November Prompt: Spice

Sherlock watched John. He was trying not to be obvious about it, but he was aware that at some points he knew he was staring. He hoped John was oblivious in his concentration.

There was something hypnotic watching John cook. He had gently sautéed some onions and garlic, and then Sherlock watched as John grabbed jar after jar of various spices and threw them into the pan with a splash of water and 30 seconds later adding chicken and browning it in the spice mixture. Chuck in a tin of tomatoes and a spoon of tomato purée. Then the lid went on and John…

Sherlock hid behind the paper as John turned to the sink and began washing the dishes he'd already used in preparation. Half an hour later two plates of chicken curry and pilau rice and two cold Kingfisher's were on the table and Sherlock smiled softly as John's hand pulled the paper down and he nodded over his shoulder to the meal.

It was delicious.

Not that Sherlock would ever tell John that. He ate, sure, but food wasn't important other than to sustain his brain and thinking ability. He rarely thought further than that, grabbing whatever was to hand or not eating at all when a case was on then celebrating with a meal once it was over.

But Sherlock never cooked. It wasn't a priority, and like other information – like that situation about the solar system – that was irrelevant he had never retained the ability to cook anything.

With plates scraped clean and a last mouthful of beer John sat back, wiping his mouth on a napkin and eyeing Sherlock across the table. If his flatmate had deigned to look up at that moment he would have seen a twinkle in his eye. John waited until Sherlock took the last mouthful of beer.

'You're turn next week.'

John smirked as Sherlock coughed, eyes wide as the realisation of what John had said sank in.

'Su-ure.'

'Excellent. I look forward to it.'

The next weekend it was John's turn to sit in the chair and pretend he wasn't watching Sherlock as he cooked. It was an…experience.

The table was covered with all the jars of spices he would need to use, all lined up precisely and in alphabetical order. The meat was diced exactly into one-inch cubes and all the other ingredients were already measured out.

Sherlock rolled up his sleeves and made a start.

John gave up the pretence of pretending to be busy and watched as Sherlock went from table to stove and back again in what could have passed as a choreographed dance. By the time the curry was simmering nicely Sherlock had begun to clear the table and set it for dinner.

Dinner was delicious. But there was a frown on Sherlock's face, which in turn made John frown.

'Sherlock? What is it?'

'It doesn't taste right.'

'It tastes fine.'

'No, no it doesn't. Something's off.'

Sherlock looked at John, staring until under normal circumstances it would be uncomfortable, but John held his gaze.

'How did you do it last week?'

'Do what?'

'I watched you. You didn't measure anything, you threw everything in together and it was beautiful.'

'I – I, um, thanks? But this is really nice!'

'It doesn't taste as good, yet I measured everything precisely.'

'It's a knack, Sherlock. The more you cook, the better you'll become and you'll be able to adjust the spices to your personal taste.'

He knew it wouldn't be a good answer for the man, and the scowl confirmed it, but there was little else John could do. Practice made perfect, and cooking was no exception.

Over the course of the next two weeks John barely saw Sherlock. Some big case had caught his attention, and John carried on with his patients, knowing that if Sherlock needed him he would ask.

Shopping when Sherlock was on a case was easy – the man didn't really eat when he was engaged, but two weeks was about average length for one of his cases, and so John had completed a full shop.

Entering 221b Baker Street John was assailed by the smell of curry cooking. John frowned while he climbed the stairs. Usually when Sherlock finished a case they celebrated with a takeout or a restaurant meal, but this wasn't a take-out. This was a home-cooked meal.

And the table was laid out with a full curry. John stared at the feast before him. And then at a very smug-looking Sherlock, sitting there, waiting for him. John sniffed and set about putting the shopping away, ignoring the pouting until everything was away. Then, and only then, he sat to eat.

The meal was fantastic.

John didn't say anything, and Sherlock fidgeted. John inwardly smirked, knowing that he was desperate for John to ask so he could show off. Two weeks to break a case?! Didn't Sherlock realise he had come home smelling of curry every night?

'That was an unexpected pleasure, Sherlock. Thank you.'

'You're welcome.'

'It was almost as good as the first one you made.'

The outrage on Sherlock's face was John's undoing, and he couldn't help but crease up laughing. Which only caused the man to show even more indignation before John's laughter became infectious and the two men were holding their belly's from laughing.

Good food, good friends. What more can a man ask for?

The voice of Lestrade came up the stairs.

Oh! A case!