John's happy mood dissipated, and was replaced by suspicion as he walked into the flat and caught the unmistakable smell of air freshener.
Sherlock looked up from the book he was reading, his expression far too innocent, stood, stretched, and then walked past the doctor into the kitchen.
"Tea?" he asked, switching on the kettle and pulling mugs out of the cupboard.
"You never make tea."
"I do sometimes." Even his hurt expression looked somehow… wrong.
John cautiously stepped into the kitchen. All the work surfaces were scrubbed clean, the breakfast things had been washed up and put away, and even the kettle gleamed. John's heart sunk. Something was horribly wrong.
"Chinese?" Sherlock asked, then noted John's frown. "I even cleared the kitchen table and laid it, table cloth, cutlery, the works."
His voice was almost childlike, and John was about to berate himself for his suspicions when Sherlock's words sunk in. He looked closer at the table.
"We don't have a tablecloth. That's a sheet!"
"No it's…"
"What have you done?"
"Why should I have done anything?"
"Because I know you too well"
Side-stepping Sherlock's attempt to stop him, John reached for the sheet and flipped it off the table, sending cutlery clattering to the floor.
"I knew it." He sighed, looking at the wooden table top, burned and blackened.