Two: 350 Degrees

John walked into the kitchen and filled the kettle with water. A strong cup of tea and some toast with jam was just what this doctor ordered. Sherlock had kept him up half the night with an impromptu violin concert that lasted 2 hours. He didn't know how anyone could keep their fingers cramped on those tiny little strings for 2 hours. John was enamored with Sherlock's musical talent and he knew the violin kept Sherlock from the brink of boredom, but 3:00 in the morning was just not…okay.

He filled his cup with boiling water and let the teabag percolate, taking the time to spread a dollop of raspberry jam on his toast. John heard Sherlock enter the living room and flop himself on the couch. He quickly made another cup of tea and carried all of the breakfast items into the living room.

"Here," John said, holding out the brace of tea mugs. "Take a cup."

Sherlock grunted his thanks and took a steaming mug. John tucked into his toast as he watched Sherlock take a few sips of the hot liquid. They sat in companionable silence, neither feeling the need to ruin the moment with words.

Sherlock abruptly stood up. He walked past John and into the kitchen, pecking the man on the head with his lips as he passed. John smiled into his tea. He never would have known Sherlock Holmes to be so… affectionate. John's smile morphed into an expression of confusion as he heard Sherlock open the door of the oven and then close it after a few seconds. Sherlock never baked anything…

John was prevented from thinking further along this line by the appearance of one Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade in the doorway.

"Knock knock," Lestrade said. John waved him in and Lestrade came in and took a seat across from John. At the sound of Lestrade's voice, Sherlock had wandered back into the living room and perched himself on the arm of John's chair. The pull of a potential new case was making him quiver with excitement.

"New case?" John asked.

"Obviously," Sherlock drawled. The comment earned him an elbow to his hipbone, which was the only part John could reach from the depths of his armchair.

"Alright, kids, play nice," Lestrade said. "We've got a murder. Body was found this morning in an alley. Female, late 20s…identified as Lara Ferguson. No obvious signs of a struggle, but there were these strange burn patterns on her hands." Lestrade handed over photos.

Sherlock took them and leaned over slightly so that John could look as well. John tilted his head to the right and then back to the left. Something about the burns looked oddly familiar. He glanced down at his toast and suddenly he knew why…

"It's obvious that these burns have been made with…"

Sherlock didn't get to finish that sentence because at that moment something in the kitchen exploded.

All three men hit the floor at the same time. Lestrade and John knocked their heads together as they dove off their chairs and Sherlock ended up sprawled out on top of both of them as he leapt from his higher perch. They lay there for a moment, listening to a slight hissing sound coming from the other room.

Sherlock was the first to spring up, dashing into the kitchen despite John's protests. Lestrade sat up and rubbed his head where it had collided with John's. "What the bloody hell was that?" the DI exclaimed. John clambered up and made his way cautiously into the kitchen, Lestrade trailing behind him.

The door of the oven had burst open and was hanging by its hinges. There were shards of broken glass lying here and there, but the main attraction was the spectacular orange goo that was oozing out of the open oven.

"Sherlock." John's voice was eerily calm and collected. "What. the. hell. was. that?" Each word was enunciated clearly and shortly.

Sherlock was standing on the other side of the oven, oblivious to the glass that was cutting into his bare feet. He was one hand placed over his mouth in thought and the other wrapped around his stomach.

"Hm," he grunted. "It would appear that I have made a miscalculation."

John stared and Lestrade gaped. "A miscalculation, Sherlock?" John asked. "Sherlock, YOU BLEW UP THE OVEN!"

"And what is that stuff anyway?" Lestrade asked. He was pointing a finger to the foamy orange goo that was still puffing out of the oven in little gasps.

Sherlock raised his chin. "It was experiment. I needed to heat the chemicals to 350 degrees and…"

"And you thought the oven in our kitchen was the best place to do that?! Dammit, Sherlock, you can't just use our kitchen to… mix your volatile chemicals! We eat here! People do visit us too, you know! The next time you could blow up the whole sodding flat!"

Lestrade couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of the situation. "When you're finished with your little domestic, come down to the Yard and we'll catch you up on the case." He excused himself from the flat and left the two men staring at each other. The unstoppable force and the immovable object, he thought. Sherlock Holmes had met his match.