When John entered the door to 221B he'd been prepared for a great number of things; among them Petri dishes scattered next to his tea things in the kitchen, a client retelling a morbid story, even his flatmate lounging around in his pyjamas while shooting the wall. The silence behind the door held promise: perhaps Sherlock hasn't budged from his room yet, and he'd get to put away the shopping in peace. When he entered and had made his way to the kitchen however, he stopped in his tracks and his jaw dropped in surprise. Of the very many things he'd been prepared for, he had not been ready for this:

Sherlock was standing, turned to the side, wearing an apron, a book in one hand and the other holding a wooden spoon and busily stirring something in a pot on the stove.

Sherlock, wearing an apron.

John put down the bags he'd been carrying on the kitchen counter and stared.

"What?" Sherlock asked, not sparing him a single glance. "Shut your mouth, John. You look like Anderson on a crime scene." He continued stirring the contents of the pot, his eyes scanning the pages of the book in his hand. A cookbook. John didn't even realize they owned a cookbook. Or an apron for that matter.

"Where...?" John asked, still unable to move from his post by the kitchen doorway.

At that Sherlock looked up at him, and rolled his eyes. "Mrs. Hudson. And before you ask why, it's not an experiment. It's for dinner. Fussilli rustica. I require you to taste some, and to tell me what you think. I will need to make sure it is acceptable for a palate other than mine before I pack it."

John moved then, walking closer to where Sherlock stood, savouring the scent of sauteing onions. "Pack it? You mean this isn't for us? Smells good, by the way." He was treated to another eye roll before Sherlock smirked.

"Obviously. I'm leaving some for you and Mrs. Hudson. The rest I'm bringing with me to the morgue."

"The morgue? Why?" John stepped back and seated himself on one of the stools near the kitchen table.

Sherlock turned around, presenting his back to John, his shoulders tense. "To share with Molly."

John grinned. "Oh."

After Sherlock had returned from hiding (and working to dismantle what was left of Moriarty's network), John had noticed the bond that had formed between the consulting detective and the mousy pathologist. At first he'd put it down to the fact that both had shared in the burden of keeping a secret: Sherlock's faked death and subsequent covert mission. John had seen changes in his best friend since his return, but none so great as the one towards Molly. He was now more considerate of her feelings, and although he still sometimes managed to insult her-he was still Sherlock after all-he made an effort to be more polite.

Sherlock turned back to him, "What do you mean, 'Oh.'?"

John's grin grew wider. "You like her." He said, pointing at his best friend. "You're bringing her a pasta dinner you cooked yourself because you like her."

"John, you do realize you've just pointed out the obvious, again. Of course I like her. She's my friend." Sherlock, apparently done cooking, turned off the stove and proceeded to drain the pasta.

"I'm your best friend, and you don't bring me food at work." John pointed out gleefully.

Sherlock shrugged. "Why would I? I'm not courting you."

"Who's courting who?" Mrs. Hudson appeared at kitchen doorway, her hands clasped, eyes positively shining.

John turned to beam at her. "Sherlock's courting Molly." he said, just as Sherlock remarked, "Mrs. Hudson, you sound even more like an owl than usual."

At that, Mrs. Hudson rushed to Sherlock's side, gesturing for him to put down the pot he'd been holding. Once he'd done so, she reached out, holding his face in both of her hands. "My Sherlock! Courting that pathologist! Oooh! Is this all for her? I wondered why you borrowed my things. I didn't realize you'd be old-fashioned. But it's nice! I like that Molly, she's pretty. A bit strange, but I suppose that's part of her appeal to you isn't it? Oh, you'd be perfect for each other, I can tell. You're children will be lovely! Oh! I might actually get to be a gran!"

John spoke up, seeing that Sherlock was growing alarmed at their landlady's rambling. "What? You didn't think I'd get married and have kids?" he asked, feigning hurt feelings.

Mrs. Hudson walked over to him and patted his knee. "Oh, you know what I mean." She turned back to Sherlock. "Do you need help, dear? We want to impress the doctor, after all. Oh, and you be nice to her now, I like that girl, when you were gone being dead she'd always come around and ask me how I was, and when you came back she wouldn't stop apologizing to me for about a week. You better treat her right!"

Sherlock, still visibly shaken, merely nodded. When Mrs. Hudson had left, however, he turned to his flatmate, and let out a sigh, "I may need your advice."

Today just keeps getting better and better. Mary will want to know about this. John thought. "Advice? From me? Surely not!"

The pout came out. Sherlock stood up straighter in order to tower over him.

"Fine." John raised his hands in mock surrender. "What is it for?"

"Again, John, obvious."

John grinned. "You want help with Molly." when he didn't receive a reply, he continued. "Why, exactly?"

Exasperated, Sherlock paced the length of the small kitchen. John could see that he was worried and quite serious, but couldn't wipe the grin off of his face. Sherlock pacing in the kitchen wearing a ruffly purple apron was simply too funny. He wished he could film it. If Lestrade were here he'd manage it.

Oblivious to John's amusement, Sherlock continued to pace, his head bowed, hands clasped behind him. "I've spoken to her about my intentions. But Molly is reluctant to move into something..." Sherlock appeared to grasp for words "...something more."

