K. Kneading
It's a chilly day in January, and starting to snow when I finally make my way home from the shops. I've not been able to procure much in the way of groceries aside from the milk – it seems that all of London has been out to stock up in defense of this approaching snowstorm. As displeased as I am with my trip, my cloudy mood starts to clear up as I shoulder through the door and breathe in the warm, pleasant scent of fresh biscuits.
"Mrs. Hudson, they smell marvelous," I call, hoping flattery will earn me a snack. There is no reply, so I head upstairs. What I see there surprises me.
The work surface in the kitchen has been cleaned off and floured, and Sherlock is elbow-deep in some sort of dough or batter, and as I approach I can see that it is he who is baking, and not Mrs. Hudson. I'm not sure he's aware that he doesn't have to knead biscuits.
"Are you…?"
"Baking," Sherlock replies. "Yes. Destroyed a batch of Mrs. Hudson's. Experiment. Accident." He frowns sourly and turns to the oven as the timer bleats. He slips on an oven mitt and extracts the sweets, then groans unhappily as he places them on the stovetop. "Oh, no..." Every last one of them is burned.