Sherlock is full of surprises, lucky John.

He woke up, hours later with an awful hunger tearing through his stomach. With a silent grunt he managed to open his eyes again, only too be struck by the strong beam of sunlight shining through the window.
"Wasn't it raining a minute ago?" he groaned and placed a hand over his hurting eyes. There was no answer and he took a look around the room, Sherlock's coat war folded over the back on the sofa but there were no sight of him. He let out a big sigh and stroke his hand through his hair, he was in a desperate need of a shower and a cup of tee. Then he saw the phone on the bedside table and decided it was time for an update in the daily media, he'd been gone for too long and needed to know what was going on around him. He didn't even have time to reach for the gadget before he heard that well known voice again.

"John?" There in the doorway was Sherlock, a cup of coffee in his hand and a pack if cigarettes in the other, he quickly hid them in his pocket when he saw John looking at the package. "I was just... er..." He stepped inside and placed the cup on the side table and started too clean up the wrappers from multiple candy bars and junk food; which was odd, Sherlock was known for avoiding those types of foods. The clothes were different on him, he was shaved, hair back in their usual curls. John quickly understood that another day had passed and that he had spent the night at home, he felt somewhat relieved that his friend had found the time to do something else that taking care of him 24/7. "How are you feeling?"

"I've had better days." he answered and noticed the bouquet of red roses on the table at the end of the bed. "Someone else been here?" The detective's cheeks quickly flushed red by the question and he shook his head. "You bought me flowers?" John could't help himself as he smiled ridiculously lovingly.

"Isn't that what people do?" Sherlock asked in shame and John let out a little laugh.

"Yes. Roses are a little unconventional thou, but they're nice." he said and his friend grinned. John watched in awe when he blushed and reach out to touch his upper arm. "Thank you."

"I didn't know when you would wake up, but I brought you a cup of coffee. No sugar."

"Oh, that's lovely, thank you." John sighed happily and craved after the cup. "Can you, maybe..." He signed for the remote on the wall and Sherlock pressed the button to alter the beds position. The mattress made a jump and John groaned in pain as his body bent in the bed.

"Are you in pain?" Sherlock asked, incapable of reading Johns expressions of feelings.

"No." he lied quickly and held his hand over the pulsating wound. But Sherlock could read his lies and ran over to the cupboard by the wall. "What are you doing?"

"Of course you're in pain." he said and snapped his finger on the syringe. "You can't lie to me." John frowned and shook his head.

"No, Sherlock. You're not a doctor." But Sherlock had already walked around the bed and put the needle into the tube of Johns drip.

"No, but I know what I'm doing." The morphine entered his system and all the pains just faded away and left him in a state between bliss and nausea.

"Jesus." he moaned and his head fell back on the pillow. "You shouldn't do things like that, if they see you, they will kick you out for sure." Sherlock smirked cockily and tossed the syringe across the room, it landed in the metal bin on the cupboard.

"Coffee?" he asked and held out the cardboard cup.

"Yes please." John answered quickly and grabbed it eagerly. One sip later he could feel his addiction being calmed of the caffeine. "Gods, that's good." The detective fell back on the chair again and lifted up his feet on the bedside, watching John as he sipped his drink.

"You must be starving." he said and John nodded.

"You have no idea." he smirked and warmed his hands on the cup, enjoying the sunlight that shined so rarely. "I would give anything for some chips."

"Well, you wouldn't want to spoil your appetite." his friend sighed and folded his hand together over his chest, smiling rather suspiciously.

"For what?" he asked and stroke his chin, he could feel the long stubble. "Do you have more surprises?" Sherlock was still smiling his cocky smile which was often seen when he'd just solved case and he slipped down in the chair, leaning his head to the back of it.

"You know I don't like surprises." he said and John grinned.

"That's because you can't be surprised." he reminded him and drank if his hot coffee. "I think you would like it if you were able to." Sherlock bit his lip not to laugh out loud.

"Um, no. I think I would hate it. But I am cooking you dinner tonight." The coffee almost choked him and he cleared his throat as he looked at the detective.

"You!?" he exclaimed and turned his face into a almost worried expression. "I've never seen you pick up as much as a whisk!"

