Work Text:
“Fuck that.”
“John.”
“No, really, fuck it. Fuck the whole thing.”
“Yes, John.”
“We live on fucking Baker Street. Baker Street.”
“We do, John.”
“A fine pair of bakers, we are.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“I don’t know where we went wrong, Sherlock. I read the recipe. You read the recipe. We read the comments. We watched videos.”
“I watched videos. You mostly peeked over my shoulder saying things like, ‘I know how to use a wooden spoon, thanks’.”
“Yeah, well, I thought I did.”
“Apparently not.”
“No, apparently not. We didn’t make soda bread - we made a throwing weapon.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. With that shape and that density, it would work far better as a blunt instrument. And the raisins keep falling off. Hopeless aerodynamics.”
“We can’t even use it like in that story where she murdered her husband with a frozen leg of lamb. At least that was edible. Eventually.”
“I think we have to resign ourselves to not being bakers, John.”
“But I’m a doctor. You’re a fucking chemist. We should be able to manage biscuits at least.”
“As you said, different skill sets and life experiences...”
“Whatever. Fine. That’s true, I guess. And we’ll have to give it a rest anyway, until the next Tesco run.”
“Good.”
“But we’re watching Mrs. Hudson the next time she makes scones.”
“I’ll tell her to call us on Skype.”