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About three hours ago, John had gotten over the fact that this wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind when he’d suggested that they make a ginger bread house for Christmas (where does he even get these ideas from!?).
Three days ago, when they had been simply making the dough (and destroying the kitchen), it had all looked innocent enough. Sherlock had chosen an adequate recipe online by cross-referencing every recipe with the number of stars it had received as well as the general positiveness of the comments on a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being extreme gushiness (John’s choice of words) and 1 being angry key-smashing (yes, someone had actually left that review. Oh, the internet).
The dough had been delicious, but Sherlock had barely let him have any because he’d clearly planned out exactly how much dough they were going to need to make a ginger bread... something. During the baking process it had become much more obvious to John that this wasn’t simply a house, but he still hadn’t quite figured it out. Sherlock had thrown himself into this with an excitement only reserved for crime scenes, and John had simply let him enjoy himself.
So really, John isn’t so sure why he’s actually surprised when Sherlock finally announces what the ginger bread... thing... is meant to be.
“A crime scene, John!” he announces, blinking at John expectantly.
John can’t begrudge him, not when his eyes are sparkling with enthusiasm. He sighs, smiles, and pulls out the giant bowl of royal icing.
“Where do we start?”
***
Three hours later, and John is wondering why he doesn’t begrudge Sherlock things more often. He does have to admit, though, that the ginger bread crime scene looks... fantastic.
Sherlock has managed to build it up to three stories, and has designed the roof so that it is easily removable. John has been making dark bricks out of the royal icing, which Sherlock has divided into approximately 35 bowls to make sure each colour is perfect. The police tape is the perfect shade of yellow, painted onto perfectly-cut ribbon-shaped cookies. The staircase inside is much too intricate for something that will be covered, but when John explains this, Sherlock just huffs at him and moves on. The pièce de résistance, though, is the third floor.
Sherlock has removed the roof and instructed John on how to ice it properly. He glances over every now and again to make sure his instructions are still being followed, but he largely leaves John alone because he is working on something incredibly complicated. He has used the icing to shade the “floor” so that it looks like an old hardwood floor, while the other shades of dark brown and a sort of beige have gone into the extremely detailed wallpaper. John only realizes how slow he’s being when Sherlock pulls out the final touches: a bowl of alarmingly pink icing and a ginger bread woman.
“It’s the study in pink!” John can’t help but exclaim. It seems so long ago, now. Before everything happened.
Sherlock gives his best put-upon sigh. “If you insist on calling it that, yes. It’s our first case together.”
Sherlock seems to have just had the same thought as John. He looks thoughtful and distant as he goes back to his decorating.
John laughs, trying to lighten the suddenly tense mood. “I wondered how excited you would be about my corpse!”
Apparently, saying this has the exact opposite effect. Sherlock's voice goes quiet as he replies, “I sincerely hope I never have to examine the corpse of someone I love, John. I thought you knew.”
He keeps working on the house, as if he hasn’t just said the most momentous thing, while John blinks owlishly at him. They’d been sleeping together for a few months now, and of course John loves Sherlock, but he hasn’t said it out loud yet, and he certainly hadn’t expected Sherlock to say it first! He keeps icing his roof, wondering what the hell he’s supposed to say in response, when he notices that Sherlock’s usually-steady hand is shaking a little where he’s piping the alarmingly pink clothes onto the ginger bread woman. He’s also refusing to meet John’s eye, and just like that John knows exactly what he’s supposed to say in response.
He keeps casually icing the roof, careful to keep his tone light when he replies, “I love you, too, you great git.”
Sherlock looks up sharply, and John gives him what he intended to be a short, sweet kiss. Ten minutes later, though, and John puts his icing bag down so he can wind his fingers in Sherlock’s hair properly. When he pulls back, he sees that Sherlock’s eyes are now sparkling with a very different kind of enthusiasm, and the rest of the icing can wait until much, much later.