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John was standing at the island in the little kitchen of the flat lazily flipping flour-dusted pages with a few fingers, eyes skimming the pages. A deep-throated voice from behind startled the doctor. He slapped his hands on the counter.
"What are you doing John?"
"Jesus, Sherlock you nearly scared me half to death! There's this sound people make when they walk; they're called footsteps!"
Sherlock dusted off the snide remark and circled around the doctor, picking up the cumbersome book, flipping it upside down as he examined the pages with a curious eye.
"What's this?"
John snatched the book back with a bit of ferocity.
"It's a recipe."
"Well I can see that John, but thank you for your enlightening statement. What kind of recipe?"
"It's for a cake alright?"
John let out an irritated huff, dropping the book onto the countertop with a loud clatter and a puff of flour. He ran a stout finger along the page. Sherlock scoured the pages over the doctor's shoulder, squinting disapprovingly at the picture. He tried pronouncing the name and flubbed miserably. John let out a snicker.
"It's French."
Sherlock scoffed, raising an unappeased brow.
"Ridiculous snooty desserts."
John cracked a smile, dusting his hands off on his pants, playfully elbowing the thin man.
"Can't be that bad Sherlock."
Sherlock's eyes bowled warily. He crossed his arms, taking long strides around the island.
"Whatever you say John."
The doctor rolled his eyes and shook his head, looking back down at the cookbook.
He was busy whisking ingredients together when a long finger, trying to be inconspicuous, swiped some batter from the lip of the bowl and ran it seductively along his tongue. John's attention snapped up.
"Oi!! Hey!! Hey now!! Out!! Out 'till I'm done!!"
John set the bowl on the countertop and shoved Sherlock out of the kitchen. The taller man put up a bit of a fight, digging his heels into the floor.
"Not helping, Sherlock."
The doctor shoved him into the parlor and slapped the sliding doors to the kitchen shut. There came a metallic clatter from behind the close doors and a muffled curse. Sherlock turned his nose up, licking the rest of the batter from his pale digits. He smacked his tongue disapprovingly against his bottom lip.
"Ridiculous John...how dare he...it's my kitchen."
He took a moment to process the flavours resting on his tongue. He wrinkled his nose like a spoiled child, muttering.
"It's missing lemon."
John's voice arose from the kitchen, slightly irritated.
"Nope! Doesn't need lemon! Recipe doesn't call for lemon! And last time I checked, you weren't a baking expert, Betty Crocker."
The detective's eyes went to the side for a moment, pondering the remark before a smirk drew up the corner of his Cupid's bow lips.
"Sure John..."
"I know what I'm doing!"
The purring sound of the radio crackling to life erupted from the kitchen, drowning out John's rambling. Sherlock sighed, flopping down in his battered chair, swiping a hand through his tangled mop of curls. He dropped his head back against the top of the chair.
"Bored."
John had been in the kitchen for hours. Sherlock dropped his bow to his side and called towards the kitchen.
"John?"
There was a slew of inaudible curses before the doctor responded rigidly.
"What, Sherlock?!"
The detective ran his bow along his upper lip.
"What kind of cake is it?"
There was the sound of a bowl falling onto the floor from within the kitchen.
"Damn!"
He heard John scuttling about.
"It's a--why do you care?!"
"I'm just...curious..."
John cursed under his breath.
"It's a Charlotte Russe if you must know!"
A sly grin tugged at the corners of Sherlock's lips.
"Excellent, excellent."
"What are you on about?!"
John called, irritated.
"Oh, nothing, John."
Sherlock sat his violin back down on its stand, and slipped out the front door.
Pale knuckles rapped against the closed kitchen doors. They snapped open, a flour-covered, maniac-looking John sticking his head out.
"What?!"
Sherlock smiled almost mischievously, protruding a cake platter with a fancy pink dessert perched atop it.
John's eyes nearly came out of their sockets.
"How did you-what the-"
He was flabbergasted. Sherlock laughed, one of those deep, rumbling laughs.
"A Charlotte Russe. I did well I presume?"
John gave Sherlock a cold glare before swiping some of the cake frosting onto his finger. He sucked on the digit for a moment before letting out a satisfied moan.
"That...that's good..."
Sherlock chuckled.
"I told you it needed lemon."
John opened his eyes, resting them on Sherlock. The taller man was covered in flour, his curls even sporting a dusting. He looked exhausted but pleased none the less.
John took the cake platter from the detective and sat it on the counter. He reached an arm up around Sherlock's neck, pulling the thin man into the kitchen.
"Well, let's see what other tricks you have up your sleeves."
Sherlock, as oblivious as ever, stepped into the kitchen, disentangling from John as he stooped over the Delia Smith book. He drew a pale digit down the pages.
"Well, here's a rather fine looking custard tart."
John pulled the book away, shutting the cover. He smiled, tugging on Sherlock's purple shirt.
"That's not what I had in mind."
He pulled Sherlock closer as he gently placed his lips over the detective's and slid the kitchen door shut.
John pushed Sherlock back against the countertop to compensate for height. His lips found their way back onto the detective’s. His fingers were working loose Sherlock’s belt and pulling off his stiff purple shirt.
It was a good thing that Mrs. Hudson had her radio blasting from just below, because it masked the sounds from upstairs perfectly. John and Sherlock may have been in the kitchen, but they weren’t exactly making cupcakes.