A/N: Sorry for the lack of updates, college work keeps me busy! Apologies that this chapter is short... Enjoy!
221B Baker Street, literally.
John had decided he wanted to bake. He'd printed out a recipe, popped down to the shop, and got back to the flat to find that Sherlock had taken over the kitchen.
'What're you doing?' John enquired nervously, carefully avoiding the spilled chemicals and broken glass on the floor by the table.
'An experiment.'
'Sherlock, I was going to bake.'
'You were going to bake?' Sherlock asked, looking up from his work with a raised eyebrow.
'Yes, I was going to bake.'
'You were a soldier, John.'
'Yes. That doesn't mean I can't bake.'
'You never bake.'
'Again, yes. That doesn't mean I can't. Shift your... eyeballs or whatever and let me get started.'
Sherlock sighed dramatically, making an obvious effort to show John how much he didn't want to 'shift his eyeballs'. They weren't even eyeballs. They were fingers. Big difference.
John rested his hands on the table, bending down slightly. He gave him a look - a pleading look.
'Sherlock.'
'Fine! Fine! You better wipe the table down before you start rolling pastry or the like. Nobody wants to find a finger in their apple pie. I'm off to Bart's. Laters.' Sherlock haughtily swept his equipment into a large plastic box and headed for the door.
John signed and dumped his bag of ingredients on the worktop, muttering incoherent curses to Sherlock under his breath. Then man hadn't been out of the door ten seconds when John heard him running back up the stairs two at a time.
'Forgot something.' He panted lightly. John didn't have time to look puzzled before the dark haired man pressed his lips to his, wrapping his arms around the baker's waist, pulling him toward him tightly.
'Don't make apple pie, John. I don't like apple pie.' And with that, Sherlock swept out of the flat and the door slammed behind him.
John made apple pie.
#####
'You made apple pie. Why did you make apple pie?' Sherlock inquired disgustingly, pushing some stewed apple around on his dish.
'Oh eat your custard.' John retorted, shovelling a piece of pastry into his mouth. 'Mrs Hudson likes it. And Mycroft.'
'Yes well he would- wait, Mycroft? When did you see Mycroft?' The detective asked, resting his chin on his interlocked fingers.
'He popped in this morning, while you were out. Asked me if I still wanted to –'
'Act as cannon fodder? Yes, carry on.'
'Thank you.' John rolled his eyes, picking up Sherlock's plate and setting it on top of his own. 'Anyway, he explained what he wanted me to do, and I agreed.'
'Which was?'
'You know what it was, Sherlock.'
'I have an idea, but I don't exactly what he said, do I? Explain.'
John cut himself another slice of pie. 'I'm to meet with this, Vikram guy, so Mycroft's people can get hold of him. Simple.'
'And you think that he's going to believe for one minute that you're the arms dealer he's been conferring with?'
'Yes actually, I do.'
'He will kill you.'
'Not necess-'
'Yes. He will kill you.'
'I-'
'-he will kill me, too.'
John put his plate on the countertop without taking his eyes off Sherlock. 'It will be fine, Sherlock. Mycroft knows what he's doing, I know what I'm doing.'
'Yes, but his men don't'
'Sherlock, trust me. I'm not worried, you shouldn't be either.'
'I don't want to lose you, John.'
'I don't want to lose you, either. And I won't.'
