Cooking is good.

This was one of the few certainties John Watson felt he had left in his life. The city could be falling to pieces around you, but so long as you took a few minutes to do something as simple as make a slice of toast, you could face anything.

Of course, what John was currently cooking was a bit more complicated than a slice of toast. Creamy chicken pasta was not as easy as it looked and it was damn annoying. The chicken was baking fine and the pasta was child's play. But something about the creamy sauce wasn't working, something in the consistency. Molly had offered to stay and help but he'd turned her down; oh no Molly, you've got much better things to do. That was a mistake, because now he needed some expertise in the chicken pasta field - though the idea of Molly being such an expert did make him chuckle a bit. The skinny six-year-old was watching him wide-eyed from the armchair, knees drawn to his chest. Parker was still fast asleep. He didn't blame her, the poor thing. It had been a stressful day.

"Oh bloody hell!" He tried adding a little more cheese to the sauce, eyes skimming the recipe for further instruction and coming up with nothing. "Sod this."

"That's not a very nice word." The boy gave him a disapproving look from the armchair, staring him down in the manner only a child could. He shook his head and hid his smile, picking up the spoon and going back to the sauce.

"You're right, it isn't. So I should hope I won't ever hear you using it."

"Nice save, Watson." A laughing voice came from somewhere to his right. "You wouldn't make a bad dad, you know."

"Sally!" John jumped, glancing at the clock. "Bit early, aren't you? Didn't you have a body to be dealing with?"

"Ah, yes. Sherlock wouldn't take the case. We decided that it was a suicide...inconsistent evidence. Seemed the most logical answer."

"A suicide? Sherlock said there were four gunshot wounds." John raised his eyebrows, momentarily confused until suddenly it seemed to click for him and he understood. Still, he looked at Sally, waiting for an answer.

"Well, either he was a masochist or he had very poor aim."

His mouth twitched into a smile and he half-sighed, half-chuckled. "You're nearly as bad as Sherlock."

"A week ago I would've punched you for saying that. Actually, I'm still considering it." She returned his smile. "But today I think I'll take it as a compliment."

"Don't let him hear you say that. Go on, sit down. This is almost done and he'll be home soon."

As if on cue, Sherlock swept into the room with his usual grandiosity, walking in an overconfident swagger. John could tell immediately he'd solved something that had been annoying him; he only got that look when he was immensely proud of his actions. Sherlock didn't greet them, merely throwing off his coat and scarf and taking the chair opposite Donovan. His eyes swept over the table, looking for the half-finished experiment he'd left there, and was unsurprised to hear John mutter "They're in my room, Sherlock, don't worry."

As the plates were placed in front of them, Sherlock wrinkled his nose and looked down at it. It looked entirely unappetising, but he hadn't eaten properly since yesterday and the look John was giving him was enough to make him pick up his fork and start eating. Donovan seemed to be enjoying it, and Jacky had hesitantly moved from the chair to a place at the table and was eating his quietly. John knocked at Parker's door and quietly called, "Parker, we've got food out here if you're hungry." When there was no reply he joined the others at the table and attacked his plate with an unusual gusto.

"So, Sergeant, has any new evidence come forward on that murder case?" Sherlock asked through a mouthful of food, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinised Sally from across the table. She shook her head and cleared her throat.

"We concluded it was a suicide and closed the case."

Sherlock laughed quietly, sharing a look with John. He never expected that Sergeant Sally Donovan - rule-following, law-abiding, inherently good Sally Donovan - would go so against protocol and actually go against evidence in an investigation. However, she seemed to have an unfortunate weakness for children and would do anything to protect them. It seemed this was enough to fight her pathological need to follow the rules. "Did you get Molly's report on the ruptured spleen and the damaged lung tissue?"

John nearly choked on his food, swallowing quickly. "Can we not discuss body parts at the table, please?"

Sally and Sherlock both ignored him. "Yes, I found that unusual. And the lung suggesting suffocation without any physical evidence towards it? Any ideas?"

"He was a heavy smoker, but something tells me there's more to it than that. I suggest we have Molly perform a full autopsy to view the middle lobe, and full toxicology. I expect we'll find a drug of some sort in his system. He was a dead man anyway."

Sally nodded, spearing another piece of pasta and chewing thoughtfully. As she swallowed, she said "Did you read the other victim report, mentioning the punctured lung filled with putrid coagulated blood?"

John groaned as he dropped his fork, covering his face with his hands. "I have died. I have died and gone to hell and this is my ungodly punishment."

"John, don't be dramatic. The entire purpose of this was to discuss the case...speaking of which," Sherlock turned back to Sally, "Did you get the lab report on those burn marks in the eyelids of the fourth victim?"

"No, no, I'm definitely dead." John pushed his plate away, looking green at the mere mention of victim eyelids. "Can't you please discuss this after we've finished eating? Or better yet, go back to hating each other! I'm not sure I can cope with childish banter and...and eyelids. Not at dinner."

The next five minutes of the meal was relatively silent, aside from Sherlock muttering quietly that he liked discussing eyelids no matter the time of day. Sally tried to look serious, staring down at her plate, but was unable to contain her laughter for more than a few seconds. The moment she looked Sherlock in the eye, she started to chuckle.

"What? What's so funny, Donovan?"

"You two. You squabble like an old married couple."

John sighed and got up, walking away from the table and upstairs with a dramatic huff, slamming his bedroom door behind him. Sherlock's eyes followed his movement before he faced Sally again and remarked, "Isn't he a drama queen?"