The sun shone through the crack in the curtains upon the sleeping face of John Watson. As he slowly pried his eyes apart and rubbed the sleep out of the corners of his eyes, he sat up in bed and looked out the bedroom window. He gave the world a small smile. It was going to be a nice day. The sky was clear and the sun shone warmly onto London. Just as John was enjoying his waking up to such a beautiful day, a loud bang came from the kitchen, followed by a disgruntled shout.
Rather worried, because Sherlock's experiments were always getting out of hand, leading up to injury, John climbed out of bed and pulled on his dressing gown and started down the stairs to the sitting room. John heard swearing and grumbling coming from the kitchen, so he figured that was the best place to start. As he turned the corner into the kitchen, a small smile broke out on his face.
A box of pancake flour and all the other necessary ingredients for pancake making cluttering the counter. Sherlock sat on the floor looking annoyed. He was covered from head to toe in flour and a few raw eggs. John raised an eyebrow and followed Sherlock's gaze to the mixer on the counter that was shooting floor everywhere. You didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out what had happened.
Obviously Sherlock had been attempting to make pancakes, god knows why, and as he started the blender he set it to high, sending raw egg and flour all over him. The bang had to have been Sherlock hitting the floor. And the shout clearly came from when the flour exploded.
John smiled, shaking his head as he switched off the blender. He held out his hand to help Sherlock up. "Are you okay?" he asked.
Sherlock sniffed angrily, but instantly regretted it when he broke out into a coughing and sneezing fit from inhaling the flour stuck to his face. After the fit passed, Sherlock shot the mixer another nasty look. "Fine," he muttered bitterly.
John nodded cautiously. "Right. Good. Well you go shower off and change clothes and I'll get dressed and go get us something from Speedy's. Okay?"
Sherlock nodded stiffly and walked briskly to the bathroom. He slammed the door shut behind him. John sighed and rolled his eyes before he started cleaning up the pancake fiasco mess. Luckily Sherlock hadn't managed to make much of a mess this time, and it took John all in five minutes to clean the kitchen up.
Afterwards, John made his way back up the stairs to his bedroom. He quickly stripped off his now lightly flour dusted pajamas and tossed them into the hamper. John pulled on a red button up, as it was to warm today for a jumper, and jeans along with his Oxfords. He fixed his hair in the mirror before grabbing his mobile, keys, and wallet off his bedside table.
John went back downstairs and called through the bathroom door, "Sherlock! Gonna head to Speedy's now!"
"Fine!" came Sherlock's muffled reply.
John rolled his eyes and made his way out the flat. He pulled open the door and Mr. Chatterjee gave John a loathing look. Apparently he still hadn't gotten over when Sherlock ruined his relationship with Mrs. Hudson by telling her about Mr. Chatterjee's wife in Doncaster. Needless to say the Baker Street boys weren't exactly on friendly terms. And of course John always enjoyed mentioning Mr. Chatterjee's wives to him just to get under his skin for tricking the dear landlady like that.
"Morning Mr. Chatterjee," John said with faux happiness. "How've the wives been?"
Mr. Chatterjee glared at John and growled, "Just order what you want, Watson. Then get out of my cafe."
John nodded and said, "Yeah, yeah alright. Just two orders of pancakes."
After Mr. Chatterjee gave John he and Sherlock's breakfast, John paid him and made his way back into Baker Street. When he walked into 221B, Sherlock was perched in his leather arm chair watching the morning news on BBC One. John paused a moment and watched the news report. It was on a four dead bodies (all women in their early twenties with blonde hair and brown eyes, all collage students) that had been found either on the Thames or in a back alleyway skip.
"Think Lestrade is going to text you and ask you to come help on this one, Sherlock?" John asked as he went into the kitchen to start making tea and plate he and Sherlock's breakfast.
"I suspect he will ask us to help within the next three hours," Sherlock replied, not taking his eyes of the TV. "Will you be joining me? Or am I on my own?"
John sighed as he poured he and Sherlock their tea. "Well considering last week you got me fired from the clinic again I assume I will be coming along."
A small frown formed on Sherlock's face but it quickly disappeared as John handed him a plate of pancakes and a cup of tea. One of Sherlock's many wonders was that as long as the foul mood was minor, pancakes and tea quickly solved the problem. John figured Sherlock must've had fond childhood memories of pancakes or something. The thought seemed odd, but everyone had at least one childhood memory they didn't despise.
John went to fetch his plate and tea from the kitchen, then returned to the living room to take his seat in his armchair across from Sherlock. The pair ate their breakfast in a comfortable silence as they watched the rest of the news.
"Mrs. Hudson came up earlier," Sherlock commented. John turned his head from the TV to look at him. "She wanted to know if we'd like to have dinner at her flat with her on Sunday at seven."
John raised an eyebrow. "And what'd you tell her, exactly?"
Sherlock shrugged and sipped his tea. "That you would get back to her."
John nodded slowly. "Yeah alright."
Sherlock jumped up from his chair and starting heading to his bedroom. "I'm am going to go get ready," Sherlock said. He pecked his boyfriend on the top of his head. "Be back in a moment, love."