These days it was the only thing that kept his mind on the job, or in any state of sanity.

Everything that he made had some kind of reference to Sherlock, some days it was something that Sherlock loved and when he was feeling particularly hateful, it would be something that Sherlock loathed.

Unfortunately and regardless none of his wares were being eaten. Sherlock wasn't home these days and John had lost most of his appetite.

There were times when he would look at what he had made that day and think that it was such a waste and then other time he would think that it was ironic, as everything else seemed to be heading in the same direction.

He knew that this was no the most healthy of ways to work through his annoyance and anger at Sherlock's lack of existence in their apartment. It was like he had become a ghost that only existed in John's memory.

He could blame his want to join the army and serve his country. He blamed Jim Moriarty for turning up when he did and dragging Sherlock off into his world. Most of all he blamed Sherlock for his need for find something with someone that wasn't John.

And the only way that he could get these feelings out was by baking.