I imagine the early-twenties Sherlock to be far less mature than he is in his thirties; adult, but lacking in social graces and tact. So, basically what he is in his thirties...but maybe a nudge more childish.

The cooking scene was inspired by this little bit of genius: tinyurl .com/ 4xpbll9 (remove spaces)

Learning Process

It takes living with someone to really learn the best and worst about them. Sometimes, it seemed that the worst about Sherlock could overpower the best, but John made an effort not to let anything get to him too much. The way angry squawks (and sometimes the beautiful vibrato of a drawn-out note) of Sherlock's violin would wake him up at two in the morning, or the sometimes horrific things he found in the sink, or the temper tantrums when the six-foot-tall man-child was bored, weren't enough to make John leave. I have my faults too, he'd told himself sternly after a sleepless night in which Sherlock had paced like a caged panther and jabbered at the skull on the mantelpiece in French.

Sherlock was inconceivably atrocious at cooking, he soon discovered. At first he'd thought that he was just fond of eating out, because for a good two weeks into John's stay, they'd done little else. When John's paycheck was dwindling dangerously, he knew the rest had to be stashed away for school and mentioned to Sherlock the possibility of a homemade meal.

The blank look Sherlock had given him over his newspaper had left him feeling a bit nonplussed. "Well, I think it's a good idea," he'd muttered in embarrassment, rubbing his neck. "I mean, as much as I love all the restaurants we've tried and whatnot, it's not really healthy, and it's getting rather pricey…"

"No, we'll try it, if you so insist." Sherlock had shrugged like it was no big deal and returned to the headlines.

And so, one Monday night, John was returning home from the grocery (Sherlock never got the food, which probably explained his almost unhealthily-lanky figure and his gaunt cheeks-did eh even have a regular diet?), armed with plenty of supplies to make a lovely garlic-sautéed-asparagus and chicken dinner. He was barely two steps into the flat when he smelled a smoky odor that made him choke. Fire, he realized frantically.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he bounded towards the flat, throwing open the door. "SHERLOCK?" he yelled against the smoke, searching for his flatmate in concern.

There at the stove was Sherlock, wearing what appeared to be two aprons, a labcoat, protective gloves, goggles, and a surgeon's mask.

"Ah, John," said Sherlock, completely serious, voice muffled. "I retract your vote that we cook at home— clearly, it's not the way to go."

"…No, NO." John stared, appalled, at the charred substance spilling from the pan, sizzling unpleasantly as it hit the stove. "You, Sherlock, are so lost. I don't know what you did, but you did it wrong, and that does not mean that we give up on home cooking just because you make one mistake."

"But I never make mistakes…"

John gave the (completely genuine) Sherlock a withering glare as he quickly moved the pan, wetting a washrag and trying to scrub carefully at the areas where black sludge was now caked to the stovetop. "Everyone makes mistakes, even you. Don't be such a child."

"I'm not a child," replied Sherlock in a juvenile manner, seeming rather irritated by John's criticisms. "I'm older than you."

John turned from his cleaning to give him a puzzled look. "Wait, what?" he asked, realizing that he didn't actually know Sherlock's age, or for that matter what year of university he was in. "No you're not. How old are you?"

In reality, Sherlock had never received John's birthday in the file on him; he'd merely gotten his status as a university student and background information about his war days, injury, and a few other details. "Twenty-two," said Sherlock smugly.

John stared at him for a second in shock, and then snorted, turning back to the stove and continuing the cleaning. Sherlock's look of conceit shifted and eventually fell away at the subtle superiority and amusement on John's face. "What?"

"Well, Sherlock," said John complacently, beginning to work on the pan, "I'm twenty-five."

John was able to successfully cook the chicken dinner he'd had planned, following a recipe that he'd found in a magazine (he'd always been a sucker for good food, like Harry was about good coffee). Sherlock had pouted at the table, angrily chipping away at the wood with his pocket knife before John had snatched it away, admonishing him for being such an immature prat.

"Face it, Sherlock," he said scoldingly, hiding his smile as he poured buttery sauté sauce over their chicken, "you've got a lot to learn."

XxXxXxXxXxX

John still worked at Bean There, but he took fewer shifts in order to work with Sherlock on cases. It was far better practice of his medical-school-skills than anything he'd ever done in the classroom and he found that his grades, instead of dropping for all the time that he was spending running around London, were staying at a comfortable plateau near the top of the class.

Mike watched the two flatmates affectionately as they came in frequently; for John the coffeehouse was a refuge and a converging spot, a place he could always call his own whether he was on shift or off. Sherlock inevitably followed- Mycroft and Lestrade's orders were that he not only graduate with his class but he also graduate with top marks, so even the consulting detective had to study and spend time on homework. On days when this wasn't the case, he read books at his usual window seat or- something that was becoming more frequent- took the spot nearest to the counter so that he could talk to John in between customers.

Mike noted bemusedly to himself that he'd never seen either of his mates smiling quite so much as they had after they became friends. He'd watch John lean over the counter, supporting himself against the edge, feet dangling slightly, and Sherlock reclining in his seat easily, the two grinning and bantering back and forth and he realized: This is right.

Prompt was #70: asparagus

Recently a deviantArt artist gave me permission to use his Sherlock artwork as prompts/inspiration for oneshots. I've already written one entitled "Physical Manifestation of Thought" if you're interested. It's pretty different from Tea Leaves; almost no dialogue and all...well, it's kind of bizarre, but in a weird way, kind of plausible in my head. You'll see.