John yawned as he walked downstairs. It was four o'clock in the morning, and Sherlock was banging around in the kitchen... again. John had assumed he pulled another all-nighter doing some kind of experiment, seeing as there had been quite a lack of murders as of late. Walking into the kitchen, he was hit by the smell of baked goods and berries. "Are you... baking?"
"Anna Olson is a genius, John! Taste this rasberry swiss roll!" Sherlock took a fork full of pastry and shoved it into John's mouth. "The perfect balance of desirable taste and texture. Not too sweet, but not all too tart; although, that may be on account of the raspberries I used, I don't know why more markets aren't open all hours."
"Yes, it's good-"
"Not good! Not merely good. Open your mundane little mind, John! This pastry is exquisite!" Sherlock looked especially insane as he ran around the kitchen picking up bowls and whisks with remnants of pastry dough and berry puree. His purple button down and black trousers were dusted with a fair amount of flour and splattered with quite a bit of raspberry that had also spread a bit to his face and hands.
"Okay, yes, it was exquisite," John couldn't help but to mock his tone of voice, "but do you realize what time it is? Some of us mundane and boring people like to sleep at this time of night."
"But why sleep? Sleep is boring! Especially when one could be exploring the wonderful world of baking!" He was already measuring out more flour, "I'm making scones next. Wonderful things, scones are. Did you know, you can put whatever you want into scones? Berries, cheese, even meat!"
"Yes, that's wonderful, Sherlock," John answered with a droopy-eyed yawn, "but I'm going to go back to sleep now. Just-"
"But you can't go to sleep, John! I need somebody to taste my baking!" John chuckled in spite of himself. Sherlock looked so child-like with the pouty look on his face, it was definitely nothing he had ever seen before, and he was doubtful he'd see it again anytime in the near future.
"Fine. I'll be blogging if you need me." He made his was over to his laptop as Sherlock began banging around the kitchen once more. John was sure his readers would enjoy reading about this new adventure.
The Baker of 221B
This morning, I was awoken by an ungodly amount of noise being made by our favorite consulting detective, and was surprised to come downstairs to none other than, Sherlock Holmes covered in flour. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Sherlock was baking. He started off with a simple batch of cookies, made his way to a raspberry swiss roll, and is currently mixing the dough for what looks like a large amount of scones. (I do believe we will be having Mrs. Hudson over for tea this evening.)
"John! They're ready! Come and taste this masterpiece! I've put raspberries and bananas in this batch, and I have ham and brie in the oven as we speak. I'm thinking about maybe making a white chocolate gonache to drizzle over this swiss roll as well, I just can't help but feel like it's missing that little extra pop!" There was a single scone placed on a saucer with little bits of raspberry poking through the layers, sitting atop the counter. Sherlock pushed it towards John and stared anxiously as he took a bite. Before John had time to swallow, Sherlock was asking more questions and preparing to move on to his next baking adventure. "So, what do you think? Coffee cake or brownies?"
"Umm, brownies?"
"Wrong, obviously brownies are far too amateur! Look at this kitchen, look at everything I have made. I'm obviously far beyond making brownies, you insult me, John. Go back to your silly blog." John was way too tired to make a snide comment back, so he just ignored Sherlock's verbal abuse, as usual, and sauntered back over to his laptop to continue typing.
Update: The scones turned out surprisingly well. Although, his little rampage still seems to have no end insight. He has now turned his attention to making a Pecan Coffee Cake that supposedly "melts in your mouth." I'm sure he will force me to partake of this treat as well. On a normal occasion, I would not usually use the word force when it comes to eating fresh baked desserts, but when it's on this scale-and at five in the morning-one must make use of this truthful statement. On a positive note, the flat smells much better than the usual aroma of Sherlock's decaying "experiments."
One week later, with a house full of various baked goods and an aroma of fresh baked cinnamon rolls, there was a knock on the door. "I swear," John exclaimed. "If that's another one of those bloody packages, from another bloody fan, with more bloody recipes for you; I'm sending it back!"
"You were the one who decided to announce to the world that I have taken up baking." Sherlock flashed him a grin of condesending innocence, then went back to frosting the cinnamon rolls. John opened up the door to a frail looking young woman with dark circles under her eyes.
"May we help you?"
"Yes, hi, my name is Paige. May I speak with Mr. Holmes?" Before John could answer, Sherlock was in the doorway, frosting spatula in hand.
"Young woman, roughly twenty years of age, hasn't slept in the last 24-48 hours. Someone dear to you has gone missing, but it must be within the last 24 hours, because the police won't listen. Too young for it to be a child, must be a boyfriend-nobody frets that much over a flatmate who didn't come home last night-Ah! But where did they say they were going? They must have been vague, very vague. You're worried he's been cheating, but that's probably not it. What are you? Maybe 5' 3'' with a smaller than average dress size? No, he's not cheating, but you knew that. That's why you're here, he's missing and you're worried. John, invite this poor woman in, we have a case!"