"Oh, I can cook." he grinned, crossing his legs and sank further down in the chair. "Just you wait." There was a long moment of silence, John tried to avoid eye contact with his friend because he new that a single glance at him right now would make the heart monitor go crazy. A week ago, depending on how many days had passed since the last time he was conscious, that little spark that Sherlock had planted in his heart all those years ago had really turned into a flame. In one way he wanted to suffocate it, just in case this was just one of Sherlocks experiments. Oh god, he hoped this wasn't an experiment. But in another way, every gesture his friend had made these last couple of days seemed true due to the fact that Sherlock seemed to have no idea what he was doing, like he really made an effort to make John understand that his feelings was answered.

"Why the sudden urge to these things for me?" John had to ask. Everything was just to overwhelming when it came to Sherlock's kindness, he wasn't known for being kind. The detective, who still worn the cocky smile, let out a deep breath through his nose and inspected his nails.

"Just you wait." he said calmly.

221B Baker street, home, shower. That was the first thing that had come to mind as John stepped out of the cab. Still on heavy medication and still in pain, he was still happy to be out of the hospital so quickly. Standing in the steaming water he looked down at his torso, the gunshot was taped with waterproof bandaids, his skin bruised around the wound like he'd been punched with a fire extinguisher, jesus, did that hurt. He took a look at his arm, the bulled had only touched the skin on his forearm but it had teared into it deep enough to give him ten stitches. Just some knew war wounds, he thought to himself as he stepped out on the carpet and tossed the towel over his head. He took a deep breath in it to smell the fabric softener before he scrubbed his face and dried his short hair with it. He felt faint.

He fell down on side of the bathtub and wounded himself in the towel wile he took some deep breaths. The steam in the room and sucked up most of the air and his lack of protein only made the dizziness worse.

"Sherlock?" he called out, whimpering in panic, he didn't want his friend to find him naked on the bathroom floor. "Sherlock!?" There was a knock on the door.

"Everything alright?" Sherlock asked behind it and John's vision started to go blurry.

"Er... yeah, could you just open the door and let out some of the steam?" There was a click as Sherlock opened the lock from the outside and the door came open. To John's surprise Sherlock didn't leave, he stood in the opening looking worriedly at him.

"John?" he asked and walked in to open the window on the end of the room.

"I'll be fine." he whimpered and grasped the sides of the tub so he wouldn't fall off it. "I'm just... " Before he had time to finish the sentence, his bathrobe landed around his shoulders and he felt Sherlocks hands on his arms.

"Do you need help?" he asked and John came to the conclusion that without help, he would probably not leave the bathroom today. There was no need for an answer before the detective helped him to bring his arms into the sleeves. John observed him in the blur and as the cold spring air blew in through the window, he slowly started to feel better. Sherlock tied the bathrobe before he removed the towel from his legs and tossed his over his shoulder.

"Thank you." he sighed and the detective smiled.

"Do you need to rest before dinner?" he asked while he crouched before him. John shook his head and rubbed his eye as he groaned.

"No, I'm so too hungry." Sherlock gave him a teeth glistening smile and grasped his healthy arm to help him on his feet. He did't even get up before Sherlock had to catch him from falling.

"John!?" he shouted and fell to his knees with him in his arms.

His head was heavy, in fact, his whole body was too heavy for him, arms fell to his sides and he was to tired to care about the pressure on his wound as Sherlock held him. "John, come on. Grab a hold of me and I'll get you to the couch." With a huge effort, he managed to put his arms around Sherlocks neck and Sherlock braised him as he stood up, pulling him with him. "Alright?"

"Yeah." he breathed.

"Can you walk?" He gave him a slight nod and Sherlock grasped his wrist over his shoulder, helped him out to the living room and placed him in the armchair. "I'll get you some water. Don't move."

He sank further down in the armchair and leaned his head to the side while he rubbed his eye, then he noticed that something was different in the apartment. With a quick observation of every corner he realised that Sherlock had cleaned it, the beakers and glass containers were all put back in the wardrobe, papers had been sorted off the desks, the dust was gone from the furnitures and the floor, it even looked like he had tried to scrub the yellow smily face of the wall. He turned his head to face his friend as he stepped over the floor with a glass of water in his hand.

"Have you gone mental?" he asked with a smirk as he received the water.

"Mrs Hudson helped." he said, as always, he already knew what John was talking about. "Wound might get infected in a dirty place."

