Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A. N. I know, this is not the best and late…but I have been living through a heat wave named Lucifer that fried my neurons completely. Sorry. Hope you can enjoy it all the same.
John would be very surprised, if he knew that Sherlock went shopping, but he had plans, and could – occasionally – take care of his own scientific needs. This was supposed to be an experiment – well, disguised as one, at least – and so accuracy in the details was essential. His partner, as much as he was the best human being in existence, would probably miss the necessary details in the raw materials…but hopefully Rosie wouldn't. She was an exceptionally bright girl, and he'd taught her to observe.
Coming back home, he was whistling. Because today John didn't need to go to his 'official' work. Because he was satisfied about getting the ball rolling in Mycroft's court. His brother needed to grow up and shed his ridiculous concerns about relationships – and yes, the sleuth was perfectly aware of how weird it sounded, coming from him. But for once, he was the…maybe not smart, but wise one. Because the day was supposed to be about having fun, and planning intricate tricks (though he didn't have as much time as he would have liked at first) to surprise others, and that would keep his brain active – even without anyone getting murdered. Really, what was there not to be happy about?
"Mrs. Hudson!" he called, coming back in. "I might need some help."
"What with, dearie?" she asked, coming to meet him, an apron smattered with flour tied over her dress. "I was a bit busy myself, but if it's a quick thing…"
"I'm actually not that sure. I have a recipe I need to perfect by the time Rosie gets back home, and while I would generally want to do things by myself, I'm ready to admit that your superior expertise might be useful, given the time constraint," the sleuth admitted, with a shrug.
"Well, Rosie will still be in class for a few hours. My own baking is already underway…I promise I'll come up as soon as I get it in the oven, dearie. And no pouting, it won't hurt you to wait. I bet that John will have a way to distract you for another half-hour or so," Mrs. Hudson replied, with a huge grin.
"I suppose," the detective agreed, smiling.
"Ok, who are you and what have you done with my husband?" John remarked, seeing him enter the flat.
"What?" Sherlock queried.
"You did the shopping… and I admit I heard you chat with Mrs. Hudson. You're planning to cook? Actual edible food?" the doctor quipped, coming to kiss him lightly.
"I believe in retaliation adequate to the offense…and Rosie's prank this morning was food-based," the consulting detective replied, when they parted. John had taken the bags from his hands, apparently not trusting him entirely with proper ingredient storage.
"Was it, love?" his husband asked, smiling.
"There's nothing to smile at, I must have lost at least five years of life. You know I use milk as growing medium!" Sherlock whined.
"Ouch. She made you think she got into your experiments without permission…and eaten them?" John asked. That was a nightmarish prospect, all right. He was actually a bit scared about what proper retaliation would entail…
"Oh, don't look at me like that," the sleuth replied, pouting, and as usual reading his mind and replying to that instead of the actual conversation. "As if I could ever hurt our girl…or even want her scared. I don't want her to be ever afraid, you know, much less about me. You know me better than that."
"Yep. I do, sorry. So…what are we preparing?" the doctor queried.
"There'll be time to discuss that. After all, Mrs. Hudson will be up to help later, and her input should have some weight. As much as I appreciate your manifold talents, and your delicious recipes in particular, I suspect that elaborate sweets are not really something you felt the need to pursue. If you've really eavesdropped on my conversation with our dear landlady, you should have known that she tasked you to entertain me until her arrival," he retorted, sounding rather regal.
"Did she? And how can I, Your Highness?" John asked, with a mock bow.
"Surprise me," Sherlock demanded.
"Well, since we have a limited time…there's one thing I've always wondered about actually," his blogger replied, with a predatory smile.
"And that would be?" the sleuth queried, leaning away from him but a lazy smile stretching his lips.
"How many uses for a stopwatch do you think we can figure out?" his partner quipped, raising a challenging eyebrow. Of course he'd made Sherlock watch Torchwood – after Doctor Who, it was a natural progression – and frankly, the doctor always had a slight penchant for Jack Harkness, what with him being dark-haired, sexy and with a gorgeous coat. He'd been struck by that sentence – and surely his love would not object to a little experiment?
"Mmmm…at least seven, but in thirty minutes? No more than three. Annoying human biology," the sleuth purred.
John chuckled, kissing him. Typical of his love, to bemoan human limitations. He was still low-key waiting for the day Sherlock would come out and admit he was actually some sort of alien. Not that the doctor would love him any less if he'd discover that Sherlock was a creature out of deep space. The consulting detective would still be his gorgeous, clever, adorable, kind (yes, so very kind), brave, loving being he'd fallen in love with at first sight…though they'd needed way too long to have the common sense to act on it.
And if he misbehaved, pleasing his lover (twice, actually, because John liked to stretch things out as much as he could, even when they were on a schedule) but refusing reciprocation…Well, after all, the sleuth was the one who needed entertaining. No matter how the detective pouted, looking forward to having his love naked and spoiling him back, or how much John would have liked it himself, he had plans, and wasn't about to let them be spoiled. The former soldier had self-control enough for the both of them…and whispered promises that, later, Sherlock would get to do whatever he wished, were enough to persuade the detective to comply.
If Mrs. Hudson hadn't come up, John would have eventually given up (he's always been the worst at denying consistently his beloved's request, unless it was an actual matter of safety), but there she was, calling out a warning to the both of them. The old lady looked at Sherlock like a happy and proud parent, declaring, "So, dearie…what are you interested in? I almost can't believe that you would be interested in cooking yourself."
"Well, Rosie forced my hand. I'm not really aiming for something nutritious…more of an artistic dessert, you see," the sleuth explained, getting the ingredients back out of the fridge.
"Artistic, really?" John asked, raising an eyebrow, rather concerned about the results of this endeavour.
"Well, for regular cooking I wouldn't involve everyone. After all, that would be just basic chemistry," Sherlock remarked, his tone dripping 'obviously' even if he didn't voice it.
"Sherlock," the doctor cut in sternly. Really, usually the dopamine's effect lasted longer. His love was just pouty because he didn't get his way entirely.
"Not good?" he asked, head automatically bowing like a chastened puppy.
"A bit. Not belittling people's areas of expertise while you're asking for their help is generally thought to be a good idea," John clarified, with a quick caress to his cheekbone.
"Well, you know we won't be offended anyway. But we need to get started, unless you want me to burn the cookies in my oven. And I'd say having a backup sweet might be a good idea," Mrs. Hudson added, surveying the ingredients.
"We won't need one," the sleuth declared earnestly. "Now, this is what I was thinking of," he announced, taking the mobile phone from his pocket and showing the recipe he meant to attempt.
The fact that he asked Mrs. Hudson's cooperation despite the instructions made his husband smile. "You're really determined that this will be perfect, aren't you?" he quipped, hugging his waist.
"It's for Rosie, John," Sherlock replied, as if it said everything. And really, it did.