[per-fek-shuhn]noun
the highest degree of proficiency, skill, or excellence.
This could be interesting.
John couldn't cook. God knows he'd tried, but he couldn't. He had more books on the subject than Sherlock had rooms in his mind palace, but damn it all he just couldn't do it. He'd tried Chinese, Italian, Japanese, French, Spanish, Thai, and Ethiopian. He just wasn't patient enough, and with a tall, and sexy Sherlock roaming around, John found it easy to get distracted.
Sherlock was still held rapt by the book when John came home that evening.
"Sherlock? Sherlock are you..? Oh my god. Is this for real?" John giggled upon seeing his husband so wrapped up in something he had himself declared "mundane, John, mundane and not worth my time or yours".
"Sssshhh shut up, John!" Sherlock said, not looking up, "This man is as close to genius as chefs can come."
"Well if it keeps you busy…" John murmured moving over to Sherlock, kissing his temple before retreating to the kitchen.
"Tea would be lovely, John." Sherlock called in.
"Tosser," John grinned, setting another mug on the counter as he did.
"John," Sherlock said, sidling into the kitchen, "Do you like treacle tart? And ice cream, naturally."
Well. That was marginally unexpected, that coming from the man who loves and lives with Sherlock Watson-Holmes.
"I…uhm. Yes?" John said. He deposited a mug of tea next to Sherlock, who instantly picked it up, cradling it in his hands and relishing the warmth of it.
Sherlock beamed. "Brilliant. Take away?"
"Lovely. Thai?"
With bellies full of greasy noodles and curry, mouths still tasting of beer, the two drifted upstairs to John's room. John felt a small wave of pleasure as Sherlock held him close, one arm tucked around his waist. He slipped a hand up Sherlock's back and tangled it in his hair, chuckling at the purr that came from Sherlock as he did so.
The next day John rolled over in bed to see merely a Sherlock shaped dent where his sweetheart should have been. After hearing some muffled curses coming from the kitchen he ambled downstairs to see Sherlock standing in a cloud of flour. As the mist settled he walked over to the taller man and scrubbed a hand through his curls to dislodge the flour that had settled there and was aging him by about twenty years.
"Hey," John said quietly.
"'Lo," Sherlock smiled, "You said you liked treacle tart."
"That I did," John said, shrugging on his jacket, "Try not to blow up the kitchen, yeah?"
"Come now John, would I do a thing like that?"
John's giggles carried him all the way down to the street and left Sherlock alone in the flat.