If there was one thing John's mother had adamantly reminded him of, it was that a way to a man's heart was through his stomach. Perhaps it was an overgeneralization on her part but it had always seemed very true to him considering he had staved breakups whenever his significant others cooked him a hearty and delicious meal. He never quite found it in him to break a woman's heart if he had been so very pleased by the flavours, textures, and scents presented to him in a beautifully arranged dish. Eating good food just made him too happy. He supposed it was one of the reasons he had later gotten pudgy but he quickly took care of his form.
Things were, of course, different now. For one thing, the very heterosexual man wasn't quite as heterosexual as he had thought. Never in his wildest dreams did John imagine he would ever fall for a man because his interests had solely been directed towards women though, he had never met a man like Sherlock. Sherlock, the eccentric genius he had been introduced to by a mutual friend, had brought back excitement in his life. What was more, Sherlock didn't care about the mental and physical wounds he carried back home with him from Afghanistan. John had always hated the way the women he had dated subsequently to his return had treated him like a delicate flower. Sherlock could have cared less and that was both a good and a bad thing.
After the rollercoaster of action and adventure Sherlock had lead through his life, things had finally started to set down. Moriarty was out of the picture and no new sociopathic freaks targeted Sherlock in a sick game wherein they would game the lives of innocent and ordinary people. Even the cases the consulting detective took had become rather dull and it surprised John that he never complained. A part of him thought it was for his benefit. Though Sherlock hardly cared for anyone but himself, he was, on very rare occasions, thoughtful to those he respected and loved. Perhaps the man had realized the toll their terrible adventures had begun taking on John and opted for a small break.
John laughed at himself. The thought was as ludicrous as it was plausible. Were it true, Sherlock would never admit to it. He was just that sort of person. Regardless, the lack of excitement left for rather bland days. It was during that break during which nothing noteworthy happened that John had come to realize his feelings for the man he had regarded as his best friend. They were initially subtle, butterflies in the stomach, slight dilution of the pupils, and heart palpitations – things that only ever occurred when Sherlock said something specific or hovered around him too closely. He had also felt his cheeks flush red on a few occasions whenever Miss Hudson teased them about being a couple. Little had she known.
The realization of his more than platonic feelings and the confession of his love came when Sherlock announced that his brother, Mycroft, had asked him to go on another undercover investigation for a full year – maybe more, depending on the acquired information and circumstances. Sherlock had told him he had accepted for reasons he didn't care to explain and John had then begged him to stay, pushed by desperation and the memories of the three lonely years he had spent in absence of the man. The thoughts he had been having for months suddenly poured from his mouth as he babbled too quickly and clung to his black coat, afraid that if he let go Sherlock would leave. However, the green eyed man kissed him and though John still insisted that their dull year lacked any dramatic changes, their relationship, in that moment, had been altered forever.
John now spent most of his time in the flat while Sherlock investigated some of his cases. He applied at many hospitals and infirmaries in the hopes of finding a part time job though it seemed his reputation as Sherlock's sidekick preceded him and dissuaded any potential employers. What else was he left to do but dabble in one of his mother's most extraordinary talents?
Cooking, John found, wasn't as easy as Gordon Ramsay or any other TV cook made it seem. Even with the recipe right in front of his face, he struggled making even the simplest of dishes. Today, he decided to try again. He had spent the morning sending his resume to hospitals and infirmaries in the London suburbs, hoping at least one of them hadn't heard about his unbelievable adventures with Sherlock. With the rest of the day in front of him, he supposed he had more than enough time to prepare supper for his lover.
The preparation of a good meal had nothing to do with wanting to end his still very new relationship with Sherlock. If anything, it was a gift. Sherlock never really took the time to eat, he was always so absorbed in his work that he would forget to feed himself. Preparing food for him was a way to show his love and appreciation by undertaking a task he wasn't quite skillful at – or so Sherlock would state whenever he made something.
