John could cook. Really cook. Whole meals from scratch. He'd even had a bash at making his own pasta once. And whilst it had looked like he was boiling up alien babies it did taste fantastic. These days he didn't cook so much, pressures of time and fighting for oven and fridge space with various people who had donated their bodies to science. But every now and then, usually when he was worrying about the effect ready meals and takeaways were having on his insides and his waistline, John would cook. Or sometimes when he was having a bad day and wanted to take his mind off things.
Which is why on a December evening, with the outside world slowly dissolving in to slush John was in the newly scrubbed kitchen making cookies. Cinnamon and Golden Syrup, like the ones his mum always made. It had been one hell of a day. Before he'd even got to work he had seen a car accident and had ended up operating in the street to stop a man from bleeding to death. Then when he'd got to work, in amongst the flu jabs and crying babies, he had to tell Mrs Lawrence that she had cancer. She'd taken it really well, with a cheery "Oh well at least I get one more Christmas." And when he had offered her the various treatment options she had simply replied "When you get to my age love" She was 92 "You realise there are worse things than dying." And they had left it at that.
John mixed the butter and golden syrup together in the bowl and wished Sherlock would come home. Come home so he could curl up on the sofa with him and pretend that the only thing existed was 221B Bakers Street and that they were the only two people in the world. Sherlock finally came home when John was painstakingly cutting out stars by hand from the rolled out dough. He felt that his Dalek shaped cookie cutter was not really Christmassy enough.
"Are you baking John?"
"Yes. I'm making cookies." Sherlock immediately walked over to him and gave him a hug. He smelled of the cold.
"I'm sorry you've had a bad day."
"How did you know I had a bad day?"
"Cookies." As if that was explanation enough. John supposed it probably was.
"Sherlock? Do you think there are worse things than death?"
"Of course. Don't you?"
"I know there are worse things than death. But sometimes..." John shook his head and went back to cutting out stars. Sherlock dumped his coat on the sofa and returned to the kitchen where he pressed against John's back and slipped his arms around his waist.
"The worst thing I can imagine is not being with you John. I would rather be dead than lose you. You're my best friend. No one else understands. No one else would put up with me."
"I love you too Sherlock." And Sherlock didn't seem to mind that John was getting flour all over them as they kissed.