FF – Sherlock

One way or another

Warnings : Spoilers for s02e01. Not in chronological order, by the way. Also, very badly edited, because I really should be asleep.
Characters : Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson
Summary : Sherlock is a comfort/stress eater. John is a stress-baker. Two drabbles

A/N : New season showed Sherlock opening the fridge door and taking a bite out of a pie when he was in shock. New headcanon becomes formed. Also, I am hungry, and genuinely considering waking up early for the first batch of pastry from the bakery tomorrow morning.

1 . Scone

Sherlock thinks that he could very possibly be a little high. Just a little though, any more and John and Mrs Hudson would be conducting a (very conspicuous) search again and possibly even roping Lestrade in. Not that Lestrade will manage to find anything, but at least John and Mrs Hudson made that little, although pointless, effort to try and hide it from him. Lestrade just messes the whole place up with his troop of irritating ignoramuses.

But he's pacing, back and forth in the tiny space of their apartment and when the adrenaline finally dies down on him, he's worrying. He wrings his hands until his palms are clammy and he shoves them into his pocket so he doesn't have to see them, but he's clutching the fabric of his pants so tightly the cloth doesn't stop his fingernails from creating moon-like dents on his skin.

John was angry. A different level of anger altogether, and he knows that he was the one who caused it. His fault. John was angry at him, and he doesn't quite know how to solve it. It would be a lot easier for him if John would get over all that emotional drivel, because emotions are so tedious and bothersome and John really needs to stop being so sentimental.

It's not like it really matters if he spilled that little bit of hydrochloric acid on John's latest… catch. In his defense, she was stupid and noisy and Sherlock would really, genuinely, prefer to work in silence. And, it was just a few, tiny drops; there was no reason for what's-her-name to get so dramatic and overtly deranged. Besides, he was sure that there would be yet another woman latching herself to John's arm like a limper in a matter of days. He estimates eight and a half.

There's the loud beep of the oven from the kitchen that John had locked himself in, and his mind finally registers the faint whiff of buttermilk and vanilla. Baking, then, no surprises there. A comfort hobby evident from the large amounts of baking soda and flour that John always buys but never uses, storing it deep in the back of their cabinets.

And then Sherlock realises in that moment, just how much he wants it.

He doesn't fight losing battles, because those are pointless, so he fishes out the bunch of spare keys from inside the skull and invades the kitchen with his usual flair, catching sight of the massive spread of pastries on the cooling trays around the various on-going experiments and science apparatus, and John is holding a tray of fresh scones and glaring at him, but he doesn't care.

He picks one off from him, who is already preparing an onslaught of words that illustrate something Sherlock isn't interested in. The scone is hot and warm on his fingers and it's silly that he doesn't let the treat cool because he almost scalds himself on it, but the sense of relief and satisfaction from feeling the it on his tongue makes everything worth it.

2 . Flan

Harry has ever described John's baking habits as being relevant to the level of stress he's going through. Biscuits and cookies define some kind of gentle ripple in life, breads usually arise from a sort of peer pressure, pies and quiches come about from career issues and when the cakes come out then something majorly life-changing has occurred.

John's just surprised his sister paid that much attention to him, because he's quite sure she's drunk most of the time.

He's measuring the flour with vague annoyance when he thinks about the horrendous and messy breakup with Sarah. He's not thick-skinned enough to return to the clinic, especially when she has covered so much of his work on those days when he had been busy the previous night, but his bank account's nearly running dry again and thinking about these things is really clawing at him.

John mutters to himself darkly, that if anyone ever does offer money to spy on Sherlock again, then, yes, he will accept it. He wonders momentarily if he could provoke Mycroft into making the same offer again, but with the regular communications he's been keeping with him with regards to Sherlock's well-being, he might as well have offered to do it for free.

Distracted, he cuts himself with the fruit knife and curses in pain, scowling and damning everything in existence. Wrong move, because, now, he's attracted the attention of Sherlock. He can see the mop of curly hair on the head that's poking from the other side of the doorway from the corner of his eye, and feel the pair of eyes watching him, studying him, as if Sherlock didn't already know all there was to know about him.

He sighs a little, collapsing onto the chair and glancing at the trays of food around him. He's complaining about running out of money, but doesn't stop himself from baking so many sweets that he knows no one will eat and will become an absolute waste. Mrs Hudson is on a strict diet from excess sugar, a diet that was imposed by him in the first place, and Sherlock doesn't even eat standard meals, and trying to push them onto Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan is probably too awkward and weird. Though, maybe Mycroft would be willing to take them, but he worries that his skill as a baker might be too plebeian for Mycroft's expensive taste buds.

Also, it wasn't as if he could bring them into the workplace and hand them out, now that he was out of a job. Though, if he did have a job, he wouldn't be baking in the first place. Or at least, he wouldn't be baking pies.

Sherlock takes that moment to do something extraordinary though. He slides into the seat across from him and picks up a slice of one of the savoury quiches, and bites into it, chewing appreciatively.

"It's good."

John's jaw is probably on the ground and he must look like an absolute idiot, but some sort of miracle must have occurred because Sherlock, of all people, is eating willingly without any threatening or coercing on his part and actually complimented him outright, and when he laughs at the oddness of it all, it's a very light-hearted laugh.