She heard the steps on the stairs. They didn't even bother avoiding the spots that creaked; why should they? She was trapped. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, and they'd be here in seconds. Astrid couldn't help it; she just froze.
That was when Sherlock walked in, striding into the kitchen and stopping suddenly at the sight that greeted him.
"John," he said, interrupting the other man, "Your daughter cooked. By the quantity of food prepared and the shocked look at our arrival, it is safe to assume she cooked for us."
"Oh, she's my daughter when she cooks?" asks John, mock offended. He doesn't add the all-to-ready, all-to-serious she's my daughter nearly all the time anyway, with you ignoring her like you do. Now isn't the time or place for this discussion.
"Really John, you've seen me cook. Clearly this is something she has learned from you." Sherlock wasn't a bad cook, but he rather lacked the patience for it. Even John's experiment analogies and the clear chemistry involved didn't help. Sherlock was simply not meant to cook- and everyone in the room knew it.
"I withhold the acceptance of that fact until I've tasted the food." John, on the other hand, had a natural aptitude for cooking, and knew it. He wasn't cocky, but it was one of the few things he was better at than Sherlock, and small victories, right?
Astrid commented, "Lestrade was under strict orders to require your services for at least an hour and a half." She sounded put out. Petulant, even. "It was a surprise."
"Well, we're quite surprised," said John, and with that, the sun seemed to come out in the flat as Astrid beamed.
John always knows what to say will cross Sherlock's mind later, when he is thinking about that night's meal. For now, he flops down into a kitchen chair, and John walks over to the stove to further investigate. He dips a spoon into a saucepan, takes a small taste of the contents, licks his lips while nodding. Offers some to Astrid, who accepts. She nods as he makes some quiet commentary, and Sherlock is reminded again that he loves this man, with a love so deep and powerful and bottomless and just a little bit lustful. His eyes wander to the smaller frame, just beside John, and a flicker of a similar emotion catches him off guard. He pushes it down, drowns it in observations (shirt hasn't been washed since last time she wore it, must be a favorite, she was listening to music when the cab pulled up and didn't hear us until we were on the stairs…), but later that night it will make it to the surface of his thoughts, and cause more than one confused wrinkle in his brow as he ponders it.
But for now, Sherlock watches his daughter finish making dinner, watches her set the table and bring out the wine that had been chilling ("Lestrade got it for me!"), watches as she serves them their food and sits down with them, a glass of water in her hand. He listens to John tell anecdotes about the surgery, hears the hearty yet feminine laugh that issues forth from his daughter at a particularly stubborn patient's comment. He watches them both, and John has to remind him to eat. He does, and it's delicious, and Sherlock thinks that maybe this is what people mean when they say home.