A loud crash sounded from the kitchen, followed by curses that would make a sailor blush. Yet another shattering crash a few moments later and John winced.
He began to fidget on the living room couch, leaning over to try and look into the kitchen. As he did a puff of what looked like white smoke drifted through the doorway. A mug cut through the powder and shattered against the opposite wall.
"I'm fine!" Sherlock yelled before John could open his mouth to ask anything.
John leaned back against the cushions with a sigh, rubbing his leg. Sherlock had forced him onto it hours ago, telling him that under no circumstances was he to leave this couch or come anywhere near the kitchen. John, groggy without his morning tea, had no choice but to obey.
John took the time to review what on earth Sherlock could be doing. Horrible experimentation on Anderson ruled very likely, or, god forbid, cooking. John shuddered.
An echoing thud rang out and John jumped out of his chair.
"Sherlock!"
The flat was completely silent.
"Sherlock!" John yelled again, rushing to the door.
Sherlock turned to face him, fine white dust coating his black curls. He held a plate in his hands.
"John! Happy anniversary!"
John giggled at the sight of Sherlock Holmes covered in cake batter.