John's ears perked up. "At the risk of being told off, let me clarify this: Molly doesn't want to become "more" as you put it, and you want to?" Sherlock nodded, apparently frustrated. "Huh," John continued, "You'd think it's Opposite Day. I never thought I'd hear that from you. Or any of this for that matter."

Sherlock, now visibly worried, busied himself by preparing the packed dinner. "I didn't say she didn't want to. I said she was reluctant. There's a difference."

"Fine. She's reluctant. How do you know this?"

Sherlock explained the events of the previous night. It was apparent that he'd gone over the "date" in his mind many times. John noticed the lack of sarcastic barbs thrown his way whenever he asked the detective to go back over details to clarify a point. When it was over, John realized something.

"You really do like her that way." He said, quite astounded.

Sherlock looked offended. "What was that supposed to mean?"

John shook his head. "No, it's just, well, we all thought you might be asexual..." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that "...and, well, it's been pretty obvious, to everyone really, that Molly fancies you. You've never paid her any attention before. You even used her crush against her to get access to the morgue and to get body parts. You can't blame us for being so incredulous."

Seeing Sherlock's reaction, John raised a hand, asking for his patience. "Look, Sherlock. I get it. You want to be more than just friends with our patho- YOUR pathologist..." John immediately changed the possessive to exclude himself when he saw Sherlock's face grow stormy. "...I'd say you were right when you thought about courting her. But it'll help if you made your intentions clear."

"Haven't you been listening?! I already made myself clear!"

"Then make yourself clearer!" John huffed, trying not to lose his patience. Really, it's like talking to a five-year-old. "You've not treated her nicely in the past without having an ulterior motive. You have to establish that your intentions are honourable. Make it so she doesn't think this is some sort of...of experiment. And be consistent! Don't go hot and cold, women don't like that."

Sherlock took a moment, and nodded. "Fine. Here's your pasta."

"She's my friend now too, you know. I wouldn't want either of you to be hurt. If you really start this, you better see this through, there's no turning back. I'm serious, Sherlock." He took a fork from the drawer and ran it under the kitchen sink - one can never be too careful in their kitchen.

Sherlock glared at him. "As am I."

John shrugged, then sampled the meal. "Mm! That's actually quite nice! Some wine would go very nicely with this." John remarked, enjoying his food.

Sherlock shrugged. "You don't have to look so surprised, it's simple science. And Molly only drinks on special occasions, even if she weren't on the graveyard shift she'd prefer soda." He went about putting things away, getting the food into the containers but leaving the lids off to let some of the steam out. "Take Mrs. Hudson her plate. I'm going to get ready." Sherlock hurriedly ran into the bathroom, and John heard him running the shower.

After a good half hour, in which John managed to finish his meal, bring Mrs. Hudson her plate of pasta, and start to wash the dishes in the sink; Sherlock came out fully dressed. He had chosen the purple shirt he knew Molly liked, and found the trousers that were appropriately tight around his bottom -he'd caught her looking in appreciation once. He was shrugging on his jacket when he came out into the kitchen to gather the containers of food and stuff them into a paper bag. When this was done, he went over to grab his coat and scarf, and started to head out of the flat.

"Good luck!" John shouted from the kitchen.

Sherlock's steps on the stairs stopped. "I don't believe in luck!" He shouted back.

"Fine." John answered, "Doesn't mean you won't need it!"

Sherlock paused, and ran up the stairs and in to the kitchen. "You are not to tell anyone of this."

"What? Even Lestrade? I thought you were serious about her." John looked over his shoulder at him, brows furrowed.

Sherlock sighed, running his hand through his hair. "I'm going to tell everyone eventually. It's just...I could do without the teasing."

Surprised, John turned to face his flatmate fully. "Since when did you care about them teasing you at the Yard?"

"I don't care about the teasing! It's just...it's hard enough convincing Molly as it is! Those meddling fools would only complicate it!" came the irritated reply. "Besides, Anderson and Donovan clearly...hate Molly, it's been evident ever since I've returned. They're sure to embarrass her." he added, his voice growing softer and his face betraying genuine worry.

This made John's grin reappear. "Okay, okay. Don't worry. I understand. I won't tell anyone else yet. AND, I'll ask Mrs. Hudson to do the same."

"Thanks." Sherlock whispered, rather reluctantly. "And Mary?"

"What about Mary?"

"You're not telling her, are you?"

John raised his eyebrows, "What? Of course I'm going to tell Mary."

"But you just said-"

"She's friends with Molly now. If I told Mary, she's sure to pass it on to her. And because she learned it from a reliable source," John pointed to himself smugly, "she'll be more likely to give you a chance."

"What? What are you implying? That-"

"Oh shut up, Sherlock, and bring her the dinner already."

Sherlock huffed, turned, and walked out of the kitchen.

John waited until he could hear his friend's footsteps halfway down the stairs before hollering, "It'll be good if you actually brought the food!"

Author's Note: Hello! I'm trying to get the chapters up as soon as they come to me, which isn't going to be a very reliable way to gauge the duration between chapters, so please be patient!

Again, this is my first attempt at writing fan fiction for *any* fandom, and both this and the previous chapters have gone up unbetaed and without proof reading on my part (I've been too nervous to look them over, I felt if I did I wouldn't put them up at all. Pathetic, I know.) Also, no amount of wishing on my part can make me British, so please excuse slips in cultural references.

Constructive criticism is much appreciated, so if you have the time please let me know what you think!

~Liberi Ad Somnia