"Yes, I know, I'm a doctor." he grinned and Sherlock left for the kitchen again. That's when he noticed the shine in the old carpet and he nearly choked on the water. "You even shampooed the carpet!?" A loud laugh was heard from the kitchen, mixed with the sound of boiling water at something frying; whatever he was making, it smelled awfully good. "Wait until you see your room." He turned in the armchair again, too quickly this time and his wound burned bad enough to make him groan.

"You've been in my room?" he asked while grimacing in pain and pressing his hand to his broken ribs.

"Yes! Nasty business if you ask me. I washed the top mattress, vacuumed under the bed and your bureau, scrubbed the floor and I even cleaned out your wardrobe." John frowned, he couldn't believe his ears.

"Why?" he outburst and jumped when Sherlock set fire to whatever was in the frying pan. "Are... are you flambeing!?" Now he could believe his eyes.

"Yes, John! Go and get dressed! Dinner is served in less then five minutes."

The sight of the dinner table made him stop in the doorway, live candles, nicely set with napkins, wine glasses and Mrs Hudson's beautiful wedding china. John frowned and let out a restrained laugh as he looked at his friend who already sat by the table, elbows on both sides of his plate, leaning his chin to his folded hands.

"You did this?" he asked.

"Oh come on, don't be stupid. You were in the other room while I did this." Sherlock exclaimed rather harshly, but John was used to the tone. "Now sit down and eat." He couldn't help but feeling a bit underdressed for the occasion, wearing his casual jeans and a simple sweater when Sherlock, on the other hand was proper dressed in his black suit and dark shirt, which in Sherlock case was just as casual as what John's clothes. Without further speculation on their appearances, he sat down face to face with his friend and Sherlock opened the steaming pot and swirled the lid so the aromas would spread in the room. "Homemade spinach pasta with a cream sauce and fillet of beef flambéed in scottish whisky, aged since the 1930th." John was speechless, literary speechless. The man who never ate, never as much had opened a carton of milk had made him this... this glorious meal from scratch. He had actually even made the pasta from a carton of eggs and a bag of flour.

"Sherlock..." he breathed and stroke his chin in admiration. "You actually made this?" Sherlock unfolded his napkin and placed it in his lap as he looked at him him wide eyes.

"What? Is something wrong?" he asked and corked up the wine with a loud pop. It was white, just as John preferred and Sherlock filled their glasses half way.

"No." he answered with a smile, still not believing his eyes. "No, absolutely not." Sherlock reached his hand over the table.

"Plate." he ordered and John removed the napkin from his plate and placed it in his hand. Food was served on it together with a salad decorated with parmesan and walnuts, John was fascinated by the utter perfection of the meal and he stroke his fingers through his hair as Sherlock placed the plate before him again. "Be careful with the wine, you shouldn't drink to much with all that morphine in your system."

"Oh, I think I'll be fine." he said and picked up the fork. "Where did you learn to cook?" Sherlock smiled crocked as he served himself.

"Television." he answered.

"Tele..." John smirked. "You're telling me that you learnt to flambé by watching the telly?" Sherlock shrugged and pressed his lips together into a thin smile.

"Yes." he said simply and put the lid back on the pot. "Now, eat John. You haven't had a nice meal for days now according to my count." He didn't need to be told twice.

It wasn't just the first meal he'd had in days, it was the best meal he'd had in ages. The incredible combinations of aromas and flavours married just as well as earl grey and lemon.

"Christ, Sherlock. You outdone yourself." he breathed and spun the fork in the pasta again

"Of course I have!" he exclaimed cockily. "I'm a show off, am I not?"

"Yes, but..." John laughed and drank of the wine. "I thought you didn't even know how to turn on the oven." Sherlock laughed with his dark voice and observed his friend.

"That seems rather possible in my case, doesn't it?" Johns snorted and started to giggle wildly, feeling the pain on his chest.

"Oh please.." he giggled and tried to calm himself down. "Don't make me laugh!" But Sherlock couldn't help himself, his head fell back and he laughed loudly in the kitchen. "No, please!" John suffered but the merry Sherlock always left him in a good mood.

"Aren't you surprised that I know how turn on the vacuum too?" he asked and John was about to die in his chair. "I didn't even know we had a vacuum."

"Oh jesus christ." John laughed and held the hand over his wound. "Sherlock, please!" He tried to breath between the attacks of giggling. "Oh god, you lazy bastard..." he bursted into laughter again. "Don't tell me this is the first time you've cleaned in your life." Sherlock didn't answer, just smiled while biting his bottom lip. "Oh god, you can't be serious?"

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