Title: The Best Things
Theme: #35, hunger
Looking back, John thought that it really should have been kind of obvious. Sherlock Holmes was not going to be a good cook.
John had gone shopping. John hated shopping – it usually involved spending money that he didn't have, and the increasingly painful choice between arguments with self-scanning machines, or the blank looks from bored, adolescent cashiers. This particular shopping experience had been even more excruciating than usual, due to the fact that John had stopped Harry browsing the wine isle, and had spent a good five minutes hiding around the corner, guiltily deliberating whether to go and talk to her or not. Eventually, he had decided not to, but had spent the rest of the shopping trip irritable and jumpy, and constantly checking over his shoulder for her.
And to top it off, when he had arrived home again, laden with orange Sainsbury's plastic bags, Sherlock had looked up from his violin, given the shopping a look of pure disgust, and said, "That's not from Waitrose."
"What?" John snapped, "Of course it's not from Waitrose. It's from Sainsbury's,"
Sherlock said nothing, but John could tell from the way he flared his nostrils ever so slightly, and began to polish his violin bow, that he wasn't impressed.
"I trust you can deign to eat food from Sainsbury's?" John muttered, mostly to himself. Sherlock simply played a chord on his violin. John sighed.
The conversation lapsed into a fairly easy silence, punctuated only by John putting away shopping, and Sherlock occasionally plucking at strings on his violin. John began peeling and chopping an onion. "Is Spaghetti Bolognese alright?" he called over his shoulder.
"I suppose it will suffice, if I'm going to be forced to indulge in peasant food."
"Shopping from Sainsbury's is hardly peasant-food,"
"Oh, fine. Be that way," said John, "Can you watch the mince for a moment?"
Sherlock said nothing.
"Okay, fine. I'm taking your silence as confirmation."
Upon returning to the room five minutes later, John's first thought was, what is that God-awful smell? His second was, oh, of course. It's my mince.
Sherlock was stood next to the hob, gazing at the frying pan full of burning mince. "It's gone a very interesting colour," he commented.
"I thought I asked you to watch that?"
Sherlock looked puzzled. "I am watching it."
"You're watching it burn."
"How was I supposed to know it wasn't supposed to go like this?"
Sometimes, John thought, having a conversation with you is like banging my head against a brick wall. A very dense brick wall.
"Sherlock, it's burning! How can you not know food isn't supposed to burn when you cook it? Haven't you ever cooked anything before?"
"If I ever have cooked anything, I've erased the memory," Sherlock said airily, "It was obviously a worthless experience."
"Oh, yes, obviously," John muttered, "Aside from being able to feed yourself and keep yourself alive, basic survival instinct and all that. Aside from that, it's completely worthless, being able to cook."
"All the more reason to keep you around," Sherlock replied smoothly.
And that was how it went. The burned mince had ended up in the bin, and the burned frying pan had ended up in the sink to be washed at a later date, and John had somehow ended up on the sofa with Sherlock half draped all over his lap – really, that man didn't understand personal space one little bit – watching crap TV, and eating a Chinese takeaway. Which was another twenty quid he didn't actually have gone down the drain.
John sighed. "You burned that food on purpose, didn't you?"
"Would I do that?"
"I wouldn't put it past you."
"Good. You've got a good measure of me then."
John smiled, and leaned down and kissed Sherlock on the mouth.
"You drive me insane sometimes, you know," John murmured.
"Yes, and you drive me insane with your awful shopping habits," Sherlock replied silkily, "Waitrose, next time, please."
"God, you're awful," John had groaned, and Sherlock had laughed, and kissed John again; something which always almost caught John off guard - when Sherlock kissed him first. John rolled over, so he was lying next to Sherlock, and could wind his arms around him.
The Chinese lay to one side forgotten; in the background, the TV blared on.