So my friend Lucie gave me the prompt of 'Lemon Juice', and this is what I managed to come up with. I hope it's okay.
This oneshot contains Johnlock fluff and I guess suggests a bit more at the end, but not actual smut, I guess.
If you don't like Johnlock (John x Sherlock), then don't read it. Click away from this page and find something else to read. Thanks.
Disclaimer: I do not nor ever will own BBC's Sherlock or its characters.
When Life Gives You Lemons
Sherlock had never been so frustrated in his life. He'd just spent the past hour and a half over at Scotland Yard helping Lestrade come up with a criminal profile for a case of a child sex offender. Well, 'helped' isn't the write word. Is there a word for trying to offer your services only to be insulted? Not likely. If there was, it wouldn't be able to express his anger at this occurrence. The meeting included Lestrade, himself and a large selection of experienced police officers. Sherlock had given them a thorough list of details to work on and even the probable area in which the offender was most likely to live, but everyone seemed to be against him.
Lestrade had given Sherlock a firm warning, saying that now wasn't the time for showing off his skills of deduction – that this case involved vulnerable children and they needed to work together to get a positive result.
Sherlock had retaliated by stating his opinion that his deductions would be more accurate than those worked on by everyone in the room. It was at that point Lestrade asked him to leave, saying that it'd maybe be better if he left this to the police.
Sherlock stormed out of the building in anger, startling a receptionist on the way out causing the woman to drop the huge stack of papers all over the floor.
The detective walked to the end of the road to hail a taxi. He managed to get one within the first five minutes – hell, he was prepared to jump in front of one if it meant it'd stop – and soon was on his way back home to flat 221B and his John.
The taxi driver, sensing his passenger's anger, wisely chose to remain quiet the entire trip, for which Sherlock was secretly thankful for. The last thing he needed right now was idle chatter about where he'd been on holiday or how long he'd lived in London.
Soon enough Sherlock found himself stood outside the door of the flat he shared with his best friend since-turned lover. He let out a heavy sigh before reaching for the door handle. He'd hate for John to see him so wound up like this.
He climbed the stairs quickly, long coat billowing behind him as he did so. He reached the top with the intent of calling out to John, to tell him that he was home, but was stopped before he could upon hearing the sound of a loud crashing sound.
Sounds like that was pottery. Sherlock thought to himself. From the pitch of the noise I can tell it's at least something 1.5cm thick. Pottery...one and half centimetres thick...in the kitchen.
The large green bowl that lived in the cupboard near the sink. Damn, and I used that for mixing up things for my experiments. He thought.
Sherlock walked to the kitchen silently, hoping to catch John by surprise, but couldn't help but let out a cough of rare laughter as his eyes fell on the mess in the kitchen.
Flour was all over the floor, white footprints littering the tiles. The strong smell of lemons hung in the air and all visible surfaces were covered in all manner of baking equipment and ingredients.
His prior anger forgotten, Sherlock could only smirk at the sight of John covered from head to toe in flour, sneezing as some got up his nose. John turned to look to the source of the laugh, and his cheeks gained a slight pink tinge when he realised the situation.
For Sherlock, the sight of John covered in flour seemed unbelievably adorable in his eyes.
"Should I ask what on earth you're doing or just I just leave it?" Sherlock asked, amusement clear in his voice.
John sighed in defeat. "Neither. Surely the world's only consulting detective can put two and two together and work out what I'm doing." John said tiredly as he bent down to start picking up the bigger pieces of the shattered bowl, unsurprised at the lack of his flatmate's offer to help.
Sherlock looked around; assessing the situation in the once-clean kitchen (well, clean only when John puts away Sherlock's near-daily experiments.) Self-raising flour. Broken and empty egg shells. Butter. A small stack of dirty bowls with the remains of cake mix on the insides. The faint humming noise of the oven. The strong scent of lemons in the air and a small container of lemon juice in the corner.
Lemon drizzle cake.
"My favourite." Sherlock said with a smirk.
John nodded, once again impressed with the observations.
"I know." He said before grabbing the nearby dustpan and brush to clear up the flour and lingering shards of the bowl.
Sherlock left him to it. The timer by the oven said he'd only have to wait another ten minutes or so before the cake would be ready to come out of the oven. He went into the other room, collapsing heavily on the battered sofa, happy to be home. The irritating buzz of his phone in his pocket broke his thoughts. He sighed, knowing who it was who was texting him. The glowing text on the screen confirmed his suspicions.
Lestrade.
Sherlock was in no mood to talk to him right now. He returned his phone roughly to his pocket, content with simply sitting and listening to the sounds of John shuffling around the in the kitchen, presumably clearing up while he waited for the timer to go off.
Before all of this, both of them had stumbled through the world alone. John had spent his days. John had spent his days in education and later in a haze of gunfire and blood. Sherlock had been solving cases his entire life – concentrating on problems other people had rather than focusing on his own.
The two men lived in a world of black and white. The days had merged into one long existence. That is, until that day. The day that they met. When their eyes met across the lab it was at moment that colour was injected into the world. In Sherlock's eyes, John saw a sharp intellect and loneliness, a wall between him and the rest of the world. In John's eyes, Sherlock saw experience and training; a shell of a man that had empathy behind on the battlefield.
From the moment their paths crossed, the world had slowed. Every day had meaning and it seemed a little more magnificent.
Before long the timer went off with a happy little tune and Sherlock caught sight of John donning the fluffy pink oven gloves that he'd borrowed from Mrs. Hudson. The ex-army doctor hummed a familiar tune as he opened the oven door and took out the cake, placing it on the cooling tray he'd got out earlier before knocking the oven door shut with his foot.
Sherlock stood up from the sofa and quietly walked back to the kitchen, leaning on the doorframe to observe his John. The doctor carried on in his work with his back to his flatmate, unaware of his audience. Sherlock let his gaze sweep over John's backside, smirking all the while at John's obliviousness to him.
He didn't know what kind of a man he'd be by now if he hadn't met John that day.
The dead kind, probably.
Sherlock, now bored of remaining unnoticed, cleared his throat, causing John to abruptly spin around, his finely-tuned army reflexes kicking in. His shocked expression curved into a soft smile when he saw who was watching him.
Sherlock noticed the cake sat on the side now, out of its tin and cooling on its tray. He decided to voice something that had been bothering him.
"I thought you didn't like lemon-flavoured things, John." Sherlock said with his usual smirk.
John's cheeks reddened a little. "I don't. But you do, right?" He asked.
"Right." Sherlock replied. He stepped forward, standing directly in front of John before leaning to rest his forehead on his best friend's-since-turned lover's. John closed his eyes, content to simply breathe in Sherlock's scent.
After a few seconds John opened his eyes, meeting Sherlock's now lustful gaze. "You know, it'll take a while to cool, Sherlock." He smirked.
Sherlock said nothing, instead moving to press his lips against John's. The kiss started out slow and gentle, as if testing each other's reaction, before quickly evolving into something more passionate and impatient.
Hands roamed everywhere, tugging at clothes as passion overwhelmed them.
Within seconds Sherlock groaned, locking John's legs around his hips and lifting him with him. Sherlock maintained a firm grip on his flatmate's thighs as the pair stumbled to the nearby bedroom, leaving the cake forgotten until morning.
Wahh so fluffy! I hope you liked it. Extra fact: I chose today to post this (29th January) because today is the anniversary of the day that Sherlock and John first met. Says so on John's blog. If you haven't seen his blog yet, google 'John Watson's blog' and go squee over its awesomeness. Thanks for reading! :3