John was used to coming home to a surprise. Eels in the sink, heads in the fridge, vinegar in the tub, glue in Sherlock's hair. All for science, of course.
When he returned home on a Tuesday afternoon, struggling to carry the four gallons of milk and open the door (How did Sherlock go through it all? He'd rather not know), he hadn't been gone for more than an hour. Yet, to little shock, 221B was nearly unrecognizable. Cooking books, at least seven dozen of them, were strewn over the furniture. The stove was hissing, the microwave was beeping, and the lights were flickering. An enthralled detective sat on the floor, one hand running through his hair (despite said hand being covered in flour) and the other flipping vigorously through a how-to guide to making Christmas cupcakes.
John would later brag, humbly, that he only dropped one of the gallons; never mind that it exploded on the carpet and took a solid week to stop smelling up the flat. But he dismissed this, placed the other gallons down, and turned off all appliances in one swift motion. When he turned to survey his flat mate, Sherlock hadn't moved, save to grab another book.
He sighed and bent down to snatch the book out of his hand. "Sherlock. What are you doing?"
Sherlock stared at his hands a few seconds after the book left them before looking up. "Studying."
The doctor's tongue pushed on the inside of his bottom lip. "Do we need to have this conversation again? I told you—"
"Not to try again," Sherlock finished. "Yes, I'm aware. But I'm not trying. I'm studying. There's a difference, John. No one's harmed in this process."
"Why was the stove on?"
"Minor detail." Sherlock waved a dismissive hand and grabbed another book, but John got in his way.
"No. Clean this up; we're going out."
"I've just begun, and—"
"I'm not asking. Come."
Normally Sherlock would argue, but he knew better than to talk back when the inner soldier came out. He looked around the flat, not really seeing the problem, and headed for the bathroom to clean himself up.
Within an hour they were at an Italian restaurant Sherlock had never been to before, but of course he was aware it existed. The taxi ride, completed in silence, took nearly half an hour to arrive. Sherlock considered mentioning that he wasn't hungry, but he decided against it. The soldier was still present.
Once inside, they were greeted with soft lights, the faint scent of orange, and a stoic hostess. "Two for Watson," John said, and Sherlock lifted his eyebrows. They were seated immediately. A waitress came over, poured two glasses of wine, and asked to take their order. John mumbled something Sherlock couldn't catch, and the waitress retreated.
"I didn't hear you make reservations," Sherlock commented.
"There're a lot of things you don't hear," John said, and they sat silent for a moment.
Sherlock played with his fork until the meal arrived: two lobsters, larger than any he knew could exist, accompanied by warm rolls, garden salads, smooth butter, and a small portion of sirloin.
As the waitress left, John crossed his arms and stared at Sherlock. The detective looked down at the feast before him and tried to understand what point John was trying to make. "I'm aware I could never make anything like this," he tried. "You didn't need to break the bank to prove that point."
John raised his left eyebrow and shook his head. That wasn't his point. "Go ahead. Eat."
Sherlock sighed, sure that manners should come into play here, but other things were more important. "I'm sure this was expensive, John, but eating this will slow me down. Lestrade could call any minute with a case. I can't eat this."
"You can't or you won't?"
"What?"
"You can't eat this," John said, popping a piece of steak in his mouth, "or you don't want to? You don't look too tempted to me."
Sherlock eyed John, trying to read his game, but he wasn't having much luck. "Well…no. Food isn't exactly appealing. To me, at least."
"Ah." John nodded and leaned back, looking around the restaurant. "Sherlock, uh, see those people over there?"
He looked at a couple several tables across from theirs. "Of course."
"Can you tell me anything about them?"
A faint smile formed on his face. "Mid-thirties. The man's been out of the country twice—no, three times—in the past few months. They're married, but…no kids. They want some, though. See how she stares at the baby behind us? One of them can't have children. My money's on him; I'd say he's been travelling to find a fix. Medicine can work miracles nowadays, and they can afford to try, obviously, since they're eating here and it's not being treated as a special occasion."
John smiled back and shook his head. "That frustrates me to no end, Sherlock."
His face fell. "What did I say?"
"That you can do that, I mean. I can't. Can I learn, you think? Maybe if I devoted myself to it."
Sherlock felt a slight twinge of pity. "I could teach you, if you'd like, but you must understand that you'll never get to where I am. I don't mean that as an insult, John, but I'm not the way I am because I've practiced. I was born with the ability."
"So I'd be pretty frustrated with the experience, huh?"
"'Fraid so."
"Does that make me incompetent?"
"No, no, of course not. I mean, no more than everyone else is."
John leaned forward, tired of trying to get Sherlock to reach his point. I swear; he can be so ignorant sometimes. "Sherlock, look at the meal I bought you. This is the one of the nicest restaurants in London, and the most expensive meal on their menu. My mouth is watering just looking at it, but you haven't given it a second thought since it came to the table. Food isn't your passion, and deducing isn't mine. Stop forcing it on yourself. Just focus on what you're good at."
Sherlock kept eye contact for a few seconds before laughing. "I was wrong, John. You are an idiot."
John crossed his arms. "Oh?"
He leaned back and sighed. His desire to be an expert in everything, he could admit, was unrealistic. Looking at the couple across the way, he smiled, finally counting himself blessed to have something he was both skilled at and enjoyed. "You didn't have to spend all this money to make that point. You could have just said something. I would have gotten it all the same."
John finished his meal—Sherlock was so engrossed in dissecting the couple that he hadn't noticed the doctor devouring his food—and grabbed the already-paid check (when had he paid that?) from the waitress. John left a tip, signed the receipt, and handed over a card that read "Sherlock Holmes."
"Oh, that's alright," John said, grabbing his jacket and standing to leave. "It was nice of you to treat us. We'll have to do this again sometime."
Sherlock never tried to cook again. He now works on trying to watch John while simultaneously deducing his surroundings.