Prompt word from: Rhianna (I think?)
Baking:
It had been a long day at the surgery for John. He was looking forward to getting home and kicking off his shoes before relaxing in his armchair and watching some crappy TV.
He opened the door leading to 221B and found that the flat was suspiciously silent.
"Sherlock?" He called, hesitantly stepping into the flat, fearing what he might find. Suddenly in a cloud of white dust Sherlock burst from the kitchen and pushed his out of the door, locking it and leaving the key in.
John was locked out.
Safe to say, the ex-army doctor was more than a little pissed off. All he had wanted was a quiet evening watching the TV. But then again when would he ever get an evening like that living with Sherlock bloody Holmes.
"Let me in, Sherlock!" John commanded, angrily.
"I'm afraid I can't John, I'm taking part in an exciting and vital experiment."
"Sherlock Holmes you let me in right this instant!"
"I can't."
"Yes you bloody well can. Or... I'll call Mycroft!"
"You wouldn't."
"Try me." John said, knowing Sherlock would believe him. There was a small click and the door opened. Sherlock stood in the doorway attempting to keep his cool. It was quite difficult considering his current appearance.
He was coated from head to food in a fine white powder. It clung to his hair and specks had plastered themselves to his tight fitting shirt. The white flecks were covering most of his black trousers and every time he moved a little cloud of powder followed him.
John stepped into the flat, careful to avoid Sherlock so that he didn't get any powder on his clothes. As the shorter man stepped into 221B he was greeted by an appetising aroma. It was...pie? Chicken and mushroom if he wasn't mistaken.
John turned to his flatware, confusion etched on his face.
"This is flour." Sherlock stated, waltzing back over to his experiment.
"What's all this for?"
"I'm proving that the person arrested yesterday is innocent by seeing how long it takes to bake specific kinds of pies-ah, this one is done! Hmmm, interesting, longer than the kidney but less than the meat and potato..."
John let Sherlock ramble on and stared in wonder at the four or so pies, sitting serenely on the table.
"What are you going to do with then?" John asked.
"Eat them, or rather you are. I didn't throw them away because I thought you'd like a nice tasting dinner. You had a bad day at work. I could tell by the way you spoke on the phone." With that, Sherlock gestured that John should sit down and start eating.
On hearing John's contented huff Sherlock returned to his baking.