Disclaimer: Sherlock is the property of BBC, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat.
A/N: So this is my first Johnlock fic. While I am a Sherlockian, I wasn't really sure how to transfer the show to my own writing. I adore their friendship, so I thought I would start with a simple story. But I hope you enjoy it!
John had had a really bad day at work. Naturally, it had to be on a Friday for him. In fact, it probably was up there with the time that he was mistaken for being Sherlock and the other time Moriarty made him wear that bloody bomb vest. Unfortunately, it didn't contain any of the adrenaline. It just contained that feeling of dread when things were out of his control.
He took the job at the hospital because he wanted something mundane to contrast with the adventures that he had with Sherlock. But this day, he would've given anything for some danger.
It was flu season in London, so there were more than enough patients to write prescriptions for. Most of them were kids, so their parents, in particular their mothers, thought today was the best day to be particularly fussy. Flu cases were normal, but with this many cases and this many nagging mothers, John was at the end of his rope. Sarah popped in to check on him a few hours before the end of his shift. Based on the slightly manic look combined with exhaustion in his eyes, she let him go and took over for him. He thanked her a thousand times over and headed back to Baker Street. Of course it had to be a very rainy day. Things were looking fantastic for him.
On the taxi drive back over, he let the stress leave his body. His plan when he got back was to sit on the couch with a nice hot cup of tea, some toast with his favorite jam, and either watch some crap telly or listen to that Mumford and Sons album Lestrade lent to him.
He wasn't surprised when he returned to an empty flat. Sherlock had strolled through earlier that morning mumbling something about a double homicide while John was eating breakfast before work. He was glad though. The last thing that he needed was Sherlock telling him to pluck his phone out of his pocket while he was looking at things under his microscope. He changed into his lounging clothes and wandered into the kitchen to find something to eat. As he scanned through the cupboards, he literally felt his irritation rising up inch by inch.
Not only was his jar of favorite jam gone; so was his favorite type of tea. It was bad enough that he always had to do the grocery shopping. The fact that it had to be done today when he didn't want to do anything didn't help at all.
Instead of what he had in mind, he was in Sherlock's sulking position on the couch: curled up in the fetal position facing the back of the couch, his dressing gown drawn over his knees. A bottle of Jack Daniels was on the coffee table. At times like this, only the strong stuff hit the spot. The White Album was blasting from his laptop as he clutched his tumbler, gingerly drinking out of it. Normally John wasn't one to sulk like this, but he figured he could allow himself one day to wallow before jumping back into things.
His best friend burst into the flat, absolutely gleeful. John groaned, his bad mood ruined by the detective's unusually cheerful disposition. Sherlock's overflow of information about his victory in the case just went in one ear and out of the other.
When Sherlock wasn't getting the usual deluge of praise from John, he turned around and raised his eyebrows.
He glanced at his watch. Home early, Jack Daniels, my sulking position, The Beatles, he craned over John to get a look at his face, weary eyes, forehead lines evident. Talk about a bad day at work.
He ran his hands through his shaggy hair and sighed. Throwing on his coat and scarf, he grabbed the scrap of paper on the fridge.
"Sherlock, where are you going?"
"Going to pop out for a bit."
John sighed. Of course. He sat up, his head spinning a little bit from the alcohol. Groaning, he grabbed the remote and turned on the telly, hoping to find something remotely interesting.
Sherlock returned an hour later, Tesco shopping bags in hand. John's ears perked up at the noise and he turned towards it, curious. His jaw dropped. Sherlock never went shopping!
"You went shopping."
"Isn't it obvious?"
"Yeah, but…you never go shopping."
"I figured you have a bad day at work, based on the alcohol and The Beatles. So I thought that I would make dinner."
John raised his eyebrows. "You. Making dinner?"
"Problem?"
"Not at all."
Sherlock smirked and went into the kitchen while John resumed watching some documentary about how cheese was made. How he ended up watching this was beyond him. The smell of meat and spices filled the flat, making it feel very cozy with the terrible weather outside.
"John, come get dinner!" He hollered.
The first thing that John noticed was that the table actually had enough room for two people to sit and eat at, compared to being overflowing with experiments. There was a steaming pot of chili in the middle with a basket of biscuits off to the side. To his delight, his favorite jam was next to the basket. A tea kettle was on top of a pot holder Mrs. Hudson made a while back. He realized that it was his favorite tea after seeing the box on the counter. Sherlock returned from the kitchen with the dishes, silverware, cups, and a carton of milk. He plunked everything down and they tucked in.
John was surprised at how great the chili was. There was a lot of depth in flavor with just the right amount of spice, and the texture was perfect. With how little Sherlock liked to cook, he never would have suspected that he would be this good. The biscuits were nice and fluffy and the jam just seemed to melt into them. The best part was that the tea was prepared just the way that he liked it and John was particular about his tea to begin with. The most surprising thing was that Sherlock was actually eating with him. It was almost impossible to get any sort of food in him, so for him to eat on his own was a little disconcerting. He was so lost in this epiphany that he didn't realize that he was staring at him.
Sherlock's blue eyes had that spark when he was working things out in his head, even more so as John's own brown eyes bore into his.
"Okay, you've got questions." Sherlock stated before taking another gulp of tea.
"Who taught you how to cook?"
"Mycroft. Mummy was always working, so he instilled some skills in me that I thought that I would never have to use in my life, until now of course."
"For the record, you're a pretty damn good cook. Will you be doing this more often?"
"Don't count on it."
John rolled his eyes. "Of course." He poured himself another cup of tea and added a splash of milk.
"At least I bought the groceries and made dinner."
"Is that why you made chili?"
"Beans are always on the shopping list. Chili is a common dish that uses beans, so I thought I might as well make some use out of them instead of making something boring, like pork and beans."
"Mmm. You were never one for boring anyway."
"Obviously."
"Thanks for doing this. Really."
"I'm only one who is supposed to mope around here. It's so unbecoming of you to be wallowing on the couch."
"That was a one time thing!"
"I sure hope so."
To make things better for John, Sherlock even did the dishes. The two friends spent the rest of the evening watch crap telly. While Sherlock analyzed every person on their favorite trash reality show, John couldn't help but laugh. To anyone else, having a high-functioning sociopath for a flatmate would be strange. But to him, he wouldn't have it any other way.