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John unlocked the door to the flat and was assaulted by the smell of burning. Smoke obstructed his vision and John was thankful that the flat was old enough not to have a smoke alarm or a sprinkler system. Though that would mean that he might one day be burnt to death in his sleep while his madman of a flatmate experiments on hazardous flammable chemicals in the kitchen.
Instead of responding like any sane man would, which was to grab the fire extinguisher and start spraying at the source of the smoke, John sighed and said.
“Sherlock, is this smoke poisonous? You know how I feel about inhaling potentially fatal gases.”
A derisive huff came from the general area where the oven was located. John walked towards the voice carefully, relying on memory alone to avoid tumbling into any piece of furniture.
“I made this for you, John.”
For him? John thought with suspicion. The few times that Sherlock had prepared any food or drink for him all ended up with John hallucinating or having to rush to the clinic with acute food poisoning. He approached the tall figure in the already dispersing smoke. At least he bothered to open the windows, John thought with mild approval and a small smile.
His flatmate was standing in front of what looks like a cake, while wearing his protective goggles and a frilly pink apron that had a cat embroidered on the front which looks suspiciously like the one Mrs Hudson had in her kitchen. Sherlock had his hands behind his back, gazing at John like a boy from boarding school, waiting for a scolding.
“What is this, then? Sherlock, I know you might have deleted it, but my birthday is in November, it’s March now.”
A hint of colour made its way onto Sherlock’s cheeks.
“It’s not for your birthday, John.” Sherlock gestured with his head. Go ahead, read it.
Iced in crooked letters were the words “Thank you for tolerating me.”
John finished deciphering those letters and looked up at his flatmate, who was trying to suppress a blush and failing miserably.
“Today marks exactly one year since you moved in to this flat and shot that murderous cabbie for me.” Sherlock said in a small voice, as if not wanting to be heard. Which was unusual in itself, because for as long as John knew him, Sherlock had always spoken in quickly and loudly, being the show-off that he was.
“While it is not in my best capabilities to express gratitude of any kind, Molly had informed me in no uncertain terms that this is required so that you would not, in her words, feel taken for granted.” Sherlock rambled on, his words catching on the ends of each other. “If-you-don’t-want-it-I-shall-dispose-of-it-this-was-stupid-to-begin-with-what-was-I-thinking..” John looked on as the last part of the sentence became too soft and fast to be caught with the human ear, but he manage to get the gist of it.
Sherlock, the tall idiot, was trying to be nice.
“It’s fine, Sherlock. This was a lovely gesture. It would have been lovely too if you had simply bought a cake from the bakery door the street and not blow up the oven but I really appreciate this.” John replied, fondly shaking his head with a small smile.
“Come over here then, you tall berk.” John beckoned. After ten seconds of Sherlock looking like he was struggling with an octopus, John gave up and walked around the counter, wrapped his arms around his confused genius of a flatmate and gave him a trademarked Watson-hug. Sherlock mimicked John’s actions and gingerly wrapped both his arms around his shorter friend’s shoulders.
John’s voice was muffled as his face was pressed into his tall friend’s chest.
“Idiot.”