a/n; Because I just think John playing house is the cutest idea in the world.
He was a man, solider, and a doctor- a son, brother, friend, and colleague. John could think of many things that he was, that he undoubtedly knew himself to be- but he wasn't sure at what point in his life he'd become a housewife.
It'd started small, after moving in with Sherlock. He'd pick up the groceries- no large issue. He'd make tea on those nights the lanky detective was again up to an ungodly time- staring at his laptop screen like it held the answers to the world's secrets- and would offer the sustaining drink quietly. He'd even cook, whenever they'd both tired of Chinese or diner fare. But on this morning he found himself ironing Sherlock's favourite purple dress shirt, wearing an apron- an object which he had not the a clue of it's origin- it dawned that there was a problem here. What was he doing? He was a grown man, he'd fought in a war. When had he become a bloody domestic? This had to stop- today. This moment, in fact. He was going to put his foot down, put an end to this new Jo-
Sherlock entered the kitchen, argent eyes hooded and hazy with sleep, raven curls mussed. The words slipped from his lips before John understood what was happening.
"Good morning- I made breakfast...!"
