John knew a few of Sherlock's guilty secrets, the kinds he would be ashamed to admit and did his best to hide. Things like his love for certain bands, his sweet tooth, a few choice items in his wardrobe, and the fact that when he was particularly stressed he didn't always take it out on a corpse.
He baked.
The baking was so rare that it was easy to forget, and John had never really seen Sherlock in the kitchen. He tended to clear up all evidence save a rack of cooling cookies, pies, cakes, buns, or other sweet treats on the kitchen counter. As far as John could tell these little episodes were never planned – Sherlock would dive up from whichever surface he was sulking on this time, pull out an assortment of ingredients and turn them into something delicious. And they always were delicious; baking was a science, which happened (with the exception of certain areas of physics which he deemed unnecessary information) to be Sherlock's area of expertise.
As such John was expecting to find Sherlock curled on the sofa or mutilating some poor fool's remains when he wearily returned to 221B the morning after one of their little 'tiffs'. Neither of them had been getting much sleep, which led to Sherlock being irritable, and an irritable Sherlock was irritating. When John had left to sleep on a park bench or a sofa, Sherlock had been in the midst of doing an excellent impression of a hurricane in their living room, scattering everything he came into contact with.
Steeling himself with a deep breath and squared shoulders, he opened the door and found a completely clean living room with no trace of Hurricane Sherlock. He hesitantly stepped through and wandered to the kitchen, planning to check every room before calling him to make sure he hadn't done anything stupid.
By the kettle, along with a freshly made cup of tea in the mug Sherlock had allocated as 'John's', there was a cake. It was still warm, topped with some sort of chocolate buttercream, and a slice of it had been placed on a plate next to his mug with a dollop of cream and a fork. John smiled. Sherlock was apparently over his latest pique and feeling sorry for it.
"It's chocolate coffee cake," the baker commented from the doorway, lingering there with a slight frown and the offer of a small smile. "I thought you might appreciate the endorphins from the chocolate and the caffeine from the coffee,"
John wasted no time in marching up to the impossible man and grabbing him. His arms slid around Sherlock's waist with ease, forehead resting on his shoulder, bodies pressed together in a familiar pose.
"I take it I was right?" Sherlock ventured after a moment, relaxing enough to rest his cheek on John's hair and his arms around John's shoulders.
"About the cake. Thank you, Sher,"
Sherlock didn't bother replying. They fell back into silence until he spoke up a minute later: "Your tea is going cold. I made it especially,"
"Shut up and kiss me already, you daft thing," John ordered with a laugh, lifting his head to grin up at his surprisingly thoughtful (if occasionally infuriating), baking, tea-making detective.
AN: Written for the wonderful Julie, who prompted this little drabble :)
I think between this and 'The Serial Baker', one of my many headcanons is obvious.