For the prompt: "Domestic fluff! Maybe Holmes playing the violin for Watson, the boys trying and maybe failing spectacularly to cook, an afternoon nap, anything! Just pure, domestic fluff. :D"


"I thought the woman was incapable of illness."

"Just shovel out a cup of flour," I directed, reading the recipe once more. True, I could not remember one instance in which Mrs. Hudson had fallen ill, but it was simply a common cold, easily remedied by rest and a good cup of tea.

"Need I remind you again that I have never bothered familiarizing myself with this room? I do not know where the bloody flour is!"

"If you open your eyes, you will find it," I hissed in return, retrieving a rolling-pin from a conveniently placed drawer underneath the counter. He merely replied with a humph.

I walked over to where he was standing, hands on hips but determined to find it himself. I was partially tempted to just reach out and point to the small paper bag, but allowed him to use his deductive powers to rule out all other options.

"Now," I said, placing the pin on the table before him, my chest pressed against his back, "I'm hungry. Can we possibly eat breakfast before noon?"

Holmes leaned into me slightly before responding, "The likelihood of doing so would be - "

I interrupted him with a gentle peck to the temple, one of the many affectionate gestures we didn't dare to do outside of the privacy of darkened corners and our own rooms. Having Mrs Hudson sick in bed was, indeed, liberating in some ways...

Besides the fact that neither of us knew how to cook.

Time stretched on, moving dangerously as the roles reversed somewhat as we continued to cook. Originally I was the one insisting we follow the cookbook word for word and Holmes the one acting like a petulant child. Now Holmes was cooking as if he were conducting one of his experiments, measuring out precisely what needed to be measured as I, admittedly becoming more impatient to eat and feed our landlady, constantly tried to hurry up the process. Because of this, my our dog was covered in a fine white dust where he sat, waiting for any food we may drop to the floor.

"Watson, might you hand me the blueberries?"

I placed the bowl down on the table beside him and continued to eat from it.

"The more of those you eat, the less we will have for the scones."

I paid him no head, placing another delicious blueberry into my mouth. I had to stop the shiver that threatened to crawl up my spine at the sight of him, flour down his front and in his hair, a apron haphazardly thrown over his head.

"Watson," he warned, gazing over at me from the corner of his eye. I simply returned to watching his hands knead the dough, add the blueberries, continue to knead it into the dough...

After he took another half-a-handful of blueberries to add to the cup-measurer, I stole the bowl from the table.

"John?"

"I am hungry."

By now used to his tactics, I evaded him as he reached around me in an attempt to pry the bowl from my hands. Gladstone trotted up to where we were struggling against eachother, licking up the blueberries falling from the bowl in my hands. I didn't realize I was falling until I heard the bullpup's yips and the sound of air wooshing out of the man beneath me. In my haste to grab onto something to keep me upright, I managed to knock the flour off the table and the white dust still clouded the air.

"Are you quite alright?"

I suddenly began to laugh and the little beast tromped over to keep us company on the stone floor. I turned to look at him and reached up to brush some four off of his face.

"You look gorgeous," I said with a rueful grin and his lip twitched slightly.

- - -

If Mrs. Hudson noticed our frenzied appearance, she said nothing about it and merely accepted the portion of breakfast we had prepared for her with a muttered warning of not to get any flour on her carpet.