John went through the cupboards and refrigerator, he grabbed the flour, cheese, potatoes, salt, and eggs, and placed them all on the counter. Today he was going to try his luck at Italian food. As picky as Sherlock was, John did remember that the man had once brought him to an Italian restaurant upon their first meeting. The owner had stopped by to chat and praise Sherlock and had understated that the brunet had come on more than one occasion for a free, hot meal. It wasn't a far leap to assume that Sherlock was thus fond of Italian food. And so, he was going to try to make gnocchi gorgonzola.
He had found a recipe online that seemed promising. It was only a bit past noon and that meant he had five complete hours to make the food from scratch. He began by pouring the proper amount of flour into a measuring cup and dumping it in a glass bowl. He had then done the same thing with the cheese, salt, and eggs before attacking the potatoes. First he had to boil them, peel them, and finally grind them to small bits. The task was more difficult than expected. John was complete rubbish, if he was being frank. For one thing, he had put too much water into the pot and it boiled over, making a mess, shortly after he dropped the potatoes. Then he had burned his hands with the potatoes, taking them too quickly after they had been tenderized. When it came to peeling them, he took out a lot of potato flesh with its peel, leaving only a small pathetic thing that wasn't enough for the recipe.
"You stupid potato…" he grumbled to himself as he felt his anger rising.
"You're not going to have a row with the potato, are you?" Sherlock smirked. "Or are you prone to antagonising inanimate objects?"
John jolted in surprise. He hadn't heard Sherlock re-enter the flat nor notice just how quickly the hours had slipped by, and in his shock, he dropped the pathetically small potato on the ground. It was so soft it splatted all over in the floor and in that moment John could have destroyed everything. However, he remembered the advice of his psychiatrist and he breathed in and out repeatedly until he was calm again.
"What on earth are you doing?" Sherlock asked, hovering around. "Gnocchi?"
"Yes, well, at least I was trying." John huffed, frustrated.
"Are you abandoning medicine for a career as a chef?" Sherlock teased. "You really shouldn't, you're quite rubbish at it."
"Thank you for the supporting words." John said, rolling his eyes. He reached down to start cleaning the mess he made.
"Why were you cooking?" Sherlock continued prodding, "Actually, why are you almost always cooking when I'm away?"
"What, you can't figure that out yourself?" John snorted.
"Didn't you tell me to stop being such a smart arse?" Sherlock countered. "Something about it not being very attractive."
"I'm trying to cook for you." John said, "My mum always told me it was a sure way to please a man."
"Perhaps," Sherlock conceded, "If the food was properly cooked and if the man in question actually joined Italian."
"You do." John said, "You go to that one place all the time."
"Because the food is free, John." Sherlock reminded.
John was honestly getting very frustrated. On any other occasion, he could have tolerated Sherlock's blunt rudeness but it was getting too much. He had spent hours struggling with some stupid potatoes for a stupid recipe he didn't care for, and screwed it all up. Sherlock's words were more antagonizing than anything but before he could get too mad at the man, their lips were pressed together in a soft kiss. John knew he would never get used to kissing him. His lips were so different from the plush, soft lips of a woman – thinner, more dried, and not moist from lipstick. That being said, it wasn't any less pleasurable.
"I appreciate your efforts." Sherlock said.
"That almost sounded human of you." John grinned.
"I suppose you're influencing me." He said and offered a soft, genuine smile. "You don't need to cook." He then continued, "From the looks of it, it doesn't seem you enjoy it very much anyhow. There are other ways to display your love for me."
John blushed and took a step back. "I'm not sure I'm ready for that just yet." He admitted.
"That's not what I was suggestion." Sherlock assured.
"Oh." And perhaps John was a bit disappointed.
"Come." Sherlock said and extended his hand, "We'll grab some Chinese on the way."
"On the way?" John repeated as he followed his lover towards the entrance of their flat.
"Murder, John." He grinned.