Author's Note: This drabble was based off of an M!A (magic anon) in which Sherlock was instructed to make a meal for John. Just a heads up, per se. Thank you for reading!
After finishing with his violin, answering a few messages, and finishing the very easy code, Sherlock practically strutted to the kitchen, glad that John asked for one of the few meals he could prepare alone.
From where he was sitting, John had a decent view of Sherlock setting up dinner and his computer screen, where he worked on the second part of the case which Sherlock had instructed him to start on. "Need help?" he called out willingly, just as Mrs. Hudson set foot into their flat.
"I can always tell he's cooking when I smell something burning," she remarked, hip balanced against the wall while she peered at the paper placed between he fingers. "There's a letter here for you, Sherlock," she called out just before he arrived to where she was in the doorway.
"Thank you," he briefly said, plucking the letter from her fatal grip and placing it loosely into the pocket of his robe, which fluttered behind him just as if he were a Royal. "By the way," he practically yelled back, though in a nice tone, "Nothing is burning. The ingredients were rotten to the core."
"Would you like to use some of mine, dear?" asked Mrs. Hudson, her voice louder so Sherlock could hear her over the ruckus he was creating in the kitchen.
"Garlic?" he called back while he slammed a pot harshly onto the counter.
Mrs. Hudson nodded, though mostly in intention of John, for Sherlock couldn't view her at the moment. "I'll bring it right up." She disappeared down the steps.
John shut his laptop. "You were going to blame it on me, weren't you?"
Sherlock paused his mixing of the noodles. "Hmm?" he mumbled, glancing to see John with his head resting onto of his fist casually.
"The bitter ingredients. You were going to blame it on me for not going to the store and picking more up."
His eyebrows mashed against one another. "No. I should have gotten more," he responded, turning back to the stove where he continued to stir at the pasta.
"Here it is!" Exclaimed Mrs. Hudson, who rushed through the door and placed the garlic on the counter top next to a filled beaker. Sherlock curtly nodded as John said, "Thanks."
"Not a problem at all. You boys get some rest tonight. Good luck with the pasta, dear!" And on that note, the door was closed, the pasta was cooked, and Sherlock had begun on the sauce.
John stood up and brushed off his jeans before walking to the kitchen. "What was the letter about?" he asked, grabbing two cups from the cupboard.
"Read it to me," Sherlock demanded, though it was a usual hearing for John. After the glasses were filled with water and placed on the table, he moved to where the violinist was and slid the envelope out of his pocket.
"Uh.. Mycroft says there's another murder with this case we're on. Why is he asking us for help so often?"
Sherlock disregarded the question promptly. "He's busy," he muttered to himself while pouring the sauce into the bowls of pasta,"he never sends letters with that sort of information."
The doctor sat down with a fork in hand. Forks once had scared him (food fights in training were not the prettiest), but the marks on his forearm slowly faded years earlier.
Sherlock met John at the table, placing the bowls where they would be sitting. "This shouldn't be complete rubbish," he mumbled quietly, stabbing the pasta with his fork and placing it in his mouth while John did the same. Sherlock wasn't exactly nervous, but he did hope greatly that John would sincerely admire his cooking.
"Sherlock," the doctor started after swallowing, "this pasta is fantastic. You must cook more often."
"If I have the time," the violinist remarked, sipping from his water.
John was impressed. The two times prior to this "experiment" had failed and it was nice to see a meal come out decent from Sherlock's preparing and for the detective to consume it himself. "Wonderful," John said without a thought.