I smelled something strange coming from your flat a few moments ago, so I would be careful going in."
"Oh, good lord, he's not up to one of his experiments again, is he?" John groaned.
"I wouldn't put it past him," said Mrs. Hudson darkly, and John knew that she, too, was remembering the time 2 weeks ago that Sherlock had blown up one his "experiments" in the kitchen and left the whole flat smelling like rotten eggs for nearly a week.
"Well, thanks for opening the door, anyway, Mrs. Hudson," John said, taking the key from its usual spot above the door and letting himself into the flat.
"Good luck, dear," Mrs. Hudson with a wink, and then John closed the door behind him.
He was immediately assaulted with the smell of something burning.
"Sherlock?" he called into the kitchen (where the worst of the smell was coming from), fearing the worst. "Sherlock, I've been calling for the past five- oh."
He had entered the kitchen, and immediately took in the scene before him. Sherlock was dashing madly around the small room, flipping switches here and sloshing boiling water onto the ground there, while three pots boiled on the stove and smoke poured heavily from the half-open oven.
"Sherlock, what the bloody hell are you doing?" John yelped.
"Cooking," said Sherlock shortly, moving a pot of something dark and bubbling to a burner on the far right and grabbing a dishcloth to mop up a few stray blobs of a brown glop that slopped up over the side.
"Yeah, that much's obvious," John muttered. "What the hell are those?"
"Beans," Sherlock replied.
John into the sluggishly bubbling pot, and wrinkled his nose. "No," he decided. "They're definetly not." Sherlock didn't answer, and John sighed. "If you wanted something cooked, why didn't you wait until I got home?"
"Because I wanted to cook," said Sherlock stubbornly.
"Well, this is a mess," said John. "At least let me help clean it all up."
Again, Sherlock didn't reply. He opened the oven, on the pretense of removing something from it's smoky depths, but instead choked, hit by the assault of clouds of smoke billowing out.
"Oh, move over," said John exasperatedly, slipping on gloves and pulling the remnants of a loaf of bread from the oven.
Fifteen minutes later, the kitchen was moderately clean; pots sitting desolately in the sink, and the worst of the spills mopped from the floor and counter. There was still a large burn on the kitchen table, and neither of them had any idea how it got there.
"Why were you trying to make dinner anyway?" John asked, flopping exhaustedly into one of the hard-backed kitchen chairs.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and muttered something again about wanting to try to cook.
John sighed. "Well, I suppose we'll have to go out somewhere."
Sherlock was silent for a moment, and then he cleared his throat. "Actually, John, that's what I was going to say- well, I mean, I suppose I just- well, now's a good time as any-"
John stared at Sherlock incredulously. He seemed… but was it even possible? Sherlock Holmes was incredibly flustered, and seemed at a loss for words. John hadn't even known flustered was in his nature. "What are you on about?" he laughed.
Sherlock took a deep breath. "I was trying to make dinner tonight because I wanted to tell you something… or rather, ask you… I'm not quite sure how these things are done, but- er- John, would you like to go out with me sometime?"
John stared. "What do you mean? We go out all the time."
Sherlock sighed impatiently, immediately reverting back to the usual brisk attitude John knew. "Oh, does everything have to be spelled out for you? A date, John, I'm asking you on a date! Tonight, I suppose, since our other plans for dinner rather backfired."
There was silence in the flat for a moment except for the still-slightly-smoking oven, and then John said, "Yeah, all right."
Sherlock looked up. "Really?" he said.
"Yeah, sure," John grinned, not even daring to believe that this was happening right now. Sherlock had just asked him to dinner. And not one of those rushed-on-a-case dinners, a real dinner. A date.
Sherlock jumped up from the table. "Well, then, that's good! Where shall we go? There's the Chinese place right around the corner, I suppose."
"Yeah," John grinned. "That sounds good."
Outside it was still pouring rain, but the walk to the restaurant was short, and John didn't much mind the rain anymore, really.