John grasped hold of the algid saucepan handle tightly, his steady hand swiftly lifting the body of water contained within it with ease, from the kitchen sink to the gas stove that was situated a few paces right. After placing the saucepan down on the stove, he bent down and pinched the knob between his thumb and forefinger, gently turning the gas on before raising his right hand towards the ignition switch. The resultant click was satisfying as the flames rose beneath the pan. Slowly, but firmly he rose to his feet in a military fashion, pushing his shoulders back and raising his chin, bearing his face to his surroundings out of habit. He turned towards the cupboards and swung them open, observing the vague contents. Due to the sheer volume of cases lately, there had been no time to do the shopping and one thing was for sure, he would have to be the one to do it. Sherlock refused to go to the shop, often claiming that he had more important things to do whilst gazing intently down his microscope or gracefully plucking his violin thoughtfully, looking distant and angelic that even the most disruptive soul wouldn't dare interrupt his train of thought. John found himself daydreaming about his flatmate, his best friend, in a new light. This new light was not completely unfamiliar, however, for John had began thinking of Sherlock more and more since that dreaded day. The day he felt he had lost Sherlock for good. Although, these thoughts have become much more amorous. More magnificent. Thoughts that he never considered would occur within his own mind, but oddly felt right. He considered himself a straight man; nothing else. He frequently reminded himself of this fact, before drawing his attention away with other activities. Cooking was just one of these activities.
Sherlock bounded into the kitchen with the energy of a small child released into the local park, raw but authentic excitement that drew John's attention away from the stove, consequently causing the water started to over boil. His soft eyes following the carefree man intensely around the kitchen, with a subtle worry that he may knock something over causing extra work for himself, but he couldn't help but release an affectionate smile in the direction of the detective, whom was flailing his arms around exclaiming about some new discovery he had found following some close observations of a victim's clothing. John nodded passively, admiring the consulting detective's booming, yet husky voice with every syllable that was spoken. His jet black curls captured the light, creating an angelic halo-like appearance around his head. His eyes gleamed with delight, carving their way through John. For once, John started to feel unsteady as his knees began to tremble. His hand made it's way to the counter side and clasped onto the edge, making every effort to steady himself in front of the detective.
"Pasta, again?" Inquired the detective with disapproval, as he peered over John's shoulder. "You may want to turn the heat down, it's over-boiling." John turned sharply towards the stove and lifted the pan off the heat, placing it quickly on the counter whilst a sharp, burning sensation rippled through his hand. "Ouch!" yelled the tired man, shaking his hand in the humid, kitchen air before rushing towards the sink, shoving his hand under cold running water. Sherlock watched in slight amusement, but an atmosphere of protective worry washed over him as he observed the pain present upon John's scrunched up face. Sentiment. Sherlock sighed, shaking his head slightly at his own thoughts and turned his back at the man that was quietly whimpering by the sink and walked away, deep in thought.