A/N: I have no idea when MasterChef is aired in London but for the sake of this story it airs on Valentine's Day. Rated T for impied sexytimes at the end. Enjoy!

Molly spewed out a mouthful of quinoa, eyes bugging as she stared at the television screen. "Sherlock!" she exclaimed once she was able to speak (and had hastily wiped her mouth with the linen napkin he'd so solicitously unfolded and placed on her lap).

He looked up, a patently false innocent expression on his face. "Problem, Molly? The quinoa not cooked properly? Too salty?"

"No, it's perfect, you know it's perfect," Molly retorted. "But you! That's you!" She pointed at the television set on the kitchen counter, placed so they could both see it perfectly from their own sides of the table. A table normally cluttered with scientific equipment and decaying body parts, but now scrubbed within an inch of its metaphorical life, covered with a crisp white tablecloth, and set with an exquisite vintage Royal Copenhagen china set (borrowed from his mother just for this occasion, he'd admitted when she admired it and questioned its origins), crystalware, and sterling silverware (also borrowed from his mother).

"Hmm, yes, that does appear to be me," Sherlock agreed, taking another bite of his quinoa. Quinoa that he had prepared.

Quinoa exactly like he was preparing on the television screen, where he was apparently not only competing on MasterChef...but winning it?!

Molly's mind was, to put it mildly, boggling. According to both John and Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock Holmes lived mostly on tea, biscuits and chips, and wouldn't know his way around a kitchen if given a guided tour - he kept handcuffs in the salad drawer, for heaven's sake!

And yet, here he was, having prepared her an exquisite meal - which he'd given his solemn word was his work and his alone, and which Mrs. Hudson had been invited up to attest to. And there he was on the telly, demonstrating his cooking skills with panache and that inborn elegance he demonstrated in (almost) everything he put a hand to.

(She'd already agreed Never to Speak of That Incident With the Poetry ever again.)

"So that's where you were, you git! You told me it was for a case! - Wait, was it for a case?" She racked her brain, but couldn't think off-hand if she'd read about any of the judges - or contestants, for that matter - having been arrested recently.

"Nope." Wonder of wonders, he didn't pop the p. In fact, he looked rather serious, but in a shivery-good kind of way, as he held her gaze with his. Oooh yeah, definitely full smoulder going on there. "I badgered my way onto the show so I could perfect my cooking skills in time for tonight's dinner."

Molly felt her eyes welling up a bit as she took in this admission. "You went on that show...for me?"

He nodded, reaching out and taking her free hand in his, the delicious meal he'd prepared completely forgotten as he rubbed his thumb gently over her knuckles. "Who else?" He frowned. "You have no idea how much work it took for me to talk them out of making me wear that damned hat."

She chuckled a bit at the visual of him wearing a pinny and the hat. "Thank you," she said, leaning across the table for a soft, lingering kiss. "Thank you so much, Sherlock, for doing all this for me. You didn't have to, you know. I'd still love you even if you'd just taken me out for chips."

"I'll make a note of that for next year," he replied with a chuckle of his own. "Now. Shall we get back to this ridiculously overwrought feast I've prepared? There's a chocolate torte for dessert, but I'm afraid it's store-bought." He waggled his eyebrows. "So it'll keep until tomorrow if…"

"If?" Molly prompted with a knowing grin - and another bite of her delicious quinoa. TV-Sherlock was rather arrogantly explaining his 'process' to the off-screen interviewer; without looking, real-life Sherlock - HER Sherlock, as she deliriously reminded herself - reached over, grabbed the remote, and clicked the show off.

"If," he continued with a decided twinkle in his eyes, "you'd rather have it tomorrow. For, say, breakfast. In bed?"

Molly's response was an enthusiastic kiss, preceded by a lunge across the table that nearly took out a piece of stemware but luckily Sherlock's reflexes were nothing short of cat-like; the slender flute was saved, the remainder of dinner was forgotten, and the chocolate torte was, indeed, eaten the next morning for breakfast.

In bed.